While the Clock Ticked

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Better come down and tell us about it, Mr. Black,” said the officer into the phone. Within half an hour a well-dressed, slight, middle-aged man was escorted by a patrolman into the chief’s office. Frank and Joe, meanwhile, had concealed themselves in an adjoining room.

  “Tell us about your car, Mr. Black,” the chief began. “Where do you keep it?”

  “Why … in my garage.”

  Frank and Joe noted that, while facing the chief, the man kept averting his eyes.

  “Mighty bold thief, to take your car from your garage,” Chief Collig remarked.

  “As a matter of fact, it was parked at the curb in front of the house.”

  “When? Last night?”

  “Yes—that’s it—last night.”

  “So, Mr. Black, your car was stolen sometime last night. Must have upset you!”

  “Yes,” the man stammered. “I—I’ve been a nervous wreck ever since I discovered it was gone—right after I got up this morning.”

  “Of course. What time do you get up?”

  “About seven.”

  “And you noticed the car was gone then?” pursued the chief. “It was ten-thirty when I called you, Mr. Black. You say you were upset about your car being stolen, yet you let three hours go by before reporting it to the police!”

  For a moment James Black blinked in silence, obviously disconcerted.

  “Here, you can’t browbeat me this way,” he blustered. “I—I just didn’t realize my car was actually stolen, that’s all. You act like you’re trying to accuse me of a crime!”

  “If you ask me, Mr. Black, you act like a man who’s been accused of a crime.”

  “Well, you haiven’t anything on me,” the stranger snapped suddenly. “I don’t have a record. You can’t hold me without charges.”

  “Charges?” said Collig politely. “I thought you came to make a complaint, Mr. Black. Now that you’ve made it, you may as well go.”

  As soon as the man had left, Frank and Joe stepped into the office.

  “That guy might be on the level,” declared Joe. “But he sure doesn’t give me that impression.”

  Chief Collig nodded agreement. “We’ll watch him,” he promised. “Best way to catch a crook is to make him believe you’ve decided he’s innocent.”

  When the brothers reached home, Aunt Gertrude was on the phone talking with Chet. “Here they come now,” she said. “But no sleuthing this afternoon. Our grass is high enough to turn a herd of cows into, and the flower beds are full of weeds. Frank and Joe aren’t going off this property until the place looks respectable again.”

  As Miss Hardy turned the phone over to Frank, she gave him a look which plainly meant, “No arguments!”

  For this reason dusk was falling before the two detectives were free to leave. As the street lights winked on, a ten-year-old car pulled up in front of the Hardys’ house. Flashlights in hand, Frank and Joe came down to join Chet Morton, who sat at the car’s wheel.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  “Tonight we try out the third key on the chain the jeweler gave us,” Frank replied as they drove off. “My guess is that it fits the front door in the Purdy homestead.”

  It was totally dark when the friends concealed Chet’s car a distance down Willow River Road, and walked to the Purdy grounds. They crept stealthily along the wall. Finding the gate unlocked, they slipped through it.

  The old mansion looked up, solid and dark, against a star-filled sky. The moon had not yet risen. Silently Frank tiptoed up the front steps and tried the key.

  “Doesn’t fit,” he whispered, rejoining the other boys. “Wish Dalrymple hadn’t forgotten the spare set of keys.”

  The three slipped around to the back door. But again the key would not fit.

  “Cellar door,” suggested Joe, feeling his way to the bulkhead nearby.

  Frank inserted the key. “It works!” he whispered excitedly. “The fellow must keep the front-door key separate.”

  Silently he and Joe raised the heavy doors. Frank pocketed the key, and the three cautiously went down the steps into the blackness below.

  The boys dared not use their flashlights, lest the beams be seen through the chinks in the flooring overhead. Frank and Joe led the way across the dank, musty cellar. Chet, shuddering a bit, followed as closely as possible. Suddenly the plump boy gave a choked cry and sprang sideways.

  Crash—clatter!

  Silence. At once the Hardys turned on their flashlights. In the circle of light was Chet, lying half underneath a jumble of wooden boxes.

