The day was pleasant and traffic was light at that early hour. The car hummed along, with the camper gliding behind. Frank followed Shore Road for several miles until it joined a superhighway leading west. The speed limit was higher, so Frank accelerated.
The boys were about fifty miles from Bayport when they heard the wailing of a siren.
“You’ve got a heavy foot,” Biff said to Frank. “Must have gone over the speed limit.”
Chet moaned. “Here’s trouble even before we get started!”
A trooper moved alongside and motioned Frank to pull over to the shoulder. Frank complied, then stepped out of the car. The officer, who had parked up ahead, strode up to him.
“What’s the trouble, sir?” Frank asked.
“Let’s see your license and registration.”
Frank pulled out the papers. The trooper studied them, then eyed the camper. “Do you own this?” he asked Frank.
“No. Our friend Chet Morton does.”
“Where is he?”
“Right here, Officer,” Chet said, getting out. The dog yelped as Chet stepped on his foot in the process.
“We weren’t speeding, were we?” Frank inquired.
“No.”
“But then why—?”
“It’s the trailer I’m interested in. I’ll have to take you back to Bayport.”
“You must be kidding!” Joe exclaimed. “What’s the charge?”
“Possession of stolen property.”
“Stolen property!” Chet exclaimed. “But I paid cash for this!”
“Tell that to the police captain.” The trooper gave Chet a suspicious look, then ordered Frank to turn about and follow him.
For several miles they traveled in glum silence. Finally Frank said, “I thought you got the camper pretty cheap, Chet.”
There was no reply. Chet was crushed by the thought of losing his bank account and of being involved in a shady deal.
Biff tried to be helpful. “I don’t think they can arrest you, Chet. You were an innocent victim.”
Finally Chet spoke. “Am I stupid!” he muttered, then sat silent again.
The trooper pulled into the State Police barracks on the outskirts of Bayport. Chet was interrogated by the captain in charge.
When the boy had finished his story, a man was called in from an adjoining room. He was introduced as George Browning, owner of the Bayport Sports Equipment Company. The Hardys had heard of him. Mr. Browning identified the trailer tent as the one he had sold to a man who had given his name as Cyrus Kogan.
Chet perked up immediately. “That’s the man I got it from. Isn’t that perfectly legal?”
“Kogan bought the goods with a fake credit card,” Browning replied. “One of those counterfeit Magnacards!”
The Hardys were thunderstruck. A fake Magnacard operator in Bayport! Frank pulled out his wallet and showed the photo clue to Chet and the merchant.
Both identified the man as Kogan!
Biff said, “This crook’s been under your nose right in town, fellows!”
The camper was left at the police barracks. Mr. Browning refused to press any charges against Chet, and even offered to sell him the camper at a reduced price because it was now considered a used one.
When the boys returned home, the elder Hardys were shocked and dismayed to learn of the discouraging turn of events. They all consoled Chet, and much to the relief of Frank and Joe, Aunt Gertrude did not say “I told you so.” Instead, she offered to bake him any kind of pie he desired.
“Humble pie,” Chet said, downcast.
“Now you just erase that long face, Chester,” Aunt Gertrude said. “You’ll have a deep-dish apple pie tomorrow!”
That afternoon the Hardy boys and their father went to Bayport Police Headquarters to have a conference with Chief Collig. He was a ruddy-faced man, who cooperated fully with the detective and his sons whenever they were working on a case.
“I was sorry to lower the boom on Chet,” he said, “but it was my duty to notify the State Police of any trailer tents I saw around Bayport.”
The chief explained that he had warned merchants to beware of the fake Cyrus Kogan. “However,” Collig added, “I think he’s skipped town by now.”
Mr. Hardy spoke up. “Bayport’s a pretty big place with many shops, Chief. I think the guy might hang around to swindle another dealer or two. His success at Browning’s may feed his ego.”
The boys agreed with their father and laid a plan to catch the criminal. That evening they called their friends together. Chet and Biff came over, along with Tony Prito and Phil Cohen. Tony was a handsome boy with an olive complexion. Phil was a slight youth and an A-student in Bayport High.
