The Sign of the Crooked Arrow

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Disappointed, Chet worked his way toward the back of the restaurant. Then he spotted a booth at the extreme rear. In it sat Bearcat!

  The boy slipped into the seat opposite him. Bearcat hardly noticed him as he read the menu. When he finally glanced up, Chet leaned forward.

  “Say, Jenk ain’t got no more arrows,” Chet whispered. “How about lettin’ me have one?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Then he reached into his pocket and drew out a cigarette. Chet opened his wallet and laid a five-dollar bill on the table. To his amazement the man gave him no change.

  “Jenk sure is a gyp,” whined Chet. “A guy can’t get far with one arrow.”

  “Ain’t his fault,” Bearcat replied.

  “Thanks,” Chet said, pocketing the cigarette and rising to leave.

  Then he stopped short. Coming in the front door was Jenk himself. As he headed for Bearcat’s booth, the boy slipped out of it, concealing himself behind a hefty waiter. Fortunately, it took a few seconds for Jenk’s eyes to adjust to the dimness and he did not notice Chet heading for the door.

  “Hey you,” the gruff voice of the cashier called. “Pay up!”

  “I didn’t order anything,” Chet objected shakily.

  “Oh no? Say, kid, you pay or—”

  Jenk had stopped to listen to the argument. Chet was fearful. He threw a bill to the cashier and hurried out to the street, running toward the diner where Frank and Joe were waiting. In his hand he held a most important clue!

  At last he knew what the mysterious gimmick was—a cigarette!

  As Chet neared the diner he turned the cigarette over in his fingers to inspect it.

  Suddenly he saw black spots before his eyes. His head swam, then he slumped to the sidewalk!

  CHAPTER VI

  Police Raid

  “CHET, Chet! What’s the matter?” Joe bent over his friend, his face tense and worried.

  “I ... I ... wh ... where am I?” Chet asked. regaining consciousness.

  “You’re on the sidewalk,” Joe replied. “When you didn’t show up, Frank and I started looking for you.”

  With Joe’s aid, Chet struggled to his feet. As his brain cleared, he told briefly what had happened at Mike’s Place.

  “I was on my way back to meet you fellows,” he said. “I took a look at the cigarette I was holding, and then—Hey, where is it?”

  “This it?” Joe asked, picking up a cigarette that had rolled into the gutter.

  “Yes,” Chet replied.

  “Let’s examine that thing carefully—but not here,” Frank said. “We’d better take it to the police.

  The three drove quickly to headquarters. On the way Chet related in detail his experience in the restaurant and how he had paid five dollars for the Arrow cigarette.

  “I’m sure this cigarette put you to sleep,” Frank declared. “And if it did, we may have the key to the Bayport robberies.”

  The boys were excited as they entered the building. “This is top secret,” Frank said as Chief Collig greeted the trio. The officer motioned for the doors to be closed.

  Then he turned to the boys. “Have you or Sam located the man who shot your father?” he asked with quickening interest.

  “No,” Frank replied. “But we’ve uncovered a clue that may solve the mysterious robberies around Bayport.”

  He pulled the cigarette from his pocket and laid it on the chief’s desk.

  “What’s this—a joke?” Collig asked.

  “It’s no joke,” Frank insisted. “This is a cigarette that can put you to sleep!”

  “What?”

  “That’s what happened to Chet.” Frank hastily related the story of the scene in Jenk’s Tobacco Shop, and concluded with Chet’s adventure in the restaurant.

  “I’ll have this Arrow analyzed at once,” declared Chief Collig. “Don’t touch it. I’ll get the head of our crime lab.” He pressed a button on his intercom.

  “Send Creech in to see me,” Collig ordered.

  A few minutes later a baldheaded man wearing tortoise-shell glasses entered the office.

  “I’d like you to analyze this cigarette for me,” the officer said.

  “Okay, Chief,” Creech answered. “I’ll do it right away.”

  Shortly he returned holding a white sheet of cardboard in his hand. On it were the component parts of the cigarette.

  “Here we are,” he said. “This sure is a humdinger! There’s genuine tobacco at both ends,” he explained, pointing to the shreds of tobacco leaf on the white cardboard. “But in the middle there’s a clever gadget.”

