Frank and Joe were glum as they drove home. “Do you suppose Makin was aboard?” Joe asked.
Frank shrugged and frowned uncertainly. “I don’t know. That inlet was practically a swamp—it sure didn’t look like an easy place to get on or off the cruiser. But the purple smoke was the same kind we ran into the other night. That would seem to link the cruiser itself to Strang.”
Joe glanced at his brother. “Incidentally, why did you ask Mr. Filmer if those amethysts were genuine?”
“Makin’s a confidence man plus his other rackets—remember? I thought he might be planning to use the stones for some con game.”
As soon as the brothers arrived home, Frank placed a call to Western State University. He explained that he wanted information about a former professor named Aden Darrow.
“I’ll connect you with Dean Gibbs,” the switchboard operator replied.
Frank identified himself to the dean.
“Oh, yes. I’ve often heard of your father,” Gibbs said. “What can I do for you?”
Frank explained that Darrow’s name had come up in connection with a case the Hardys were investigating. He asked if the dean could tell him anything about Darrow’s background.
“Up until last term, Professor Darrow taught a special course in crime-detection methods here,” Dean Gibbs replied. “He has a background in both physical and organic chemistry. Before he joined our faculty, he worked in police crime labs in several western cities.”
“Why did he leave the university?”
“Well, that was rather unfortunate,” Gibbs said. “You see, he had been trying to raise funds for research on a project which he claimed would be of great value to the police.”
“What sort of project?” Frank inquired.
“To be honest, we know very little about it. Professor Darrow had become secretive and suspicious. In fact, we felt he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. After the school refused to allot any money for his project, Darrow became extremely upset and resigned.”
“I see.” Frank was thoughtful for a moment, then said, “We were told he recently bought a house here in Bayport. Did he say what his plans were when he left the university?”
“No, not a word. In fact, we had no idea of his present whereabouts before you called.”
Frank was just hanging up when a plane roared low over the house. The boys could hear it turn and zoom back as if it were buzzing the Hardy residence.
“That may be Jack Wayne!” Joe exclaimed. He rushed to look out a window. “It’s Skyhappy Sal, all right. Maybe Jack wants to talk to us!”
The boys dashed downstairs and switched on their two-way radio. Joe took the microphone.
“Hardys to Sal.... Can you read us?”
The pilot’s voice crackled over the speaker, “Loud and clear, Joe! Listen, I think I’ve picked up a hot lead from Hirff. It may tie in with those jewel robberies your dad is—”
Jack’s voice was drowned by a sudden burst of static. When it came through again, it was so faint the Hardys could catch only a few words:
“If the tigers bite ... amethyst ...”
There was another burst of static. The radio message died out completely!
CHAPTER X
The Ghostly Figure
JOE tuned the receiver anxiously, trying to restore a clear signal.
“Hardys to Sal! Come in, please! ... Hardys calling Sal!”
There was no response. The two boys looked at each other, worried and mystified.
“What do you suppose went wrong with the transmission, Joe?” his brother muttered.
“Search me. What I’m wondering is whether Jack’s okay!”
The brothers ran up the basement stairs and dashed outdoors. Shading their eyes, they scanned the sky. Jack’s plane was now a mere speck in the blue, rapidly dwindling from sight. It was heading on a southerly course.
“At least he’s still up there!” Frank said, half under his breath.
Joe added, “Let’s hope he makes it all the way—wherever it is he’s going!”
The boys went indoors and tried for a while longer to re-establish radio contact with Skyhappy Sal, but their efforts were unsuccessful. Frank and Joe returned to the living room and slumped into comfortable chairs.
“I’d sure like to know what Jack was trying to tell us,” Frank brooded.
“So would I. That message was weird!” Joe furrowed his brow, trying to make sense out of the few words that had filtered through. “If the tigers bite ... What could he possibly have been referring to, Frank?”
