The Hardys were determined to follow their original case. Scant as clues had been, they had a hunch that Whip Lasher was not only following them for the purpose of harassment, but also was heading for a hideout in the Rockies.
Frank tossed the magazine into a trash can. The boys said good-by to the couples, and continued on their way. Biff was driving, with Joe next to him. Biff said, “I think the Terrible Trio will keep out of our sight from now on.”
“Right,” Joe said. “They’ll know we suspect them of releasing the brake.”
In the back seat Chet hooked his thumbs into his belt and heaved a sigh of relief. “If we never see them again, it’ll be too soon.”
Frank studied the map as they went over mountainous terrain. “Denver is not far away,” he said. “A couple of hundred miles or so.”
The sun hung red on the horizon and Biff flipped the driver’s visor down to cut the glare. Up ahead he could see a car hauling a shiny white cabin cruiser on a boat trailer.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” asked Joe.
Biff nodded and reduced his speed to follow behind the boat. The boys studied it in detail, comparing it with the one bought with the counterfeit credit card. It fitted the description perfectly.
“But let’s not jump to conclusions,” Frank warned Joe.
“We could stop him right away!” Joe said.
“Negative. If we make a citizen’s arrest and we’re wrong—”
“Frank’s right,” Biff put in. “If this fellow is going to camp overnight, how about buddying up?”
“Great idea,” Chet said. “Besides, I’m getting hungry.”
A half mile farther on a huge sign announced that a flood control and hydroelectric power reservoir lay ten miles ahead. Campers were welcome.
Frank consulted the map. “Wow! This place is twenty miles long and about five miles wide!”
“I’ll bet that’s where our friend’s going,” Biff said.
His guess proved correct. The next fork in the road had a sign: Turn left to Badland Reservoir. State boating laws in effect.
Frank dropped to a discreet distance behind the boat trailer. It headed directly to the shore of the lake and parked in the camping area.
The Hardys pulled up alongside and set up their camper. Frank had warned the others not to pay any attention to their neighbor but to busy themselves around their own trailer.
The plan worked well. Biff unlimbered his fishing rod and began casting it into the reservoir. Joe tinkered under the hood of the car, checking the oil, while Frank and Chet prepared supper. Finally the door of the other car opened. A man got out and warily watched the boys. He was in his middle thirties, stout, with receding black hair, a large nose, and small eyes. His shelving chin added to the general appearance of a sleek beaver.
He approached the steps of the camper, knocked, and when Frank came out, introduced himself as Edward K. Mungo.
“Pretty efficient layout you boys have here,” he said.
“We like it,” Frank replied.
“What’s your name?” the man asked.
“I’m Frank. The chef is Chet. The guy fishing is Biff. And the other one is Joe.”
Chet, meanwhile, continued his stint at the stove, cutting up three large onions into a skillet with melted butter.
Frank said, “Mr. Mungo likes the smell of our chow. What do you say we invite him to dinner?”
Chet nodded and the man said, “That’s very friendly of you. Thank you. I accept with pleasure.”
When the meal was over, Mungo said, “It’s a lucky thing you fellows parked near me. How would you like to help me launch my cruiser?”
“Glad to,” Frank said.
The hitch was uncoupled and the boys trundled the cruiser into the reservoir. Mungo started the motor, waved, and set out with a throaty purr of the engine.
Darkness was falling but not fast enough to conceal another boat coming up to meet the cruiser. Both craft stopped, with motors idling.
“I’d like to take a look at what’s going on out there,” Frank said.
“We’ve got our foldboat,” Biff remarked. “Let’s put it together.”
The two-seater collapsible boat was pulled out of the trunk of their car and quickly inflated. Frank and Joe got in and paddled silently across the dark waters.
They came as close as they dared to the two boats. The sounds of voices drifted over the lake, but the conversation was not clear enough to be understandable. Suddenly the conversation ceased. A powerful flashlight illuminated the area. Frank and Joe ducked and began to paddle back toward land. When they reached the shore, Biff and Chet were waiting.