When they had all gathered in the living room, Frank outlined the plan. They would stake out the stores in Bayport where expensive merchandise was sold.
“We’ll watch fur shops, fancy jewelers, and the like,” Frank said. He showed the boys the picture of Kogan, and Chet added whatever description he could. “The guy’s as smooth as maple syrup,” he concluded.
The stakeout the next day produced nothing but tired feet and boredom as the weary boys watched in vain.
On the second day, while Frank and Joe were home for lunch, Phil Cohen phoned, his voice edged with excitement.
“What’s up, Phil?” Joe asked.
“I saw him, Joe!”
“Where?”
“He went into the Corner Antique Shop.”
“Okay. Keep an eye on him. Frank and I will be right over.”
Joe flipped his napkin on the table, grabbed the car keys, and ran out. Frank followed.
“I hope we get him!” Frank said, sliding into the seat next to the driver. “But it means the end of our camping trip!”
“Don’t be too sure about that,” Joe said. “He’s not the only Magnacard swindler. And he might not talk!”
Minutes later Joe parked at a prudent distance from the shop, located near a residential area north of town.
The shop was housed in a rustic cottage which lent an aura of antiquity to the establishment. There was only one car in sight, parked halfway down the block. As they approached the shop, Frank and Joe saw Phil flattened against the wall next to the front door. He motioned them to be silent.
The Hardys slithered up beside Phil and listened. Frank put one eye to the edge of an open window. The customer, whom Frank identified immediately as their man, was examining an antique rifle.
“This one is rather expensive,” the shopkeeper said. “It’s extremely rare!”
“Rare guns are my hobby,” the customer replied. With that Kogan pulled out his wallet and produced a credit card.
“Ah, a Magnacard,” the shopkeeper said, smiling.
“Oh nuts!” Frank thought. “This dealer hasn’t been warned.” To his brother and Phil he said, “Come on.”
They walked in quietly but the man heard them. As he wheeled around, the Hardys made a dive for him. But Kogan was agile. He swung the rifle, hitting both boys across the chest.
Frank and Joe cried out in pain and fell to the floor.
CHAPTER III
Farewell Party
TERRIFIED, the shopkeeper ducked down behind the counter. The man, still carrying the gun, dashed past Phil, jabbed the boy with the muzzle and knocked him off balance. Then he raced outside, sprinted halfway down the block, and jumped into the car which the boys had noticed before. Seconds later he roared off.
The Hardys were stunned by the painful wallop, but they recovered quickly. Joe dashed to the phone to call the police, while Frank ran outside with Phil. Although too late to stop the swindler, they got the license number of the getaway car.
The shopkeeper, meanwhile, was bemoaning the loss of the antique rifle. “You’d think if he’s rich enough to have a Magnacard, he’d pay for the merchandise!” he said.
Joe told him that the credit card was probably a fake and briefly explained about the counterfeit operation.
“I won’t
accept any more of those Magnacards,” the man said as Frank scoured the shop for possible clues.
“Look at this!” Frank exclaimed. He bent down to pick up a loafer-type shoe which apparently had fallen off as the fugitive ran out. The quality of the leather and the workmanship were superb. The label read: Mountain Dogies.
“Evidently our crook buys nothing but the best,” Joe remarked.
“Did you ever hear of this brand?” Phil asked.
“No, but we can check it out,” Frank replied.
Two policemen arrived a few minutes later. The boys reported all they knew, then followed the officers back to headquarters where they talked with Chief Collig.
The swindler’s license number was quickly checked out. It proved to be that of a car stolen the day before from a Bayport parking lot.
“And here’s the shoe the fellow lost,” Frank said. “There might be fingerprints on the shiny part of the leather, Chief.”
The department’s fingerprint expert was called. He lifted several prints, and Collig dispatched them immediately to the FBI via wirephoto. The Hardys thanked Phil for his good detective work, then went home to take hot baths to relieve their bruised ribs.