  “What is it?” Joe asked quickly.

  Creech held a little plastic capsule between his fingers. It was about an inch long. At one end was a tiny stem.

  “What on earth is all this?” Collig wondered.

  “A type of bomb,” the technician said. “It could hold a liquid or a gas. And the stem is a plunger. One end of it is flush with one end of the cigarette.”

  “Would it release whatever’s inside the capsule?” Joe asked.

  “Right,” Creech replied. “Pressure on the plunger trips a spring inside the tiny vial to free the gas or liquid.”

  “Boys, you’ve really come up with a lulu,” Collig said. Then he thanked Creech and dismissed him.

  “This cigarette,” Joe began, “is being used by criminals to knock out their victims.”

  “And when I pressed the plunger by accident, I saw spots before my eyes and keeled over,” Chet put in.

  “This must be kept secret,” Collig said. “Aside from your father and Sam Radley, no one should be told about it.”

  As the three agreed, Chet added, “Wonder what kind of anesthetic the thieves use. It had no lasting effect on me. I feel fine now.”

  “Some kind of ether-like gas, no doubt. Creech can check that out for us by analyzing the capsule,” the chief remarked.

  Again Collig pressed a button on his desk. “Jenk’s store must be raided at once,” he told the boys as the door opened and a sergeant entered. “Want to come along?”

  “You bet! But we’ll have to hurry. Bearcat probably mentioned Chet to Jenk, so he’s tipped off by now,” Frank said.

  The police and the three boys sped to the tobacco shop.

  Chief Collig’s aide deftly steered their big black sedan through the downtown traffic and headed for the waterfront. Within minutes they pulled up in front of Jenk’s. In a moment other carloads of police joined them.

  “Nobody’s here!” exclaimed Collig, opening the door.

  “Hey, smells like something’s burning!” Frank cried out.

  He ran to the back door and looked into the alley, just in time to see Jenk hotfooting it away. A smoldering package lay on the ground.

  “Stop!” Frank shouted at him.

  As he called, two policemen appeared at the end of the alley, cutting off the man’s escape. They collared Jenk at once and brought him to Chief Collig.

  Frank stamped out the fire in the package, most of which had been reduced to char.

  “Look here, Chief!” he exclaimed, kicking what was left to one side and holding a cigarette at arm’s length. “They’re Arrows!”

  “What does this mean?” Chief Collig growled, addressing the surly Jenk.

  “I ain’t done nuthin’,” the man protested. “Just burned some stale cigarettes.”

  Joe took one of them in his fingers. It had been burned halfway through. Inside was a capsule, which smoldered with a peculiar odor.

  “Of course,” he cried out. “This plastic burns! Jenk was trying to destroy evidence.”

  Collig ordered that handcuffs be put on Jenk. “Come on!” he said. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do at headquarters!”

  “I ain’t got nuthin’ to explain,” the man declared sullenly.

  Meanwhile, other police officers had searched the store. They had found nothing but a meager stock of popular brands of tobacco and cigarettes. Jenk had burned all the telltale evide
nce!

  “We’ll take this man with us,” Chief Collig told the sergeant.

  The Hardys said good-by to the officers and took Chet to their house, where he had left his car that morning. They had a quick lunch, then drove to the hospital.

  Mr. Hardy, who was improving slowly, listened with great interest to their account of the discovery of the Arrow cigarettes.

  “There’s one thing we must do soon,” he said.

  “I think I know what you mean,” Frank said. “Rout out all the Arrow cigarettes in this area, and see if we can pick up any clues to where they come from.”

  “Right. Get in touch with Sam. He might be able to give you a hand.”

  Next morning, Frank and Joe called Sam Radley, and the three set out to search for more Arrow cigarettes.

  While the local police undertook to do the job in Bayport, Sam and the boys drove to the nearby towns which also had experienced an outbreak of holdups.

  They stopped in all sorts of shops where cigarettes might be sold, asking the same question.

  “Have you any Arrows? Jenk sent us.”