“Quick, put the boat away,” Frank said.
He and Joe stood on the shore while the others deflated the boat and stowed it. They waited a long time but the cruiser did not reappear.
“He’ll have to come back some time,” Frank said. “Well, let’s hit the sack. We can check that guy out in the morning.”
The four slept soundly. At daybreak they rose, dressed, and stepped out onto the dewy grass to see whether the boat had returned.
“He came back all right,” Chet said, pointing to a cruiser drifting at anchor a few feet from shore. “Mungo’s probably sleeping aboard.”
“Why not blow the whistle on him right now, Frank?” Biff asked.
“Not so fast,” Frank replied. “Take a look at that boat again.”
The boys peered through the mist rising over the reservoir. Biff exclaimed, “It’s not the same one!”
“Correct,” Frank stated. “Mungo pulled a switch during the night!”
CHAPTER VIII
The Missing Cruiser
THEIR evidence against the Magnacard swindlers had vanished! The boat lying at anchor in the still waters of the reservoir was not the one they had trailed along the highway.
“What’ll we do now?” Chet asked.
“Play it cool,” Frank replied. “Mungo’s probably sleeping out there. If we act suspiciously, he might give us the slip.”
It was decided that he and Joe would take the rubber boat and scout the reservoir. If they had any important news for Chet and Biff, who were to keep an eye on Mungo, they would report it over their two-way radio.
Just then the boat they were watching rocked a little, sending a small ripple over the quiet surface.
“Let’s duck,” Joe suggested. “Mungo’s probably getting up.”
Frank carried the foam boat some distance down the shore, while Joe lugged the small motor. When they were safely out of Mungo’s earshot, they unlimbered the boat, attached the motor, and cruised along the shore, keeping a sharp lookout for the white craft.
The sun grew hot, dispelling the mist over the reservoir. Along the shore were more campers than the boys had imagined. Some were in trailers, while others emerged from bright striped tents and waded into the water for a morning swim.
Boats began to move across the lake. Some were small; others were as large as the white cruiser.
“We’ll be all day at this job,” Frank said, scanning the long shoreline. It stretched for miles ahead before curving around toward the low hills on the other side of the lake.
The Hardys pulled ashore several times to ask campers if they had seen the white cabin cruiser but no one had. At noon they approached land to quiz a number of boys and girls who were their own age. All ran down to the water’s edge to greet Frank and Joe as they beached their boat.
“Hi,” Frank said, stepping out. He introduced himself and his brother.
The young people proved to be high school students from Kansas City, who had driven west on vacation. Their chaperons, Mr. and Mrs. Rickle, gave the Hardys a warm welcome.
Joe spoke up. “Mrs. Rickle, do you mind answering some questions?”
“Not at all,” the woman replied.
One of the girls who had crowded around giggled. “Is this a Gallup poll or something?” she asked.
Joe grinned. “Nothing like tha
t,” he replied. “We’re looking for a cruiser.”
“What kind of cruiser?” Mr. Rickle inquired.
After Frank described it, Mr. Rickle remarked, “Pretty classy job.” He turned to the campers. “Have any of you seen one like it in this area?”
The group had been paddling around the reservoir for three days, but no one had seen a boat that fitted the Hardys’ description.
“Did you lose it?” Mrs. Rickle asked half-jokingly.
“Someone else did,” Frank said.
“It would be pretty hard to lose a thing like that,” one of the girls remarked. She had long flaxen hair and a quizzical smile.
“All right,” Joe said with an embarrassed grin. “It was stolen. We’re on the trail of it.”
“Are you sure it’s on this lake?” the girl went on.
“Don’t be so nosy, Barbie,” the woman said.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” Frank said. “We’re the curious type ourselves.”
The girl laughed and Frank said, “Well, thanks a lot. We’d better be moving along.”