Early the next morning Collig phoned. “We know the identity of that swindler,” he told Frank. “Thanks to the fingerprints on his shoe.”
“Who is he, Chief?”
“Archibald Lasher. His nickname is Whip.”
Collig ticked off Whip Lasher’s record. “It includes several bunco raps, mail fraud, and automobile thefts.”
“But here’s something interesting in his profile,” the chief went on. “He’s a great outdoors-man—very fond of camping. And he’s a practical joker.”
“Could you send us a copy of his dossier?” Frank asked. The chief promised he would and hung up.
“Well, Dad,” Frank said, after relaying Collig’s information to his father and Joe, “what do you think Lasher will do next?”
“My guess is that he’ll lie low for a while.”
“Do you still want us to go west?” asked Joe.
“Certainly. Lasher is only one of the gang. Besides, I wouldn’t be surprised if he headed west right away.”
Then the detective proposed lending the boys money to put a down payment on Chet’s ill-fated camper.
“That would be great, Dad!” Joe said, and immediately phoned the good news to Chet and Biff.
Next day Frank, Joe, and Chet made arrangements with Mr. Browning to purchase the trailer tent. The dealer cut the price drastically and allowed plenty of time to complete payment.
Before returning home, the Hardys went to police headquarters and talked to Collig. He told the boys that Mountain Dogies shoes were sold exclusively in the huge Mountain Dogie sporting goods store in Denver.
“All clues point west,” Frank mused. “Could we have the inner sole of that shoe, Chief?”
“I don’t see why not,” Collig replied. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Give Lasher a hot-foot!” Frank joked.
The chief had one of his men cut out the inner sole and handed it to Frank.
“Hope it helps,” Collig said. “When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Incidentally,” Collig said, “we found the getaway car abandoned. I don’t think we’ll see Whip Lasher around here any more, not after that close escape yesterday.”
“Good,” Joe said. “Then we can have a farewell party in peace!”
That evening the four travelers along with Tony and Phil gathered at the Hardy home. All the boys brought dates. Joe played the guitar while his friends sang and danced. There was plenty of good food, topped off by Aunt Gertrude’s pies.
“One thing you must take with you is your guitar,” Callie Shaw told Joe.
“Out on the prairie,” Iola said laughingly, “you can sing sad songs and dream of us, pining for you at home.”
“Not on your life,” Biff remarked. “We’ll be busy tracking down the crooks.”
“That’s why we’re bringing Sherlock along,” Frank said. “Once he picks up Whip Lasher’s trail there’ll be no stopping him!”
Mrs. Hardy looked in on the young people to see if their food supply was ample.
“Joe tells me you’re having a birthday soon, Mrs. Hardy,” Callie called out.
“Oh, no one was supposed to know about that!” Laura Hardy replied shyly. “But Frank and Joe never forget the day.”
“What would you like for a present, Mother? Maybe we can buy it on our trip,” Frank said.
“I always wanted a sapphire birthstone from the West,” Mrs. Hardy replied. She said that her great-grandfather had been a pioneer in the Rockies. Just then the front doorbell rang and Phil quipped, “Maybe the neighbors called the police to put a lid on the noise.”
The man standing at the door was dressed in a messenger’s uniform. He quickly handed an envelope to Mrs. Hardy, then hurried off.
“Fenton!” she called out. “It’s for you!”
The detective came downstairs, took the envelope, and opened it. Inside was a Magnacard made out in his name.
Chet chuckled. “Now you can take your wife on an around-the-world trip—on the cuff, Mr. Hardy.”
“Didn’t you say Whip Lasher is a practical joker?” Mr. Hardy asked Frank.
“Chief Collig did,” Frank replied.
“Well, I think this is one of Lasher’s tricks. No doubt this card is a counterfeit.”
As the party broke up, the young people thanked Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude for helping to make it such an enjoyable evening.
