Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER I - A Strange Sale
CHAPTER II - A Clever Alibi
CHAPTER III - A Dangerous Visit
CHAPTER IV - The Telltale Moccasin
CHAPTER V - Buried Treasure
CHAPTER VI - An Elusive Suspect
CHAPTER VII - A Lucky Break
CHAPTER VIII - A Desperate Attempt
CHAPTER IX - Conflicting Reports
CHAPTER X - Tom-toms
CHAPTER XI - A Jeweled Dagger
CHAPTER XII - A Puzzling Telegram
CHAPTER XIII - The Hunter’s Moon
CHAPTER XIV - A Rough Trip
CHAPTER XV - The Hideout
CHAPTER XVI - A Moonlight Search
CHAPTER XVII - A Parted Rope
CHAPTER XVIII - A Perilous Ruse
CHAPTER XIX - Mousetrapped
CHAPTER XX - A Victory Feast
THE CRISSCROSS SHADOW
When a man selling leather goods door-to-door steals the key to their detective father’s file cabinet, Frank and Joe Hardy set out to track him down.
An odd mark on a key case which the man sold to their mother leads the teen-age sleuths to an Indian village, whose chief begs them to help him. Two strangers have claimed title to the Indians’ land, the deed to which had been secretly buried by the chief’s father, along with other valuable tribal possessions, shortly before he died. The only clue to the location is that a crisscross shadow marks the site when the October full moon is low in the sky.
How Frank and Joe find the missing deed and the other Ramapan treasures, how they prevent the phony leather-goods salesman from carrying out a ruthless scheme, and how they help their father solve the top-secret case he is working on for the U.S. government makes exciting reading for all fans of the Hardy boys.
“I am Chief Wallapatookunk,” a deep voice
intoned
Copyright © 1997, 1969, 1953, by Simon & Schuster, Inc.
All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset
Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.
THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 69-14268
eISBN : 978-1-101-07646-0
http://us.penguingroup.com
CHAPTER I
A Strange Sale
“I WANT to speak to my nephews Frank and Joe Hardy at once,” said an excited voice on the telephone. “It’s urgent.”
“Yes, Miss Hardy,” replied the manager of Bayport High’s football team. “They’re out on the field. I’ll get ’em.”
Meanwhile, on the thirty-yard line Coach Devlin was saying, “Okay, team. Let’s run through our defensive play once more.”
The eleven lined up—the regulars on defense, the scrubs facing them.
“86X,” barked Frank Hardy, captain and quarterback, as the opposing center moved over the pigskin.
The ball was snapped. At the same instant, stocky Chet Morton, the regulars’ stalwart center, pulled out of the line to cover the left flank. The scrubs’ halfback darted up and over the line of scrimmage.
“Tackle him, Chet, tackle him!” shouted Frank.
Chet plowed into the second-string ball carrier and brought him to the ground for no gain.
“Good going, boys,” said Coach Devlin. “I think you’ve got that defensive play down pretty well. Once around the field and then into the showers,” he said, dismissing them.
Frank and his brother Joe, a year younger, jogged along together. Lithe, blond-haired Joe, who played left halfback, was puffing.
“Coach really had us working on that 86X, didn’t he?”
“I’ll say he did,” tall, dark-haired Frank replied. “But it’s going to come in mighty handy when we play Hopkinsville—”
“Frank! Joel” the manager called out. “Telephone call for you. Better hurry. Your aunt seems very excited!”
The brothers looked at each other wonderingly. Sons of Fenton Hardy, the famous detective, they were accomplished sleuths in spite of their youth. They had often received urgent calls but never in a locker room!
Joe hurried to the phone. “Hello,” he said anxiously.
“Joe, is that you?” asked a crisp feminine voice. “This is Aunt Gertrude.”
“What’s up?”
Aunt Gertrude, who was staying at the Hardy home, was the boys’ favorite relative. Though she did not hesitate on occasion to reprimand her nephews, they had great respect for her insight into human nature.