Mr. Rickle glanced at his watch, then to a barbecue pit in front of one of the tents, where hot dogs were roasting on a grill.
“You can’t go without food,” he said.
“Well, we really—” Frank protested.
“Come to think of it,” Joe interrupted, looking at Barbie, “I’m hungry.”
“That settles it.” Mr. Rickle grinned. “Come and join us. If you don’t mind sitting on the ground, that is. We’re not fancy.”
The campers laughed and joked, their appetites whetted by the aroma of sizzling frankfurters. Barbie popped a chef’s hat on her head, speared the hot dogs with a long fork, laid them deftly on the rolls and sang out, “Come and get ’em while they’re hot!”
The Hardys ate two apiece, thanked their hosts, and said good-by.
“But you can’t go without some cake,” Barbie shrieked.
“Honestly,” Frank said, “I’m stuffed.”
The girl, however, would not take no for an answer. She wrapped two huge pieces of chocolate layer cake in aluminum foil, tucked them into a small paper bag, and handed it to Joe.
“Thanks,” Joe said. “You’ve been awfully kind to us.”
The Rickles waved as the rubber boat putted away.
Another dozen stops were made along the shore to question campers. Some had vague recollections of having seen the white cruiser. But nothing definite turned up. By now they were on the far side of the reservoir and the sun was low. A strong wind churned the water to whitecaps.
“We’d better get back,” said Joe, who was at the tiller. He turned the bow of the boat into the waves and started across the wide expanse of water, but made little progress against the wind.
“This outboard isn’t strong enough,” Frank said. “We’re getting nowhere fast.”
Joe turned about and skirted the shore, hoping the wind would die down. Instead, it increased in intensity.
“Looks as if we’re stuck for the night,” Frank said.
They decided to find a sheltered place where they might put up. Joe steered closer to the shore, scanning the hills which sloped directly to the water without any beach whatever.
“Hey, look up ahead,” Frank said, pointing.
There was a small cave at water level. Obviously the action of the waves had eroded soil and rocks in the embankment.
“We could duck in there for protection,” Joe said.
By bending their heads low, the rubber boat slid into the small pocket cave. The roof was high enough so they could sit upright.
“Good luck so far,” Frank said.
They waited for the wind to subside. After about an hour, the lake gradually grew calmer.
“What about Chet and Biff?” Joe asked. “They’re probably wondering where we are.”
“I’ll try to raise them on the radio,” Frank replied.
Their friends had been instructed to leave the waveband open in case of an emergency. Frank flicked on his set and called. Biff answered. “What are you doing? Where are you? When are you coming back?”
Frank told him about their predicament, then said, “What’s going on over there? Where’s Chet?”
“He’s keeping an eye on Mungo.”
“Then he hasn’t left yet?”
“No.” Biff added that Mungo had asked some pointed questions during the day about the Hardys’ boat trip.
“Did he see us leaving?” asked Frank.
“Right,” Biff said. “He had his binoculars trained on you all the time. Chet and I spied him just as you shoved off.”
“Then he’s not quite so friendly as he was?”
“You can say that again. And he hasn’t taken very kindly to Sherlock. He eyes him suspiciously.”
“Stick with it,” Frank said. “If Mungo leaves, let us know right away. See you in the morning.”
Frank had just signed off when Joe said, “Look out there!”
The running lights of a boat gleamed in the dusk. They pushed their boat close to the cave opening and strained their eyes to peer into the gloom. A white craft moved past, nearing the shore at low speed.
“That’s the cruiser!” Joe hissed.
Quickly the boys guided their boat out of the cave, started the outboard, and began to trail the craft. They followed it stealthily.
The cruiser approached a cluster of lights on the shore ahead.
“Looks like a marina,” Frank whispered. “Steer as close as you can, Joe.”
The cruiser sounded its horn in three short blasts and several men appeared quickly at the water’s edge.