  Time after time the boys, working apart from Sam, were met by vacant stares and “Don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  But in Green Point, near Pleasantville, a tobacco shopman replied, “Jenk sent you?”

  “Yep,” Frank answered, his pulse quickening.

  “Got anything to show?”

  “Crooked arrow!” Joe said, hoping that might be a password.

  “Good enough for me,” was the reply.

  With that the man gave the boys two cigarettes, for which they paid ten dollars. The shopkeeper leaned close to the boys.

  “Tell Jenk those are my last two,” he whispered. “Have him send Arrow Charlie around with a new lot next time he or his pals come East.”

  Frank and Joe looked as casual as they could, though their pulses were racing.

  “Arrow Charlie?” said Frank. “Oh, sure. Say, did he get that name from selling Arrows, or is he handy with a bow?”

  The man smirked. “You ought to know!” he said conclusively.

  That was enough for the Hardys. They hurried to their car, where Sam was already waiting. He had had no luck. Frank showed him the two Arrows triumphantly, then they sped back toward the city to report the Green Point tobacconist and turn over the cigarettes for analysis.

  As they rode down the road that ran past the Morton farm, they saw Chet on the porch. When they tooted their horn, the stout boy waved frantically. Frank jammed on the brakes and Chet puffed up to them, a worried look on his face.

  “Your mother phoned here a few minutes ago trying to get hold of you!” he panted.

  “What’s wrong?” Joe asked.

  “Is Dad worse?” Frank gasped.

  “I don’t know,” Chet replied. “All she said was to come to the hospital and hurry!”

  CHAPTER VII

  Another Puzzle

  “THANKS,” Frank said. “We’ll drive right over. I’ll call you if anything is wrong.”

  He was off in a flash. The car’s speedometer hovered at the legal limit as Frank and Joe raced to Bayport Hospital.

  To their surprise, they found their father sitting up in his room. He greeted them cheerfully.

  “Hello, boys,” he called out. “Hope I didn’t alarm you by asking you to come quickly.”

  “To be honest, you did,” Frank panted. “It certainly is good to see you so chipper, though.”

  Joe went to the far side of his father’s bed. “Gosh, you look like yourself again. Doesn’t he, Mother?”

  Mrs. Hardy smiled in agreement. She was pouring water for one of the many bouquets her husband had received.

  “The reason I called you,” Mr. Hardy said, “is this.” He held up an air-mail letter. “It’s from Cousin Ruth. Some mysterious happenings at the ranch have her worried. Seems some of her best cowhands have disappeared, one by one, without a trace.”

  “Has she notified the local authorities?” Joe asked.

  “Yes. But she has had no luck so far,” his father replied. “She wants me to come immediately. Since I can’t, I’d like you to fly out in my place. Take Chet, too, if he wants to go.”

  “We’ll leave as soon as possible,” Frank assured him. “There’s only one thing—Joe and I just got a hot lead on the crooked arrow mystery. We’d sure like to follow it up.”

  “I’ll put Sam Radley on your new lead,” Mr. Hardy said. “Besides, I hope to be out of here soon, so I can work with him. Now tell me what you’ve learned.”

  Frank reported their experience with the Green Point tobacco dealer and his mention of Arrow Charlie.

  “It sounds to us as if he’s the main distributor,” Frank said. “And obviously he comes East once in a while.”

  Mr. Hardy looked thoughtful. “I wonder where he is now.”

  “Have the police been able to get any information from Jenk?” Frank asked.

  Mr. Hardy shook his head. “The prisoner isn’t talking.”

  “Come on, Frank,” Joe put in. “We’d better go see about those plane reservations for the trip to Cousin Ruth’s.”

  Before leaving the hospital, Frank telephoned Chet about the proposed Western trip. Their pal eagerly accepted the invitation.

  The boys had a hasty lunch at a coffee shop, and then drove to the Bayport Air Terminal. Striding up to the ticket office, Frank and Joe approached one of the clerks.

  “We’d like three reservations to Albuquerque as soon as we can get them,” Frank said.

  The clerk examined his schedule. “Sorry,” he said. “Everything’s booked for a week.”

  “A week!” groaned Joe. “How about a plane to another point and a transfer?”