“Don’t ask me. It’s strictly Greek as far as I’m concerned.” Frank scowled in deep thought. “‘Tigers’ might refer to animals in some zoo, I suppose. Or maybe to tigers being brought into the country by some animal importer.”
Joe shook his head. “Sounds pretty farfetched. Jack was flying south. That might mean he was heading for the Caribbean area.”
“Maybe. So what?”
“Well, they have jaguars down in Central America. And, in Spanish, the jaguar is called tigre.”
“For that matter, what about tiger sharks?” Frank broke off abruptly and sprang up from his chair. “Wait a minute! We must be getting daffy with the heat. We can find out where Jack’s going just by checking with the airport tower!”
Frank strode to the telephone in the front hall and dialed. He talked for a few moments, then hung up and returned to the living room, wearing a frustrated expression.
“The tower operator says Jack didn’t file a flight plan—which probably means he’s just making a brief local flight.”
“Then we should be hearing from him soon,” Joe suggested.
“We hope!” Frank added, crossing his fingers.
Just then a car pulled up in front of the house with a squeal of tires and a series of loud backfires.
“Don’t tell me—let me guess. It’s Chet Morton,” said Frank.
Joe grinned and glanced out a window at Chet’s red jalopy. “Who else?” He went to open the front door as their chunky friend came bounding up the walk. “Hi, Hercules! How’d you make out on the amethyst trail?” Joe asked.
“We didn’t.” Chet went on into the living room and flopped onto the sofa. “Those girls still can’t remember where they picked up the stone—and we didn’t find any new ones, either.”
“Tough luck,” Frank sympathized.
The Hardys gave Chet news of the latest developments, including Jack Wayne’s radio message.
“Tigers?” Chet’s eyes bulged. “I hope you’re not going to be bumping into any of those on this case!” He paused to sniff the aroma wafting from the kitchen. “Mmm! Do I smell chicken?”
“Fried chicken.” Mrs. Hardy had paused at the door and smiled as she glanced in. “And there’ll be honey to go with Aunt Gertrude’s hot biscuits. Would you like to have dinner with us, Chet?”
“Would I? Boy, and how! But I’d better call Mom and let her know.”
An hour later, the meal just over, the doorbell rang. Frank went to answer it.
“Telegram for Frank and Joe Hardy,” said a messenger.
Frank signed for it and ripped open the yellow envelope as he brought it into the living room.
“Hey! It’s from Dean Gibbs at Western State University!” He read the telegram aloud:PROFESSOR DARROW’S SISTER EAGER TO FIND HIM. IF POSSIBLE PLEASE CONTACT PROFESSOR. ASK HIM TO CALL HER.
“Wow! What a break!” Joe exploded.
Chet looked puzzled. “How do you figure that?”
“This gives us a perfect excuse to go right up to the Perth mansion and find out what’s going on!” Frank explained. “Want to come along?”
“Well, I dunno.” Chet squirmed uncomfortably. “Maybe you’d better count me out.”
“Don’t be chicken. You’re coming with us!” Joe said, slapping the plump youth on the back.
Frank said, “I just thought of something. If Professor Darrow taught crime-detection methods, maybe we can find some articles by h
im in Dad’s journals. That’ll give us material to work up a conversation with him. It might even furnish us a clue to his research project!”
“Good idea!” Joe agreed enthusiastically.
In their father’s study the Hardys checked the annual index of each of the three criminology journals to which their father subscribed. They could find only one article authored by Aden Darrow. It dealt with new data on the power of light beams.
Although the article gave no hint of Darrow’s present field of research, it did include a photograph of the professor demonstrating some ultraviolet equipment. He wore eyeglasses and was bald, with a rumpled fringe of gray hair.
“Well, at least we know what he looks like,” Joe remarked.
The boys hurried to the Hardys’ convertible. A red glow of sunset suffused the western sky as they drove out of Bayport’s residential district and into the wooded outskirts of town. Soon they pulled up on the dirt lane directly in front of the Perth mansion.
