Mystery of the Samurai Sword

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1 - Mysterious Flashes

  Chapter 2 - Telltale Splashes

  Chapter 3 - The Face at the Window

  Chapter 4 - A Trio of Suspects

  Chapter 5 - A Breakneck Race

  Chapter 6 - Flat-Out Finish

  Chapter 7 - Cat Burglars

  Chapter 8 - Invisible Men

  Chapter 9 - Lurking Shadows

  Chapter 10 - Trouble in Tokyo

  Chapter 11 - A Crooked Offer

  Chapter 12 - A Meeting at Midnight

  Chapter 13 - Masked Riders

  Chapter 14 - A Siren Shrieks!

  Chapter 15 - Police Tip

  Chapter 16 - A Startling Challenger

  Chapter 17 - Jungle Nightmare

  Chapter 18 - Gang Wheels

  Chapter 19 - The Fearless Three

  Chapter 20 - Black Commandos

  SHORTLY after his arrival in the United States, a Japanese business tycoon mysteriously disappears. Mr. Hardy, who had been entrusted with the man’s security, is baffled and shocked. He feels even worse when the FBI takes him off the case.

  However, his sons, Frank and Joe, are there to investigate. A valuable samurai sword, said to have belonged to the missing tycoon’s family for generations, is stolen from an auction gallery in New York, and the boys suspect a connection. One clue leads to another, and danger confronts them constantly on their search for the solution to the puzzle.

  Who are their enemies? Did the criminals kidnap the missing businessman, or did he hide of his own volition? What is the secret of the stolen samurai sword?

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  Copyright © 1979 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 : 978-1-101-07669-9

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  1

  Mysterious Flashes

  Gusty sheets of rain swept the Bayport airfield. The moon had disappeared behind a heavy overcast sky, but the glare of floodlights lit the airport with almost daytime brilliance.

  A little knot of people, huddling beneath umbrellas, watched eagerly as a small jet plane swooped out of the darkness and braked to a screaming halt between the twin rows of landing lights.

  “Just a few seconds till ten o‘clock,” announced dark-haired, eighteen-year-old Frank Hardy with a glance at his wristwatch. “Mr. Satoya’s right on the button!”

  “Hey, what’s going on over there?” muttered his blond brother, Joe, who was a year younger.

  Through the rain-washed glass front of the airport terminal wing, a bearded man could be seen gesticulating wildly. He was waving a long, sheathed sword over his head.

  “Looks like a Japanese samurai sword,” said Frank.

  “Sure does! But what’s wrong with the guy?” Joe wondered aloud. “Is he doing a war dance or just trying to attract our attention?”

  Before Frank could reply, a policeman appeared and hustled the man away despite his protests.

  Meanwhile, an unloading ramp had been wheeled up to the executive jet, which bore the famous red-and-white emblem of the Satoya Corporation—a samurai sword curving beneath the rising sun.

  “Have you ever seen Mr. Satoya before, Dad?” Frank asked his father, who stood next to the boys.

  Fenton Hardy shook his head. “No. Very few people have in recent years. He runs a worldwide business, but has become almost a hermit. In fact he has seldom been photographed.”

  “Sounds like quite a mystery man!”

  “You could call him that, I suppose. Actually that’s what a good many reporters and magazine writers do call him—just because he’s so hard to see or interview.”

  “Who do you suppose leaked news of his trip to the press?” put in Joe.

  “Good question,” his father replied grimly. “I intend to find out the answer. His company wanted this visit to America kept top secret, and we’ve done everything possible to maintain tight security at this end.”

  The tall, distinguished-looking detective, formerly an ace investigator with the New York Police Department, had been hired to protect the Japanese tycoon from assassins or terrorists during his stay in the United States. But despite Mr. Hardy’s efforts to ensure secrecy, a number of reporters had shown up at the airport to witness Satoya’s arrival. Luckily the police were keeping them at a distance.

