The Secret Panel

by Franklin W. Dixon

  CHAPTER XI

  Kidnapped

  “PERFECT,” the intruder said to himself. “The dame in there is a nurse, eh? That solves our problem just fine.”

  He moved on upstairs to Mr. Hardy’s study. Reaching it, he went directly to the detective’s filing cabinet. He took out a small tool and began skillfully to work on the lock. Soon it opened. One by one, he noiselessly pulled out the drawers.

  Suddenly his eyes lighted up as he came upon a marked folder. Quickly he removed the papers from it and put them into his pocket.

  At the same moment he heard Aunt Gertrude say, “Well, how about some coffee, Martha? I’ll go fix it.”

  The intruder froze on the spot. He waited until Miss Hardy had finished the coffee and taken it into the living room, then silently tiptoed downstairs again.

  While the women were chatting gaily, he streaked through the kitchen and a second later had left the house.

  Meanwhile, after a pleasant time at the local theater, Frank and Joe dropped off Chet and the girls and started for home. As they neared the house, Frank heaved a sigh.

  “I’m so full of ice cream I could burst.”

  Joe thumped his stomach. “I feel like Chet looks. If—Oh!”

  A woman’s frantic scream pierced the air. The boys drove toward the spot, but found nobody. A moment later they heard a car roar off a short distance away.

  “What do you make of that?” Frank asked.

  Joe shook his head. “Sounded like someone was in plenty of trouble. Let’s report it to the police.”

  They pulled into their driveway, parked the convertible in the garage, and entered the house. They had just reached the hall when a shriek came from their father’s study.

  “Aunt Gertrude!” shouted Frank and dashed upstairs. Joe followed.

  They expected to see their relative prostrate, the victim of some kind of attack. To their relief, they found her standing in the center of the room, unharmed.

  “What’s the matter?” Frank asked.

  His aunt was speechless. Finally she was able to stammer, “The filing cabinet!”

  The boys gasped as they noticed a slightly opened drawer, and jumped to the same conclusion. A burglar!

  They checked drawer after drawer. Although not familiar with everything in the cabinet, they soon found the empty folder that had contained the fingerprint records of the television thieves.

  “We’ve been robbed!” exclaimed Frank.

  “Mike Batton!” Joe cried out.

  Aunt Gertrude demanded an explanation. Joe told her how Ben Whittaker’s assistant had been tampering with their back-door lock two days before.

  “Batton claimed he was supposed to change it, but we sent him away,” Frank said. “Now I believe he must have taken a wax impression, made a key, and came back tonight.”

  “That means he’s tied in with the television thieves!” Joe reasoned.

  Suddenly Frank had an idea. “I wonder if the woman’s scream had anything to do with the intruder.”

  “You mean when he left the house he might have frightened her?” Joe asked.

  Frank nodded. “The burglar went out the back way. Running from the house like that, he might easily have scared some passer-by.”

  Frank turned to his aunt. “When did Miss Johnson leave here?”

  “A few minutes ago. Why? And what’s that about a scream?”

  “Didn’t you hear it?”

  “No!”

  Frank reported the frantic cry they had heard. Aunt Gertrude had not noticed it, because a moment after the nurse had left she had turned on the television for the late news.

  Now Mrs. Hardy appeared in the doorway. She had not heard anything, not even Aunt Gertrude’s shriek in the study. When she was told what had happened, she became quite concerned.

  “It frightens me to think of a burglar being in the house,” she said with a shiver.

  “It’s positively wicked!” Aunt Gertrude agreed. “If I had seen that fellow I would have—”

  Frank interrupted her. “Where is Miss Johnson staying, Mom?”

  “At Mrs. Brown’s Guest House.”

  “Did she take a taxi there?”

  “No. It’s not far and she was going to walk.”

  Frank went to the telephone and called at once to see if the nurse had returned. Mrs. Brown told him her guest had not come back.