“There’s a strange salesman in the house,” Aunt Gertrude reported. “He’s trying to sell your mother some leather goods, but I don’t like his looks. I’m sure he’s a swindler. I’ve seen his picture somewhere in the papers.”
Joe whistled softly. “We’ll come right home, Auntie,” he promised.
The boys did not wait to shower or change their clothes, but hurried to their convertible.
Since their father was in San Francisco on a secret mission—so secret that he had not even told the boys its nature—Frank and Joe felt a protective responsibility toward the two women at home.
As he maneuvered the sleek car through Bayport’s busy streets, Frank looked puzzled.
“I don’t like this at all, Joe,” he said.
“Let’s take a look through the window before we go in,” Joe suggested. “You know what Dad says. A little undercover sleuthing in advance is better than barging in head-on.”
“Good idea.”
When they reached the tree-lined neighborhood where the Hardy home was located, Frank proceeded cautiously.
“We’ll park here,” he said, quietly turning off the motor and gliding to the curb about three hundred feet from the house.
The boys went up a neighbor’s driveway, crossed the back yard, and approached their own house from the rear.
“How about looking in the side living-room window?” Frank whispered. Joe nodded.
The boys flattened themselves against the side of the house below the window. Cautiously they lifted their heads until their eyes were on a level with the sill. A strange man, his back to them, was there alone.
Suddenly Joe gave a start and said, “He just took something off Mother’s desk!”
“What is it?” Frank asked. “I can’t make it out—oh, yes—it’s Dad’s key case!”
As the youthful detectives watched, the man, unaware that he was being observed, opened the case and quickly slipped a key off one of the rings.
The boys did not wait to see any more. They dashed around the house, unlocked the front door, and ran into the hall.
“Why, hello, boys,” a pleasant feminine voice said. Mrs. Hardy was descending the stairway. “What brings you home so early from practice—and in your football uniforms?”
“Hello, Mother!” they answered together as they followed her into the living room.
Joe burst out, “This man is what brings us here.”
“He took Dad’s key case!” Frank exclaimed
“I don’t understand,” she replied as the stranger stared at them with an air of surprise.
“Why did you pick up my father’s key case and take a key from it?” Frank asked sharply.
“What do you mean?” the stranger demanded angrily.
“Frank! Joe!” their mother exclaimed, taken aback by her sons’ actions. “You’d better apologize to Mr. Breck. I bought a new key case from him for your father.”
“And I was merely transferring the old ones to the new case while your mother went upstairs for
her pocketbook,” Mr. Breck said triumphantly.
Embarrassed, the boys looked at the two cases. There were three keys in the new one.
“Here is a letter of introduction that Mr. Breck brought from Mrs. Wilson,” their mother quickly explained as she handed them a folded sheet of paper.
Her sons scanned the typewritten letter, which told what a reliable man Mr. Breck was and how reasonably he was selling fine handmade leather articles. At the bottom of the page was a signature which the boys recognized as that of an old friend of their mother and father.
As they looked up, Mr. Breck gazed straight at the boys. A taunting smile outlined the lips of the dark, burly man who was about thirty-five years old.
“No reason to get excited,” he said smoothly. “I’ve just been showing your mother some beautiful hand-tooled leather—”
Breck stopped speaking and looked flustered when he saw Miss Hardy in the doorway. Tall, stern Aunt Gertrude stood there glaring in unfriendly fashion. But the salesman recovered himself quickly.
“Oh another customer,” he said.
“Indeed not,” stated the boys’ aunt firmly. “Laura,” she addressed her sister-in-law, “are you sure this man is—?”
“Oh, please,” Mrs. Hardy begged, greatly distressed.
Meanwhile, Joe had been silently counting the keys. He did this twice to make certain how many were there. He knew the exact number there should be because Mr. Hardy, shortly before he left, had given the keys to his wife in Joe’s presence. The boy’s sleuthing instinct had prompted him to count them at that time. Now one key was missing!