  Two men were allowed through the barrier and joined Mr. Hardy and his sons. One was the detective’s longtime operative, Sam Radley, the other a burly six-foot Japanese named Kawanishi. He was a Satoya executive, who had flown to the United States with a colleague a few days earlier to arrange details of the trip.

  Just then an erect, gray-haired man with a wispy mustache emerged from the plane.

  “Ah! That is my revered employer, Mr. Takashi Satoya,” Kawanishi said. After greeting the tycoon in Japanese, he introduced him to the Hardys and Sam Radley.

  A younger man had followed Satoya down the ramp. He turned out to be another executive of the firm, but of lower rank than Kawanishi. His name was Ikeda. He was slim and strongly built, and his black hair was cut very short.

  “I suggest we get underway as soon as your car is unloaded, sir,” Mr. Hardy said to Satoya.

  The tycoon nodded courteously. “Whatever you say, Mr. Hardy. Our security is in your hands from this point on”.

  A cargo hatch had already been opened in the executive jet, and a sleek black limousine was driven out of the plane’s interior and down a ramp onto the airfield. It was bigger and longer than most Japanese cars. Joe whistled admiringly as a granite-faced chauffeur drove it smoothly toward the group. “Some job!”

  “You can say that again,” Frank agreed. “Must have been specially built.”

  Mr. Satoya and his junior aide, Ikeda, took their places in the back seat of the limousine. Sam Radley was allowed, rather grudgingly it seemed, to sit in front beside the chauffeur.

  The burly senior aide, Kawanishi, was to ride in Mr. Hardy’s car behind the limousine, while a state policeman of the highway patrol would clear the way on a motorcycle at the head of the procession.

  Frank and Joe, also mounted on motorcycles, had been assigned to act as outriders.

  “Keep a sharp eye open for trouble anywhere along the route into town,” the detective told his sons before taking the wheel of his car.

  “Will do, Dad!” Joe replied.

  “I’m glad we wore our raingear,” Frank murmured as the two boys started toward their road bikes.

  “We’ll probably get soaked anyhow,” said Joe. “One good thing, though—this rain should cut down the traffic quite a bit.”

  At a radio signal from Fenton Hardy, the little motorcade got underway, tooling along the exit road that led out of the airport. Once on the open highway, the vehicles picked up speed. The motorcade rolled along smoothly for several miles. But as the expressway wound through a hilly stretch, the state policeman waved his hand in a sudden warning signal.

  Frank and Joe heard his voice come over their CB radios: “Looks like a little tie-up!”

  Two or three cars had slowed to a halt just ahead.
The policeman steered his motorcycle past them to find the reason for the delay. Frank and Joe followed suit. They braked as they saw a tree lying across the road.

  “The storm must have blown it down off the hillside,” Frank opined.

  “What’s the trouble, fellows?” Fenton Hardy’s voice crackled on the radio.

  “Tree down. Nothing serious, Dad,” Joe replied. “We’ll be moving again soon.”

  Dismounting, the Hardys lent the policeman a hand in clearing the obstruction. The windfallen tree was little more than a sapling, but somewhat awkward for one man to handle.

  As soon as it was out of the way, the cars began to roll again. Frank and Joe were about to climb back on their motorcycles when a brilliant light flashed from the hillside on the right.

  “What was that?” Joe exclaimed.

  Two more dazzling flashes exploded in quick succession.

  “Must be a photographer!” Frank guessed.

  “You’re right!” Joe blurted. “Snapping pictures of Mr. Satoya, I’ll bet!”

  As their vision recovered from the flashes, they saw a figure burst from cover and sprint up the muddy hillside in the darkness. The Hardys wanted to leave their bikes and take off in angry pursuit but horns began to honk impatiently as more and more cars lined up behind them.

  “No law against taking pictures,” said the state policeman philosophically.

  “Guess you’re right,” Frank agreed with a disgusted look. “Too bad we can’t prove he planted that roadblock.”

  The Hardys and the policeman gunned their cycles into action again, and the motorcade resumed its swift journey into Bayport.

