Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1 - Phony Proof
Chapter 2 - No Alibi!
Chapter 3 - A Cry for Help
Chapter 4 - Alligator Bait
Chapter 5 - Alley Ambush
Chapter 6 - A Surprising Clue
Chapter 7 - Stealthy Figures in the Night
Chapter 8 - Clever Disguise
Chapter 9 - A Dangerous Mission
Chapter 10 - The Alchemist
Chapter 11 - The Heirloom
Chapter 12 - Everglades Adventure
Chapter 13 - The Rattlesnake
Chapter 14 - The Poachers’ Camp
Chapter 15 - The Storm
Chapter 16 - Giant Jaws!
Chapter 17 - Trapped!
Chapter 18 - Deadly Moat
Chapter 19 - Grizzly Jailers
Chapter 20 - The Hidden Portrait
A VALUABLE painting is stolen en route to Florida, and the Hardy Boys are suspects. Determined to find the artwork and corner the real thieves, the young detectives fly to Key Blanco, Florida. They disguise themselves, and joining a group of sinister smugglers, begin a dangerous exploration of the menacing underworld.
Though the painting fails to appear, an important clue sends the boys on a perilous trek through the wilds of the Everglades. There, threatened at every turn by greedy enemies and vicious alligators, the Hardys fight a tricky and powerful battle to expose the truth.
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Copyright © 1980 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved. Published
in 2005 by Grosset & Dunlap, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group,
345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. THE HARDY BOYS® is a
registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a
trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. S.A.
eISBN : 978-1-101-07673-6
2007 Printing
http://us.penguingroup.com
1
Phony Proof
The phone rang shrilly. Frank and Joe Hardy looked up from the game of chess they were playing in the living room of their Bayport home.
“I wonder if it’s for us,” Frank said.
“We’ll find out in a second,” Joe replied. “Aunt Gertrude is picking it up in the hall.”
Gertrude Hardy, who had been living with the family for quite some time, poked her head through the door a moment later. “Frank, Mr. Wester wants to talk to you.”
“Mr. Wester?”
“You remember him—the retired banker. He’s also a well-known art collector. ”
“Oh yes. Thanks, Aunty.” Frank went into the hall and picked up the receiver. “Mr. Wester, this is Frank Hardy.”
“I want to see you and Joe,” said the voice on the other end. “Can you come over here right away?”
“Sure thing. What’s up?”
“I’m looking for a couple of crooks that you and your brother might be interested in. I want to see you two before I call the police!”
Wester hung up and Frank returned to the living room. He told Joe what the art collector had said.
“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “Those thieves sound like they have him pretty worked up! Let’s go!”
The boys flew out of the house. Eighteen-year-old Frank climbed behind the wheel of their yellow sports sedan. The dark-haired boy was a year older than his blond brother, who took the seat next to him. Both were known far beyond their hometown as excellent amateur detectives.
Frank drove along Elm Street to the main avenue and soon reached Raymond Wester’s house on the outskirts of Bayport. It was almost a mansion, surrounded by acres of grass and huge trees.
Frank parked in the driveway. He and Joe noticed a woman glaring down at them from a second-floor window. She lifted her arm and they saw the gleam of a blade in her hand.
Joe gasped. “Looks like that lady’s holding a dagger !”
“It sure does,” Frank agreed. “I wonder what she’s up to.”
The woman turned away from the window and disappeared from sight. The Hardys got out of their car and went up the long front walk to the door. Joe reached for the bell, but before he had a chance to press it, the door opened a crack to reveal a gleaming blade!
Instinctively, they stepped back, and as the door swung wide open, they found themselves confronted by the woman from the second-floor window. She held a letter opener in one hand and a bunch of letters in the other.
“I saw you arrive,” she said, “so I came down to let you in. I’m Mrs. Summers, the housekeeper. Mr. Wester is waiting for you.”
She showed them through the hall into the art collector’s study. The Hardys followed silently, embarrassed about mistaking the letter opener for a dagger.
Raymond Wester, a small man with white hair, was sitting behind a large oak desk. A number of paintings hung on the walls, except for an area over the fireplace where an oblong spot darker than the surrounding wall showed that a picture had recently been removed.
Wester motioned for Frank and Joe to take chairs in front of his desk.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you to come here,” he began.
“That’s right, sir,” Frank admitted. “Except that you mentioned a couple of crooks.”
Wester nodded. “They robbed me.”
“What’s missing?”
Wester pointed to the vacant space over the fireplace. “The painting that used to be there has disappeared. It was a very valuable portrait of Simon Bolivar. I suppose you know who Bolivar was.”
Joe grinned. “We studied him in history class. He was the George Washington of South America. Knocked over the Spaniards the way Washington defeated the British.”
“That’s why they called him the Liberator,” Frank added.
“You know your history,” Wester complimented them. “Well, my portrait of Bolivar is gone. Vanished. ”
“When did it happen?” Frank inquired.