“Mr. Breck,” he demanded, his eyes flashing, “what did you do with a thin brass key that was in this old case?”
“Why ... why ...” the stranger stammered, hunting for words. “How dare you accuse me of stealing!”
“There’s a key missing—a special one. Hand it over!” Joe insisted.
“I haven’t got it, you young whippersnapper,” the man replied indignantly.
“Please!” Mrs. Hardy interrupted. “Mr. Hardy, no doubt, removed the key himself.”
“I’m not going to stay here and be insulted any longer!” Breck exclaimed in anger.
He moved to his small suitcase, tossed his samples inside, and snapped it shut.
“I’m getting out of this house,” he said hotly. “I’ve had enough of your insinuations.”
Joe made a move to detain the salesman. But his mother forbade it.
“Let him go, Joe,” she advised. “No key is worth such a scene.”
“But, Mother, it’s the one to the file in Dad’s study—”
“We still don’t know that your father didn’t take it.”
The boys were reluctant to let the man go, but their mother’s word was law. Breck then stalked out, slamming the front door behind him.
Mrs. Hardy, still looking distressed, commented:
“I know you don’t trust the man, Frank and Joe. But I did hate to have a scene, especially since there was no proof against him.”
“Sure, Mother, I understand,” Frank answered. “Though the way he acted was mighty suspicious.”
“I’ll say,” Joe agreed. “He’d better not show his face around here again.”
The boys went upstairs, removed their football gear, and showered.
Five minutes later, while they were dressing, they heard Aunt Gertrude cry out. As the boys were speculating about what had happened, she knocked on their door.
“Hurry up! Go find that man Breck. He’s stolen your father’s picture!”
Pulling on sweaters, they opened the door and followed her downstairs. Mrs. Hardy was staring at the top of the baby grand piano where her husband’s photograph had stood for nearly a year.
“I guess you were right after all about that salesman,” she said. “He’s taken Dad’s picture. But why?”
“We’ll find out!” Frank cried.
They raced from the house and down the street to their car. They had little hope of locating Breck, but to their relief Joe spotted him in the center of town walking hurriedly along the sidewalk.
The convertible pulled up even with him. As it came to a stop, he glanced at the boys, then started to run.
Leaping from the car, Frank and Joe gave chase. But Breck had a head start. He turned the corner. When the Hardys reached it, the man was not in sight!
CHAPTER II
A Clever Alibi
“WHERE’D Breck go?” Joe cried, dismayed that their quarry had eluded them.
He and Frank glanced at both sides of the deserted street, seeing nothing but a few parked cars.
Suddenly Joe cried out. “Look, between those two parked cars. Isn’t that a suitcase? And a man? Come on, Frank.”
The boys dashed across the street. Joe approached the space between the cars from the sidewalk, Frank from the street.
“There he is! Grab him, Joe!” Frank exclaimed as Breck tried to make a getaway.
Joe, executing a perfect tackle, stopped the man dead in his tracks. Grunting and panting, Breck tried to shake him off, but Frank, coming up from behind, pinned the husky salesman’s shoulders to the ground, while his brother clung grimly to his legs.
“Get off!” Breck cried, struggling to rise.
“Not until we’ve searched you,” replied Frank, holding him even more tightly.
Just then Joe caught sight of a policeman sauntering along on the other side of the street.
“Hey, Casey!” he shouted to the officer, whom they had known for years. “We can use some help!”
Seeing the boys and their struggling captive, Casey broke into a run.
“What’s up, fellows?” he cried as he reached them.
Frank and Joe released their grip on Breck, who now made no effort to break away.
“This man stole a picture of my father and the key to his file cabinet,” Frank replied, pointing to Breck, who glowered at the boys.
“Yes, we want him searched,” Joe chimed in.