  In a hoarse, terrified voice he gasped, “S-s-some-thing alive ran over m-my feet!” Frank looked about quickly. Then he pointed. “There it is—in the corner. A rat!”

  Even as he spoke, the creature scurried out of sight. Chet, a bit shaken, was hauled to his feet, and the three advanced toward a stairway.

  “Wait!” Frank commanded. “Someone’s upstairs!”

  There were the sound of voices and the creaking of floor boards above them.

  “The—thieves?” Chet gulped.

  Joe started up the steps. “Let’s find out!” he said grimly.

  The three boys found the door at the top of the stairs locked.

  “All right,” Frank whispered. “If we can’t get in, we’ll get them out. Make all the racket you can. We’ll nab whoever comes out.”

  Instantly the three boys pounded on the door, hammered the walls, shouted, and stamped on the steps. In a minute, above the pandemonium, came loud voices from inside.

  “Hey! What’s goin’ on? Cops! A raid! Beat it!” Heavy footsteps tore through the house.

  Still shouting, the three youths clattered down the steps and dashed across the cellar. As they emerged from the bulkhead, two black forms leaped from a window and made for the river.

  Two black forms leaped from a window and made for the river

  “Come on!” cried Joe. “We’ve got ‘em now!”

  Pell-mell the brothers raced into the woods and onto the path. Chet followed as best he could. At the river the Hardys found a big, empty motorboat floating on the dark surface.

  “The men are still around here,” said Frank tensely. “I—”

  He never finished the sentence. The brothers were grabbed from behind by powerful arms and knocked to the ground. Their flashlights flew from their hands. A moment later Frank and Joe were gagged and bound tightly. Then they were dragged off and tumbled into the boat.

  There was the sound of a man grunting. Then the motor whirred, caught, and roared.

  The boat moved out on the water. Joe and Frank saw the black, receding shore on their right, and realized they were heading upriver. The brothers hoped fervently that Chet had escaped. The outlines of their captors rose above the prostrate boys. Against the stars they saw that one was tall. The other, at the tiller, was broad and husky, with a huge jutting jaw.

  “The man who drove the limousine!” Joe told himself.

  “What’ll we do with ‘em?” muttered the tall man, crouching down.

  Frank and Joe waited with pounding hearts for a reply. It came.

  “Dump ‘em overboard!”

  CHAPTER XV

  The Vanishing Car

  TO FRANK and Joe, lying bound in an inch of water at the bottom of the boat, it seemed they had been speeding up the dark river for hours. The boys’ arms and fingers were numb where the coarse ropes bit into their flesh, cutting off circulation. The tall man sat guard over them on a middle seat. At long intervals he would argue with the tough, large-jawed man steering the boat.

  “We’d be crazy to dump these kids, Sid,” he muttered. “Kidnaping’s bad enough—it’s a Federal offense.”

  “Shut up, Benny. You’re yellow,” sneered his companion. “We’ll sink ‘em right along here somewhere. Get the sea anchor ready. That’ll do it.”

  A chill went through the Hardys. Joe’s head was jammed between the side of the boat and the middle seat. Frantically he rubbed his head against both, hopin
g to loosen his gag.

  “I tell ya I won’t have any part of it!” said Benny.

  “Don’t then. I’ll do it myself!”

  The muscular crook throttled down and stood up to move forward. Just as he did, Joe finally worked his gag loose.

  “Help!” he shouted. “Help! Quick!”

  As the two thieves advanced on the boy, powerful lights flashed on along shore. The full-throated roar of a big launch was heard. A siren wailed, and the motorboat was caught in the long beam of a spotlight.

  Instantly the heavily built man leaped back to the stern and jammed his throttle wide open. The boat raced into the darkness.

  “That won’t save you,” yelled Joe, fearful that the two desperate men might throw their captives overboard to slow up their pursuers. “The police have stations all along this river. You’re as good as caught.”

  In answer, the big-jawed driver slammed the tiller from side to side. The craft lunged crazily, trying to escape the search beam.