  “When she does, will you please have her telephone Mrs. Hardy,” the boy requested. “It’s important.”

  Next, the boys notified Chief Collig. They reached him at home, and he promised to start a search at once.

  But in spite of the police alert, there was no news of Miss Johnson when the Hardys finally went to bed long after midnight.

  In the morning they called Mrs. Brown’s Guest House again. The nurse had not returned.

  “Oh dear! This is dreadful!” Mrs. Hardy exclaimed. “No telling what has happened to Martha. What can we do?”

  Her sons could think of nothing at the moment, but by the time breakfast was over they had arrived at a theory.

  “We’ve assumed Batton was our thief last night and that he’s tied in with the TV burglars,” Frank began. “We also figure he kidnapped Miss Johnson.

  “Now, since Lenny is presumably being held by the same gang,” he continued, “isn’t it likely Martha Johnson was nabbed to be a nurse for him because of his leg wound?”

  “Sure!” Joe agreed. “Batton must have been in the house long enough to overhear who she was, and grabbed her as she left.”

  “So if we find the secret panel, we’ll find both Lenny and Miss Johnson,” Frank concluded.

  “But where will you begin your search?” Mrs. Hardy asked.

  “First we’ll go down and talk to Ben Whittaker again,” said Frank. “He may have heard from Mike Batton.”

  “Or perhaps the police can tell us something by now,” Joe suggested.

  Frank also thought they should go to the Mead estate and dive under the boathouse door to see if Chet’s stolen dory had been taken there.

  “It sounds like a full morning,” said Mrs. Hardy. “Please let Chet’s mystery wait and try to find Martha.”

  “We certainly will, Mother.”

  Suddenly from the kitchen radio came a news broadcast to which Aunt Gertrude had just tuned.

  “—A local item of great interest,” stated the announcer, “is about another baffling burglary.”

  Frank, Joe, and their mother entered the kitchen to listen attentively as the newscaster went on:

  “Thieves broke into the Carr Electronics Company last night. Televisions, tubes, and stereo equipment were stolen. The police are mystified. No one was seen entering the place, and Fenton Hardy, a detective on guard duty inside, was found injured. He has been taken to the hospital!”

  CHAPTER XII

  Fingerprints

  THE four beside the kitchen radio were shocked by the news that Mr. Hardy was lying in a hospital, the victim of some desperate criminal. The boys’ mother tapped nervously on the table. For once Aunt Gertrude seemed tongue-tied. Joe was the first to find his voice.

  “Let’s call Chief Collig!” he cried, starting for the telephone.

  “Wait a minute!” Frank caught his brother’s arm. “I don’t believe it is Dad!”

  He explained that if Mr. Hardy really had been hurt, surely his family would have been notified by this time. Aunt Gertrude, now over her scare, declared, “Well, knowing my brother as I do, I’d say the whole thing is a hoax!”

  “What do you mean?” Mrs. Hardy asked.

  “I believe it’s a clever idea of Fenton’s. If he pretends to be injured, and those television thieves think he’s in a hospital, they’ll be less cautious when they strike again.”

  “And Dad will trap them!” said Joe. “I’ll bet you’re right, Aunt Gertrude.”

  Aunt Gertrude looked pleased. “So I guess we needn’t worry any more about Fenton. You boys can get started looking for Martha.”

&nb
sp; For a few seconds Frank and Joe had forgotten the work they had mapped out for themselves. Now, being reminded, they left the house. Their first stop was police headquarters to see Chief Collig.

  To their first question, Collig replied that he had no word from the boys’ father. But he verified the assumption that the story of the hospitalized detective was a phony.

  “No, nothing on Miss Johnson,” he replied to Frank’s next query. “We’ve got half a dozen of our best men out looking, though.”

  Frank and Joe decided it was now imperative that they relate Mrs. Stryker’s story of the secret panel. They told the chief their suspicions about the television thieves.