“All right,” the officer’s voice was stern. “Come along to headquarters, mister.”
“Our car’s around the corner,” Frank said.
Breck started to object, but the policeman silenced him with a gesture.
“I never question Frank and Joe’s judgment,” he stated as they walked to the boys’ convertible. “I guess you don’t know that they’re sons of the famous detective Fenton Hardy. And they’re right smart detectives themselves. Solved lots of cases, like The Tower Treasure. And not long ago they went out West and tangled with some bad characters in The Secret of Wildcat Swamp.”
At police headquarters the group was met by Chief Ezra Collig, grizzled veteran of many a battle with Bayport’s criminal elements. He and the Hardys had often worked together in rounding up underworld characters.
“Well, now, who’s this man, boys?” the chief asked briskly. “What’s he been up to?”
The Hardys quickly explained the mysterious activities of Breck.
“We can prove it, tool” Joe exclaimed, referring to the thefts of the picture and key. “All you’ve got to do is search him.”
“No, you don’t,” Breck protested. “I insist upon calling my lawyer. You’ve got to permit that. I know my rights,” he added threateningly.
“Okay,” the officer agreed. “Who’s your law yer?”
“Miles Kamp,” Breck replied quickly.
“Miles Kamp, eh? I’ve never heard of him. Must be a stranger to Bayport.”
Frank and Joe looked at Breck suspiciously as the man dialed the phone on the chief’s desk. After a few guarded words to Kamp, he hung up, a look of satisfaction on his face.
Ten minutes later Miles Kamp strode into the chief’s office. He was a short, heavy-jowled man with a wide thin-lipped mouth that suggested a nasty streak in his character. He peered at them nearsightedly through thick-lensed glasses.
Frank turned to Joe. “I don’t like his looks, do you?” he whispered as the salesman shook hands with
the lawyer.
“No,” the younger Hardy replied. “He looks even more suspicious than Breck.”
“Now, what’s going on here?” the lawyer said in an annoyed voice. “Why are you holding my client?”
“Calm down, Mr. Kamp,” Chief Collig said to him sternly. “Mr. Breck is accused of stealing a key and a photograph belonging to Fenton Hardy. These are his sons, and they want this man searched.”
“Searched? Why, certainly, my client will gladly agree to this,” Kamp replied pompously. “Mr. Breck,” he said, turning to the leather-goods salesman whose face wore a smug look, “I advise you to let the police search you. We know you have nothing to fear.”
At Chief Collig’s order the policeman went to work. He turned Breck’s pockets inside out and made him remove his shoes. Then he looked through the man’s suitcase.
“Nothing suspicious here, boys,” he reported.
Frank’s eyes were intent on a bulge under the man’s shirt. “What are you hiding there?” he asked.
The policeman investigated and found a framed photograph of Fenton Hardy.
“What was the idea of taking that?” Joe said accusingly.
Breck’s face began to redden. “Well ... well, you see ...” the salesman stammered in embarrassment. “You’re right. I did take your father’s picture, and I apologize,” he confessed sheepishly. “But I can explain.”
“You’d better have a good reason,” the chief interrupted.
“You see, I’ve always been a great admirer of Fenton Hardy,” Breck went on rapidly, “and I’ve followed his exploits for years. So today, when I saw his picture on the piano, I couldn’t resist picking it up as a souvenir.”
“Well, that puts things in a somewhat different light,” said Chief Collig.
“I knew you’d understand,” Breck continued hastily. “And I hope the boys do. I’d like to keep the photo. It would mean a lot to me.” There was a note of sincerity in his voice.
“I don’t know,” Joe replied slowly, looking at his brother questioningly.
“Please let me have it,” Breck pleaded. “I’ll give you back the frame. All I want is the photograph of Mr. Hardy.”
“Humph—” Chief Collig began, as all looked to him for advice. “The picture isn’t autographed, is it?” he asked, scanning the photograph.
The Crisscross Shadow Page 1