  “You’ll wreck us!” screamed the tall man in terror.

  “Yes—just like you two wrecked the Napoli in the bay,” cried Joe on a sudden hunch. “You don’t know this river any more than you knew the harbor. It’s night and you’re running without lights. The water’s deep here. You won’t get out of this wreck alive!”

  “He’s right—we haven’t a chance, Sid,” the tall man pleaded. “Stop her!”

  There was a quick warning burst of machinegun fire. Muttering, Sid killed his motor. A white glare bathed the whole boat. The heavy hull of the police launch drew alongside, and a stout figure jumped into the thieves’ craft.

  “Chet!” Joe cried joyously.

  “You’re here—and safe!” Chet cried out in relief. Quickly he freed his two chums, while their captors were handcuffed by two officers and taken aboard the launch.

  As the launch turned and headed for Bayport, the Hardys leaned back in relief. Frank said, “Good work, Chet. You and the police got here just in time!”

  “I saw those toughs jump you and start up-river,” the plump boy explained. “I ran like mad for the car and raced to the police substation up here. They radioed for a launch. Soon as it arrived, I got on. We started checking all boats and docks. Then we heard you yell, Joe.”

  “Lucky for us, partner,” Frank declared gratefully, rubbing his wrists.

  The police launch docked briefly at the up-river substation.

  “You boys pick up your car here,” said the commander of the boat. “We’ll meet you at Bayport headquarters with these two customers.”

  After a bracing cup of hot broth at the substation, Frank, Joe, and Chet left for Bayport in Chet’s car. At police headquarters they found Chief Collig and the officers with him thwarted by the thugs’ refusal to admit anything.

  “We don’t know nothin’ about any waterfront robberies,” Sid snarled. “You got evidence? You can’t touch us without evidence!”

  “We’ll charge you with kidnaping!” snapped Chief Collig. “That’ll do for a start.”

  The man called Benny looked uncertain, but his accomplice taunted, “Yeah? That won’t tell you what you want to know.”

  At this point Frank spoke up. “Chief, I have a strong hunch there’s evidence at the Purdy place. Let Chet, Joe, and me get it!”

  “Good idea,” agreed the chief. “Tomlin, take a prowl car and go with them.”

  For the second time that night the friends drove out to the old house. On this visit they rode up to the house, following Officer Tomlin, and let themselves in through the open window from which the thugs had escaped.

  Soon lights were blazing in every room of the old mansion as the three boys and the policeman went from room to room, searching.

  “Look here!” Chet yelled, as he pulled open the door of a corner cupboard in the dining room and revealed a number of cardboard cartons.

  Tomlin and the Hardys lifted them down and opened one. It proved to contain carefully wrapped pieces of solid silver imprinted with a foreign hallmark.

  “It’s part of the stolen loot, all right,” Tomlin pronounced. “But it wasn’t here the last time we searched.”

  Eagerly the four peered into the other boxes, and found an assortment of fine china, expensive jewelry, and a diamond ring and gold articles which matched the description of the crewman’s missing valuables.

  Joe frowned. “I don’t see Hurd Applegate’s collection or Captain Stroman’s jade necklace.”

  Again the searchers went to work. They examined the third floor, the attic, and the cellar, but found nothing more.

  “This is enough evidence to confront those two crooks with, anyhow,” said Tomlin finally. “They must’ve stowed the stuff here right after the chief’s search. I’ll run it in now.”

  “Right,” Frank agreed. “We’ll follow you as soon as we pick up our flashlights. We lost them on the riverbank.”

  They retrieved the two flashlights at the foot of the river path. The three boys passed the big house, now dark and silent once more, and walked down the driveway.

  “That place gives me the willies,” muttered Chet, as Frank closed the gate. “I still have the creepy feeling that somebody’s in there, watching everything that goes on.”

  They reached Chet’s car and piled in. While Chet was digging for his keys, the boys heard the roar of an approaching automobile. The vehicle raced toward them without lights, veered sharply, and sped up to the Purdy gate. The driver leaped out, yanked open the gate, jumped back into the car, and drove through.