  They passed through the outskirts and soon reached the downtown area. The rain had subsided, and the wet pavement glistened under the street lights.

  As they neared the Bayport Chilton Hotel, Joe saw a short, thickset, broad-shouldered Japanese come out and stand beside the doorman to watch the approaching motorcade. He was Mr. Oyama, who had flown to the USA with Mr. Kawanishi to prepare for their employer’s visit.

  Oyama was wearing a radio headset and had a small transceiver tucked in his breast pocket. Joe guessed that Satoya’s chauffeur must have transmitted word of their arrival.

  The sleek black limousine drew up directly in front of the hotel entrance canopy. Mr. Hardy’s car stopped behind it, while his two sons and the highway patrolman found parking places for their motorcycles along the curb.

  The chauffeur was the first to leap out. Sam Radley, Fenton Hardy and Mr. Kawanishi followed suit, while a little knot of onlookers gathered to goggle at the VIP in the limousine. Waving the doorman away, the chauffeur moved swiftly to open the back door of the car. He stood stiffly at attention, waiting for his master to get out. But Satoya did not emerge from the limousine!

  Fenton Hardy and Mr. Kawanishi reacted simultaneously, guessing that something was wrong. They almost bumped heads as they bent forward to peer into the car’s rear passenger compartment.

  “What’s the matter, Dad?” Frank exclaimed, noticing his father’s startled expression.

  A moment later, as the Hardy boys pressed closer, they could see for themselves the reason for the men’s dismay.

  The young executive named Ikeda lay slumped unconscious in the back seat of the limousine, and Mr. Satoya had disappeared!

  2

  Telltale Splashes

  The news spread like wildfire among the bystanders. They pressed closer, exclaiming excitedly.

  “What about Mr. Ikeda, Dad?” Joe asked.

  “Looks like he’s been drugged,” said Mr. Hardy after thumbing back the victim’s eyelids to examine his pupils. “Go get the hotel doctor, Joe—this man may need attention.”

  The medic quickly arrived on the scene. He confirmed Mr. Hardy’s opinion, but stated that Ikeda would probably sleep off the anesthetic without any ill effects.

  Seeing the unconscious Japanese being carried into the hotel stirred fresh excitement among the sidewalk crowd. Luckily the highway patrolman was able to hold them back.

  “You’ve no idea what happened, Sam?” Fenton Hardy asked his operative.

  “Not a clue,” Radley confessed, looking chagrined and mystified. “The dark partition between the front and back seats is a one-way glass pane. When you’re sitting in front, you can’t see into the rear passenger compartment at all.”

  The driver, he explained, relied on a wide-angle roof periscope for his view of the road behind instead of a rearview mirror.

  “Could Mr. Satoya have jumped out when we stopped on the highway to remove that tree?” Frank inquired.

  Mr. Hardy frowned. “Seems to be the only possible answer, but my car was right behind the limousine. I can’t believe he got out without either Mr. Kawanishi or myself spotting him.”

  The burly Japanese agreed and added, “Unfortunately the chauffeur, Shigemi, doesn’t speak much English. But I questioned him while the doctor was examining Ikeda, and he can shed no light on the mystery.”

  Frank glanced at the stony-faced driver and wondered if he knew more than he was telling. But his impassive expression gave no hint of whatever thoughts might be passing through his head.

  “Think you would have noticed if the back door had been opened on either side?” Joe asked Sam Radley.

  The private eye hesitated before nodding unhappily. “Yes, I do. But it’s hard to be sure.”

  Mr. Oyama, the other senior aide, exchanged a few words in Japanese with the chauffeur and then turned back to the Americans.

  “A red light on the dashboard flashes if either back door is opened, or even if one becomes unlatched,” he pointed out. “Shigemi is quite certain no such thing happened.”

  “That’s assuming the flasher works,” Mr. Hardy countered shrewdly. “Better have him check it to make sure.