  “Well, that would explain why Miss Johnson was kidnapped,” Collig remarked. “With you two, your father, and most of the police in this country tracking that gang, we should crack this case soon.”

  “I sure hope so,” Joe replied.

  Then, in answer to a query from Frank, the chief told the boys he had given orders for a constant surveillance of the house at 47 Parker Street.

  “Not a soul has gone in or out since,” he reported.

  “Would you mind if we go over there now and look around inside?” Frank asked. “I’m sure the Parker Street house is connected with the other mysteries.”

  “It’s all right with me. So far as I know, the place is vacant.”

  “Where can we get a key?” Joe asked. “Or is it open?”

  “One of my men is watching the house from across the street a couple of blocks away in a dark-green Ford sedan. He’s got a key from the real-estate people, in case it’s locked. Talk to him.”

  “Okay, Chief. And thanks,” Frank said.

  “One more thing,” Collig added. “That garage owner Bilks is an honest and upstanding citizen, as far as we can determine.”

  “I thought so,” Frank replied, then the boys said good-by and hurried to Parker Street. They found the car the chief had described and got the key from the plainclothesman behind the wheel. He assured them again that no one had been near the place.

  “Okay,” Frank said.

  When they entered the house, Joe switched on the lights. “One thing’s for sure,” he said. “Those footprints weren’t made by ghosts!” He pointed to a number of plainly visible heelmarks on the dusty floors. They had a peculiar triangle in the middle.

  “The police have been here,” Frank reminded him.

  “What about these fingermarks on the window sill? They could belong to the man who had taken Chet’sdory!”

  Certain that the strange symbol on the dory meant that there was a connection between him, John Mead, and the television burglars, Joe wanted to photograph the marks.

  It seemed all the more important now, since the case records had been stolen from Mr. Hardy’s files.

  “I think those prints are worth checking out,” Frank agreed. “How about getting our kit?”

  Joe drove home and grabbed the equipment. When he returned to 47 Parker Street, the boys set to work.

  Taking out a special camera, Joe held it over the sill. He clicked on the lights in it and squinted into the focusing panel. The fingerprints showed up plainly.

  “Won’t need any powder on these, Frank,” he stated.

  “Good. I found some marks on this wall but they’re not very clear. Think I’ll powder them.”

  While Joe busied himself taking five-, ten-, and fifteen-second time exposures of the marks on the window sill, Frank opened a bottle of gray-colored powder and poured a little on a sheet of paper. Next, he picked up a small camel’s-hair brush by the handle and twirled it back and forth between his palms to make it fluffy. Then, after dipping the tip of the brush into the powder, he passed it lightly over the indistinct fingermarks on the wall.

  “Ready for the picture, Joe,” he announced.

  His brother came across the room and made several photographs.

  Before putting the camera back into the kit, Joe also took snaps of the various footprints on the floor, then said, “Guess we’d better leave now, Frank, and develop this film.”

  After a quick but unsuccessful search of the house for other clues or possibly even the secret panel, they left and returned the key to the police officer and went home.

  Later, when they had finished printing the pictures in their laboratory, their father walked in.

  “Dad!” Joe greeted him, rushing up to his side. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course.” Mr. Hardy grinned “Am I not supposed to be?”

  His sons looked at him intently. There was a twinkle in his eye.

  “You know you are allegedly in a hospital,” said Frank. “I’ll bet you came home in a disguise.”

  The detective nodded. “You guessed it.”

  “Then who was hurt in the warehouse?”

  “A dummy. You see, it was evident from the list you found at Bilks’ garage, there were two places in this area liable to be hit next. This was one of them. We therefore put a dummy at the night watchman’s desk. The guard positioned himself at the rear by the loading gate, and a patrolman watched the place from across the street.”

  “And still the gang wasn’t caught?”

  “No. The night watchman was knocked out with gas. The thieves got in before he had a chance to sound the alarm. From the way the dummy looked, they did a good job of knocking him over the head, too.”

  “And the patrolman?”