  “After him!” urged Joe.

  In a moment Chet had his ancient motor running and his headlights on. He made a quick U-turn and sped in pursuit through the gate, up the driveway to the house, and around to the other side where the road apparently ended.

  Quickly the boys jumped out. Before them was the dense brush which covered most of the estate. Saplings, heavily draped with leafy vines, rose up like a wall in the glare of the headlights.

  Frank got down and examined the ground. “Tire tracks leading straight into the brush,” he reported, puzzled.

  Joe impulsively stepped up to the leafy wall. He grasped a hanging vine and pulled hard. The whole green tangle slid along a tree branch, like a drapery!

  “A hidden road!” declared Chet in wonder.

  He turned out the lights of his car. Then, cautiously, the three set out on foot along the mysterious road.

  At intervals they could make out bits of sky through the leaves overhead. They halted abruptly when something black and solid loomed up ahead of them. After listening carefully and hearing nothing, Frank risked the use of his flashlight.

  In its beam they saw a small tumble-down barn with a gaping doorway. Frank stooped to examine the ground. Tire tracks led straight to the dilapidated building!

  Joe flicked on his flashlight and the three boys stepped warily inside the barn. The front of the old structure was empty to the roof, but in the far half of the barn was an old haymow.

  The front beam supporting the loft was sagging, and the dusty hay, closely matted together, spilled forward over it like a stationary waterfall. The cascade of hay formed a curtain reaching almost to the floor of the barn.

  “Boy!” said Chet. “Bet that hay’s been here since Jason Purdy died.”

  “Then why is this pitchfork so new?” Joe pointed to a tool nearby with three slender steel tines, and a clean-grained wooden handle.

  “And where’s that car?” asked Frank.

  He had a sudden inspiration. Frank pushed his arms through the hanging of old hay. His knuckles rapped wood. Tearing the hay aside, the boy laid bare a broad sheet of plywood with a handle.

  Eagerly Frank grasped the handle. A door rolled smoothly open.

  Joe and Chet gasped. There, in a secret garage underneath the hayloft, was the back end of a late-model Meteor Special!

  Frank already had penetrated to the other end of the garage. “Motor’s still hot,” he called back. “She must have just been dr
iven in.”

  Chet and Joe rushed over. “I get it,” said Joe. “After the car’s in, they pull down some more hay from the loft to hide the plywood. That’s what the pitchfork is for.”

  “Sh!” Chet put a warning finger to his lips. “Hear something? A kind of moaning?”

  Frank played his light around the garage. Nothing. He shone the flash into the back seat of the Meteor Special.

  “Good night!” he exclaimed, staring.

  On the floor of the car a man lay bound and gagged.

  CHAPTER XVI

  A Missing Client

  CHET gulped. “S-somebody got him, too!” While he and Joe held the flashlights, Frank reached into the car and cut the groaning man’s bonds. Slowly and painfully he clambered out, smoothing his rumpled clothes.

  “Say!” Joe cried. “We’ve seen you before!”

  He was the young man in the striped blue jacket they had encountered while chasing the eavesdropper. At this moment, instead of being grateful for the rescue, the man glared angrily. He pulled out a handkerchief to mop his glistening forehead. As he did, something fell to the ground.

  Joe recognized the object instantly and scooped it up. “A false beard!”

  “You were the one listening under Hurd Applegate’s window!” Frank accused the stranger. “Okay. Now spill it! Why the disguise—what’s your game?”

  The Hardys gripped the man’s arms. His angry manner changed to one of sullen defeat. “All right, all right. Let go of me,” he muttered. “So I was the eavesdropper. A fat lot of good it did me! Even this jacket didn’t help except once.” He pulled open the jacket. “See? Tan on the inside. When you guys came after me I just reversed it and took off my beard.”

  “And sent us on a false trail,” Joe scowled. “Keep talking!”

  “I’m a private detective—at least, I thought I was. After this, I feel like giving up the business!”