Joe stopped the outboard, then paddled nearer to the marina. Flashlights bobbed. The boys eased themselves out of the rubber boat, tied it up, and crept along the shore. Now they could hear the conversation.
“The boss’ll like this deal,” a man said. “I sold it to a sucker down the pond a piece. To be delivered in the morning.”
“Good work, good work,” another man praised. “Did you sell it as is?”
“No. He wants a blue model.”
“So it needs a paint job.”
“Right. Otherwise it’s clean. All identification has been removed.”
Soon there came the gentle hiss of paint being sprayed on the cruiser.
Frank and Joe did not dare to whisper. If they were heard, they would be easy prey to the thieves.
Hours passed. Finally the first man spoke again. “Okay, the job’s done. Radio E. K. and tell him to scram, if he hasn’t gone already.”
Mungo’s initials!
Frank and Joe backed up quietly. When they were certain they were out of earshot, Frank said, “We’ll call Chet and Biff to detain Mungo.”
They crept back to the boat, reached for the radio, and switched it on. “Chet. Biff. This is Joe calling.”
A sleepy voice replied. “Chet here. What’s up?”
“Grab Mungo and don’t let him get away!”
Suddenly lights shone not twenty feet from where they crouched. An angry voice boomed out, “We’re being spied on!”
Cries went up from the gang near the cruiser. Shouting and cursing, the men raced along the shore, their flashlights bobbing.
The man closest to the Hardys made a lunge for them as they slipped into their boat. Would they get away?
CHAPTER IX
Sanctuary
IN feverish haste Frank and Joe shoved off from the shore. Their pursuer made one last desperate lunge with a knife, half falling into the water as the tip of the blade dug into the rubber boat!
Joe started the outboard, giving it full power. Their escape was painfully slow. They felt the cold water slowly seeping through the rent in the rubberized fabric.
Their pursuer pulled himself out of the water and raced back to his confederates. Joe saw them launch a small motorboat into the reservoir. It started with a roar.
“Frank, I don’t think we can ma
ke it!” Joe said, keeping their little craft close to shore and seeking the sanctuary of the small cave.
“It must be up ahead,” Frank said anxiously.
Joe brought the boat so close to shore that they could nearly touch the rocks.
The speedboat, meanwhile, whined angrily as it cut across toward them.
Finally Frank spotted the cave. “Joe, there it is! Right up ahead!”
They ducked and eased into the safety of the cave. Seconds later the motorboat flashed past and droned out of earshot.
“Whew!” Frank felt the side of the boat until his fingers found the cut. “Joe, reach in for the first-aid kit, will you?”
“What for?”
“Adhesive. I think I can fix the tear with it.” Frank patched the tape firmly over the rip. “Now it’ll hold tight. But we’ve got to get the water out of here.”
Joe took off his sweat shirt and sopped up the water in the bottom of the boat. After wringing out the shirt a number of times, the floor was fairly dry.
As the boys sat waiting for their pursuers to return, Frank said, “Boy, am I hungry!”
“Hey!” Joe exclaimed. “The chocolate cake!”
He pulled out a package from under his seat. The cake was slightly damp, but tasted delicious to the two hungry boys.
“Bless that Barbie,” Frank said, after swallowing the last crumb.
Again they heard the motorboat. It crisscrossed the water not far from shore, then headed for the marina.
“I guess they think we sank,” Joe said.
Frank nodded. “Let’s start now,” he said. “Keep that motor at low speed until we’re far out.”
The sky was velvety blue and the wind had abated completely. Stars could be seen briefly above the cover of cirrus clouds.
With a burping cough the outboard came to life and propelled the craft out into the lake. It crept along for ten minutes until Joe gave it more power. He aimed straight for the opposite shore. An hour later they reached the other side, slightly north of where their car was parked.
“Easy now, Joe,” Frank warned as they edged along the shore. “We don’t want to bang into Mungo’s boat!”
They came to the spot where the suspect’s car had stood. It was gone, and so was his boat!
Danger on Vampire Trail Page 5