Before setting out the next morning the campers checked to be sure they had packed everything. Their equipment included a collapsible rubber boat, a small outboard motor, campers’ guidebooks and maps and their two-way radio.
Tony and Phil came to say good-by, and with much horn-tooting the four started off for the second time. Sherlock sensed the excitement, and yapped a couple of times as the car and trailer turned the corner and disappeared from sight.
Frank stayed at the wheel for three hours, then changed places with Joe. Bayport lay far behind and the road stretched ahead like an undulating ribbon.
Biff played his harmonica for a while, but quit when Sherlock started to howl.
“You’re hurting his ears,” Chet said, “and mine, too!”
“Okay,” Biff said. “Joe and I will give you a concert tonight.”
The car was climbing a long hill when Joe decided to pull out and pass a slow-moving truck. Coming in the opposite direction was another vehicle. But it was far enough away to give Joe time to pass. He stepped on the gas, but did not get as much speed as he expected.
“Oh man! I forgot about our trailer,” Joe said. “It’s heavier than I thought.”
The Hardys’ convertible was nearly parallel to the truck’s cab. The oncoming vehicle loomed larger by the second. Joe was in a dilemma. Should he press forward or fall back? Either way was risky. In the back seat Biff and Chet froze. Frank offered no advice, Joe would have to make the decision himself.
He floored the accelerator, the car crawled past the truck, then he cut sharply to the right. The truck driver put on his brakes and the other car zipped past with only inches to spare.
Looking back Chet saw that the camper, tilted on one wheel, had barely cleared the truck’s front bumper.
Everybody exhaled in relief at the same time. No one spoke for a few minutes. Then Joe remarked sheepishly, “From now on I won’t forget we’re towing a trailer.”
To ease the tension, Biff pulled out his harmonica again and played for a few minutes until Sherlock howled for a halt.
The sun was low on the western horizon when Frank suggested they look for a place to camp. He studied one of the guidebooks. “There’s a place up the road about a hundred miles, but it sounds pretty fancy according to this. The rates are high,” he announced.
Biff said, “I’d like to camp out in the open—a spot li
ke that orchard up on the next hill.”
Chet, who was driving, slowed down and glanced at the extensive orchard which swept up over the brow of the hill and down the other side.
There were no houses in sight. A small dirt lane led from the road through a broken fence into the symmetrical stand of apple trees.
“Let’s spend the night here,” Frank said
As Chet pulled over to the shoulder of the highway, a car passed them, then slowed and stopped.
The man in the car appeared to be studying a map, then continued on. Chet drove up the lane and pulled their camper to a fairly level spot among the trees. Eagerly the boys jumped out of the car, and in ten minutes time the trailer tent was unhitched and set in place.
“Chet, you’re the great chef!” Joe remarked. “Get busy in the galley.”
“Right,” Biff said. “I’m hungry.”
“Chow will be ready in half an hour,” Chet declared with a grand gesture.
Biff went off with Sherlock, while Frank and Joe stretched out on the bunks until suppertime.
Soon the aroma of minute steaks filled the air and Chet called out, “Chow’s ready.” Meat and vegetables were the main course; fruit for dessert. The boys relished every mouthful. As soon as darkness fell they unzipped their sleeping bags and crawled into their bunks.
Sherlock walked round and round, seeking out a comfortable spot. He finally settled down at the foot of Chet’s sleeping bag.
All four boys dozed off quickly and slept soundly until the middle of the night when a mysterious thumping on the roof awakened them. Joe whispered, “Frank, do you hear that?”
The wind had risen and whistled through the trees. Again came the thump, thump.
Sherlock began to whimper, and Biff tried to quiet him.
Suddenly Chet let out a cry of terror!
CHAPTER IV
Four Flats
CHET’s bloodcurdling scream caused his friends to scramble out of their bunks. They fumbled for flashlights, and soon three bright beams illuminated Chet Morton. He was blinking sheepishly.
His heart still pounding, Joe asked, “Why—why did you scream, Chet?”
Danger on Vampire Trail Page 2