“Two weeks ago today. I was in Europe. When I arrived home this noon I found out it was gone.”
“And you have no idea who might have taken it?” Frank asked.
“Well, let me tell you what happened. Before leaving on my trip last month, I ordered my secretary, Mark Morphy, to have the painting taken down and sent to my brother Harrison, who lives on Key Blanco in Florida. Harrison has always admired the portrait, so last month I agreed to give it to him.”
“What method of transportation did you use?” Frank asked.
“The painting was too valuable to ship through the mails or a delivery service. I asked Morphy to hire two couriers to drive to Florida in a van. He was to go along and keep an eye on the picture at all times.”
“Could they drive all the way to Key Blanco?” Joe inquired.
“No. Only to Key West. From there they were to hire a boat. Before leaving for Europe, I phoned Harrison and told him that the portrait would soon be on its way to him. However, when I returned today, he called and said it never arrived!”
“Did you inform the police?” Frank asked. “Perhaps there was an accident, and they might be able to locate the van between here and Florida.”
Wester shook his head. “As I told you over the phone, I wanted to talk to you first. Anyway, if the van had had an accident, Morphy would have p
honed me.”
“You haven’t heard from your secretary at all?”
“Not a word! I’m afraid he may have been kidnapped by those couriers. You know, I just can’t believe he’s involved in anything underhanded—”
“Did Morphy identify the couriers he hired?” Joe asked. “Did he leave their names?”
“Yes,” Wester declared. “He also left a photograph of them.”
“Good,” Frank said. “That way we can go to Chief Collig at police headquarters and see if they’re listed in his mug shot file.”
“No need to go to all that trouble,” Wester said dryly. “I think you can identify them.”
“Why is that, Mr. Wester?” Joe asked, puzzled.
The retired banker took a photograph from a drawer and handed it to him. “Here!”
The young detectives stared at the picture and gaped in surprise. They were looking at a snapshot of themselves!
2
No Alibi!
“Morphy pulled a fast one on you, Mr. Wester,” Joe finally said. “We never saw the painting or met the man.”
“Besides, we’re detectives, not couriers!” Frank pointed out emphatically.
“And not criminals either!” added Joe.
Wester appeared unconvinced. “You could be using your reputation for crime-fighting as a cover. Everyone in Bayport knows you’ve solved a lot of mysteries. Maybe you thought you wouldn’t be suspected. That’s a photo of you two, isn’t it?”
“Sure,” Frank admitted. “But it doesn’t prove anything. I recognize the picture. It was shot by Andy Anderson of the Bayport Times during an interview. Morphy must have gone to the newspaper morgue and dug it out.”
Wester shrugged. “If he did, he was still letting me know you and Joe were the couriers he hired. Where were you two weeks ago when my painting was stolen?”
“We were backpacking in Maine,” Frank replied. “Followed the Appalachian Trail. It was great hiking—”
“That’s what you say,” Wester retorted suspiciously. “Did anyone see you?”
“No,” Frank said. “I’m afraid we don’t have that kind of alibi—we were alone!”
Wester was more suspicious than ever. “Why would Morphy name you if you weren’t involved?”
“I guess he’s trying to throw suspicion on us,” Joe declared. “He seems like the number one suspect to me.”
“But you might be in cahoots with him,” Wester argued. “Maybe he ducked out with the portrait and left you to be the fall guys.”
Frank and Joe stared at each other. It was the first time they had ever been accused of being crooks!
“Let’s see if the real thief left a clue,” Joe suggested. “We’ll need to know all about the robbery. Is there someone who can tell us how it happened?”
“Mrs. Summers can,” Wester said, “as if you don’t know already.”
Wester summoned the housekeeper, who entered the study and stared at the Hardys curiously. Her employer asked her to tell them what she knew about the missing portrait.
“When Mr. Wester was in Europe,” she explained, “Mr. Morphy was in charge here. He told me he had orders to remove the painting and take it to Mr. Harrison Wester. He said he’d hire two couriers to drive to Key Blanco, and that he was leaving detailed information in the desk drawer.”
“That’s us,” Joe put in. “Trouble is, Morphy never informed us of his scheme. Did he tell you anything else?”
“I had nothing to do with it!” the housekeeper snapped.
“Of course not,” Frank said soothingly. “But please, what happened next, Mrs. Summers?”
“The following day Mr. Morphy gave the staff the day off. When we got back, the painting was gone.”
“And Morphy was gone too?” Joe inquired.
“Yes,” the housekeeper replied. “And I haven’t seen him since. ”
Wester looked sternly at Frank and Joe. “I still think you may be in on it. And if you’re not you’ll just have to prove it!”
Joe had an idea. “What if Morphy only pretended to send the painting to Key Blanco, but actually hid it here?”
“May we search the house?” Frank added, catching on.
“Go ahead,” the retired banker agreed. “Mrs. Summers will show you around. The portrait’s about two by four feet. Should be easy to find if it’s here. ”
The Hardys decided to search from the top down, and followed the housekeeper up to the attic. It was a dusty area covering the entire top floor. The only light in the dingy interior came from two small windows under the slanting roof.