  “They decoyed him. Set off a fire bomb down the street. When he got out of his car to investigate, one of the gang slipped behind the wheel, pinned the cop to the wall of a factory building, set the brake, and ran off to help the thieves.”

  “Oh brother!” Joe shook his head.

  “By the time a passer-by freed the patrolman, the gang had entered the place, knocked out the guard, and stolen a small truckload of television sets. They worked very efficiently. Couldn’t have taken them more than twenty minutes.”

  “And where were you?” Frank asked.

  “Over in Harlington. There’s a big appliance outfit which we thought was equally in danger. But nothing happened there.”

  “And now the thieves think you’re out of commission,” Frank said.

  Mr. Hardy nodded. “This should make them sure enough of themselves so they won’t quit now, and hopefully we’ll catch them at their next attempt.

  “There’s one interesting aspect to the whole thing,” he added. “The locks were not broken, even though they were quite complicated and so-called burglarproof.”

  “That means either the thieves had a key, or at least one of them is an expert picklock,” Frank deduced.

  “Looks that way.”

  “Another lock was picked recently,” Joe put in. “The one to your file cabinet, Dad. The data on the television gang are missing.”

  Mr. Hardy was very much upset when he heard this, and paced angrily back and forth in front of the window. “There were prints in there which I need and other valuable information!”

  “Maybe the marks we photographed a little while ago at Parker Street will help,” Frank said.

  “No doubt there is a connection between the gang I’m after and the man who sold Chet the dory,” Mr. Hardy said. “They might even have used his place as a hideout—or a meeting place.”

  “Right. But I’m sure this is not where the secret panel is,” Frank said. “And that’s where they are holding Lenny Stryker.”

  “And most likely Martha Johnson,” Joe added grimly.

  “No answer to that one, yet,” Mr. Hardy said. “What’s your next move?”

  “I think we’ll try to track Mike Batton,” Frank replied. “After lunch we’ll see Ben Whittaker and find out which of his customers were robbed. Batton, no doubt, is connected with the gang, and perhaps some of these people can give us a lead.”

  “Good thought. Let me know what develops.”

  The boys left the house a half-hour later and drove to Whittaker’s shop. The elderly locksmith was in the rear and greeted them sol
emnly. He had heard nothing of his former employee.

  The police, he told them, had found no trace of the stolen articles. Worse than that, Mrs. Eccles was making matters very unpleasant for him.

  “She still threatens legal action if I don’t return her money,” Whittaker said. “My reputation will be ruined!”

  “Oh, no,” Frank spoke up quickly. “You’ve been in business here too many years for something like that to make any difference, Mr. Whittaker.”

  “But it’s not just something!” the man cried out. “There’s Mr. Howard, and Mrs. Sommers, and—”

  “You mean all those people have been robbed and are making trouble?” Joe asked.

  The locksmith nodded. “In each case, Batton went to the house when no one was there but a maid. He used the same story he told you. Oh, what’ll I do?”

  “Let’s go see these people, Frank,” Joe said. “Would you give us their addresses, Mr. Whittaker ?”

  “Sure. The Petersons aren’t home, but the others might be able to give you a clue.” The man handed them a sheet of paper with the names and addresses on it. “Thanks a lot for your help,” he said as they walked out the door.

  First they went to see Mr. Howard. He lived alone in a small English Tudor house which he had designed himself.

  “That locksmith fellow came when I was out,” he told them. “My housekeeper let him in after he claimed I had ordered the lock changed. Well, I hadn’t ordered anything of the kind and—”

  “We know,” Frank interrupted. “We thought you or your housekeeper might remember something Batton said that would give us a clue as to where we can find him.”

  “Well, let me call Mrs. Curry.” Howard left the room and soon returned with an elderly, gray-haired woman. She described Batton, but said she had not spoken to him after she let him in.

  “He didn’t come into any of the rooms,” she explained, “just stayed in the front hall until he changed the lock.”