  The clerk shook his head. “The schedule West is full.”

  “All right,” Frank sighed. “Put us on the list for cancellations.” He gave the man their names, address, and telephone number.

  “We’ll get in touch with you as soon as something comes up,” the clerk told him.

  Frank and Joe got into their car and started for home. As Frank breezed along, Joe suggested:

  “Let’s drop by Chet’s and ask him to get ready. No telling when we may be leaving!”

  “Right.”

  When they slowed down on the road fronting the Morton farm, a strange sight greeted their eyes. In a pasture among a herd of cows rode a cowboy on a chestnut mare.

  “Yahoo!” Joe laughed. “It’s Chet!”

  The boys stopped and got out.

  “Hi, pardner!” called Frank. “Where’d you get that rig?”

  “Bought it, of course,” puffed Chet.

  He leaned over in the saddle and looked down at the Hardys. “I’m practicing for our Western trip. Just watch this, fellows!”

  Chet swung a rope over his head, then tossed it at a Holstein grazing complacently nearby. The rope snaked through the air and landed over an old tree stump.

  “Bull’s-eye!” Joe wisecracked.

  “That was only the first try,” Chet retorted. “Watch this one.”

  He looped the rope again. It glided through the air and landed neatly over the cow’s head.

  “How ’bout that!” he cried triumphantly.

  Chet, apparently wishing to impress his audience, yanked the rope as he had seen professionals do. With a toss of her head, the animal gave a loud, frightened bellow, then started to run.

  Chet had been gazing at Frank and Joe hoping to elicit a word of praise, and was not watching the cow. Suddenly, with a jerk, she pulled him from the horse.

  With a thud, somewhat cushioned by his ample weight, the boy landed in a clump of grass. The Hardys roared with laughter.

  “Do it again,” Joe teased.

  He leaned over to help Chet to his feet. As he did so, the cow, tired of the whole annoyance, butted Joe squarely in the rear.

  “Oomph!” he grunted as he sprawled in the pasture. The annoyed cow ambled away. Chet enjoyed a few good horselaughs.


  “A fine bunch of cowboys you are!” Frank bellowed.

  Joe got up and brushed himself off, then looked over at Chet. “Be thankful that wasn’t a bull,” he said ruefully.

  The conversation turned to the boys’ latest news. Frank explained the reason for their trip.

  “Be ready to fly out West the minute we call you,” Joe told Chet. “Dad wants us to start as soon as we can get reservations.”

  Chet beamed. “Hey, that’s swell!”

  “And remember, old boy, there’s a weight limit on luggage,” Frank reminded him.

  Chet sighed heavily. “Why, my saddle and boots and duffel bag and—”

  “And you,” Joe teased, “all add up to about five hundred pounds!”

  “No fooling,” Frank said, “you can’t take all this stuff with you.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Chet agreed sadly.

  “Don’t worry.” Joe said. “I’m sure they’ll have gear for us out at the ranch.”

  “Boy,” Chet exclaimed, “I’d better try to earn some quick money for the trip ! I could have helped the farmer down the road build the foundation for his new barn. But there’s not time enough!”

  “Hop to it,” Joe said with a grin. “Do as much as you can.” Then he and Frank said good-by and drove off.

  Chet did not like to work. But he had no choice. With a sigh that could have been heard all the way to Bayport, he trudged down the road to carry stones for the farmer.

  He came home that evening exhausted from the rugged work. The next morning he rose early, put away a man-sized breakfast, and hurried back to his job.

  A big truck had dumped a huge pile of stones at the side of the road. It was Chet’s chore to haul them in a wheelbarrow to the site of the new foundation. About midday, as he was working alone and figuring on how soon he could get off for a lunchbreak, a strange man approached him.

  “Hi,” Chet called out, eager for an excuse to rest.

  “Looks like you’re workin’ mighty hard,” said the man. He had broad shoulders, a large nose, and bushy black eyebrows.

  “Sure am,” Chet agreed. “It’s tough work, especially when the sun’s so hot.”

  “Well,” the stranger replied, “a boy should help his father.”

  “I’m not doing this for my father,” Chet said, leaning against a fence post.