  Oyama transmitted the order in Japanese. The chauffeur touched his cap in a silent salute, then closed the car doors and climbed back behind the wheel. He drove the limousine past the hotel, then turned down a ramp which led to an underground parking garage.

  By now reporters and television news crews, who had been unable to interview Mr. Satoya at the airport, were arriving at the hotel. They crowded around the detectives and the two Japanese aides, bombarding them with questions and adding to the noisy confusion.

  “What do you make of it, Frank?” Joe asked.

  “I have no idea,” Frank said, “but this sure puts Dad on the spot!”

  “I’ll say it does,” Joe agreed as they made their way into the hotel lobby. “The Satoya Corporation hires him to protect the head of their company—and now Satoya disappears less than an hour after he lands ! Boy, that’ll really look bad in the news stories wh—”

  Frank flashed his brother a quizzical glance as the younger Hardy boy suddenly broke off. “What’s the matter, Joe?”

  “Over there by the reception desk, ” Joe pointed. “It’s that nut we saw at the airport, waving a sword!”

  “Hey, you’re right! Now’s our chance to find out what he wanted!”

  The bearded man had just peeled off his tan raincoat. He was folding it and laying it on top of his suitcases while he waited to check in behind two other newly arrived guests. As he straightened up, he saw the Hardys striding toward him, and his face took on an embarrassed, furtive expression.

  “We’re Frank and Joe Hardy, two of Mr. Satoya’s escorts,” the older boy said. “Would you mind telling us why you were waving that sword at the airport?”

  The man’s face reddened and his prominent nose seemed to twitch nervously like a rabbit’s. He had a wild mop of curly hair, the same sandy color as his whiskers, which somehow added to his look of comic confusion.

  “Well, uh, actually it was just a spur of the moment advertising tactic, you might say.” The man chuckled, then gulped. “I was hoping I might make a lucky sale.”

  “A lucky sale?” Joe regarded him with a puzzled frown. “A sale of what?”

  “The samurai sword you saw. It’
s a katana, or long sword, of excellent workmanship, dating from the early eighteenth century. I thought if I could catch Satoya’s eye, he might be interested enough to buy it.”

  The man bent down and opened the larger of his two suitcases so the boys could look inside. To their astonishment, they saw that it contained a number of sheathed swords and daggers. “That’s my business—selling Oriental art objects—but as you see, I specialize in fine blades.”

  Snapping his suitcase shut again, the man plucked a card from his wallet and handed it to the Hardys. It bore the name Axel Gorky with a phone number and cable address in Boston.

  Joe said, “How did you know Mr. Satoya was coming to Bayport?”

  “But I didn‘t,” Gorky replied, looking surprised at the question. “Had I known, I would have written beforehand to ask for a proper appointment! I myself just arrived in Bayport this evening, a short time before he did. When I saw the TV camera crews, I asked what was going on. Someone told me this famous Japanese industrialist was about to land—so I seized my chance.”

  Gorky’s face went pink again. “Perhaps I did make a fool of myself, waving the sword as I did—but then one has to catch the customer’s attention in order to make a sale.”

  “Any objection to telling us your business here in Bayport?” Frank asked stolidly.

  “Of course not. I came to call on several customers—including the dancer Warlord. As you probably know, he uses various knives and swords in some of his dance numbers.”

  Just then the two guests in front of him finished registering at the hotel desk. Gorky excused himself and moved up to sign for a room. He looked relieved at the chance to get away from the Hardys.

  “Think he was leveling with us?” Joe muttered as the boys started back across the lobby.

  Frank grinned dryly. “His story’s so nutty I’m inclined to buy it. Anyhow, he’s checking in at the Chilton, so we’ll know where to find him if we want to ask him more questions.”

  Just then they saw their father and Mr. Kawanishi come into the hotel, accompanied by Chief Collig, head of the Bayport police force. Newsmen swarmed in after them, trying to snap pictures and pick up additional morsels of information for the next morning’s headline stories on the Japanese tycoon’s sensational disappearance.