A quick inspection convinced Frank and Joe that the missing portrait was not in the attic. Mrs. Summers led the way down to the next floor, where the servants’ quarters were located. Nothing turned up, and they had no better luck on the two floors occupied by Wester.
“We’ve come up empty,” Frank said in disgust.
“The basement’s our last chance,” Joe pointed out. “We’d better look—”
“Nothing’s down there,” Mrs. Summers interrupted. “I’ve already seen for myself.”
“Our report has to be complete,” Frank said diplomatically. “Do you mind if we take a quick look?”
The housekeeper shrugged and opened the cellar door. Everyone descended a flight of rickety stairs.
The basement had cinderblock walls and a cement floor. In one corner stood the furnace and water heater, and nearby, a workbench ran the length of one wall.
“Mr. Wester uses the bench to repair his paintings,” the housekeeper explained.
In the darkest corner of the cellar, Joe spotted a heavy iron ring hanging from the wall. “What’s this for?” he inquired.
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Summers snapped. “Now, can we go back up?”
“Wait a minute,” Frank said. He was inspecting the iron ring. “It looks like a handle. Maybe there’s a door in this wall.”
Twisting the ring, he pulled hard on it. A section of cinder blocks moved to one side.
“It’s a secret room!” Frank exclaimed. “Maybe the picture’s in here!”
The boys went through the doorway. They found themselves in a small room, its back wall illuminated dimly by the basement light.
“Wow!” Joe said. “Who could have built this, and why?”
Frank shrugged. “Whoever built the house, I suppose. Perhaps Mr. Wester knows what it was intended for.”
The Hardys began to examine the wall closely. They were so absorbed in their task that they did not hear the door creak behind them. Suddenly it became darker in the room, and when they turned around, they realized that their light source from the basement was being cut off by the closing door.
Click! They heard the noise of the lock falling into place, then stood in complete darkness.
Frank leaped to the door and tried to open it. However, his palms flattened against unyielding cement blocks!
“Mrs. Summers!” he yelled. “Let us out!”
The housekeeper did not respond.
“She must hear us!” Joe said urgently. “The door isn’t that thick!”
“Sh!” Frank said, trying to listen for Mrs. Summers’s footsteps. There was nothing but silence!
Desperately, Frank felt around the door in the darkness to see if he could find a handle on their side. But his fingers touched only bare cinder blocks.
“Joe!” he exclaimed. “We’re trapped!”
“Maybe there’s another way out,” Joe said en couragingly. He moved along the wall in the pitch darkness feeling for an outlet. Suddenly he stepped into empty air! His feet slipped out from under him, and with a scream, he plunged into nothingness!
“Joe! Are you okay?” Frank called out, worried.
There was no reply. Frank stood stock-still, fighting a wave of panic that threatened to engulf him. Suddenly he remembered that he was carrying his pencil flashlight in the back pocket of his dungarees. He flicked it on and turned the beam in the direction of Joe’s scream.
Th
e light illuminated four wooden steps. Joe lay crumpled in a heap at the bottom!
Frank rushed to his brother’s side and shook him gently. Joe opened his eyes, rubbed his head, then staggered to his feet.
“Next time I take a swan dive I’ll make sure there’s water in the pool,” he said ruefully. “No harm done, though, except for a bump on my head.”
Frank shone his flashlight up ahead and saw they were in a low, narrow passage only a few feet long. The floor slanted sharply upward.
“Maybe there’s a door over there,” he suggested. “Let’s see.”
He led the way forward, crouching down as the height of the passage decreased. But a quick inspection revealed that they were facing a blank wall at the end.
“That was our last chance,” Frank lamented. “We’re in a secret tunnel without an exit!”
Joe, exploring the low ceiling of the passage with his hands, came upon a large bolt fastened into a hasp.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “This may be a way out!” Forcing the bolt back from its hasp, he pushed up. A small, square section of the ceiling opened outward, admitting daylight that caused the Hardys to blink and cover their eyes after their spell in the darkness. Clambering through the opening, they found themselves in a thick clump of bushes at the side of the house near the driveway.
Joe allowed the door to fall back into place. It became indistinguishable in a tangle of ivy.
“That’s a neat way of hiding a secret passage,” Frank noted. “Hey! What’s this?” His foot had dislodged something in the ivy. He bent over and picked up a jackknife with a flat yellow plate on either side. One of them bore the letters I.N.
“The owner’s initials!” Frank said excitedly, showing the knife to his brother. “Let’s see if they fit anybody in the house.”
Circling around to the front door, they rang the bell. Mrs. Summers answered and looked surprised to see them.
“That door in the basement fell shut all by itself,” she explained. “I couldn’t get it open, so I went looking for help. I was going to ask Mr. Wester to let you out, but he’s on the phone.”
Mystery of Smugglers Cove Page 1