“You fellows handle it,” Chet said. “I’ll stay in the car.”
Grinning, Frank and Joe walked up the tree-covered slope to the house. Joe pressed the doorbell. Moments passed. He was about to ring again when the door suddenly opened. A tall, dark-haired, hatched-faced man confronted them.
Noel Strang!
“Well, what do you want?” he demanded, giving the boys a hard stare.
“We have a message for the man who lives here,” Frank said boldly.
“I live here,” Strang retorted. “What is it?”
“We mean Professor Aden Darrow,” Frank said, displaying the telegram.
Strang reached out to take it, but Frank made no effort to give him the paper. “Sorry, but the message is personal. It’s from his sister.”
“Too bad!” Strang snapped. “Professor Darrow suffered a breakdown from overwork and had to leave on a long vacation. I have no idea how to reach him.”
“Did he go out of the country?” Joe spoke up. “If so, maybe we could—”
The door slammed in the boys’ faces!
Frank and Joe looked at each other uncertainly then turned and started down the veranda steps. In the gathering dusk a light suddenly blazed on in an upstairs window. Joe glanced up over his shoulder, then clutched Frank’s arm.
“Look!” he exclaimed.
Through the window curtain, they glimpsed a man who seemed to resemble Professor Darrow! An instant later he moved out of sight.
“Strang’s probably watching us,” Frank muttered. “Let’s go!”
At the car they discussed their next move.
“Let’s drive around till it gets dark, and then come back and keep watch on that window,” Joe suggested.
“Okay,” Frank agreed.
Leaving the dirt lane, the boys cruised back and forth along the main road until darkness had closed in. Then they returned and parked their convertible well out of range of the house. Taking flashlights, the boys started up the slope. Chet was not enthusiastic but agreed to accompany them.
Suddenly Frank paused as moonlight glinted off something on the ground. He switched on his flashlight cautiously, covering the lens with his fingers to shade the glow.
There lay the square tiled surface Chet had described to them! The dragon design was formed in colored mosaic.
“That’s it!” Chet whispered excitedly.
“How come we couldn’t find it before?” Joe said.
“Maybe sometimes it’s covered over with brush and loose shrubbery—on purpose,” Frank reasoned.
Before they could examine the spot more closely, Chet gasped and pointed off to the left. A white figure was moving slowly among the trees!
“It’s that spook again!” Joe exclaimed. “This time, let’s nail him!”
Chet moved his lips in speechless terror, but rather than be left behind, he went lumbering off after the two Hardys.
Frank and Joe sprinted straight toward the ghostly figure, determined not to let it elude them a second time. But the phantom had already seen them and went darting off like a vanishing wisp of mist.
The pursuit circled and zigzagged about the mansion grounds. Chet soon lost all fear as he became convinced that the fleeing specter was only flesh and blood. He joined in the chase with zest, his sturdy legs pumping as if he were pursuing a rival team’s ballcarrier on the Bayport High football field.
Frank was in the lead, with the other two boys on either side searching swiftly among the trees.
“Joe! Can you see him?” Frank called back. “I think he went that way!”
There was no answer. Frank glanced over his shoulder, then gasped.
Joe had disappeared!
CHAPTER XI
A Parcel of Gems
FRANK skidded to a halt and peered intently through the darkness. “Joel” he called in almost a whisper. “Joe! Where are you?”
Chet hurried to Frank’s side. “What’s wrong?” he asked anxiously.
“I don’t know. Joe was only a few yards from me just a minute ago. Now I can’t see him.”
Chet glanced around. The white phantom had also disappeared—swallowed up in the gloom.
Suddenly Joe’s muffled voice reached their ears. “This way, you guys! But watch your step! I fell down a hole!”
Frank and Chet hurried toward the sound, with Frank beaming his flashlight over the ground in front of them. Both boys stopped as the yellow glow revealed a large, square hole.
“Hey! There’s that tiled thing!” Chet exclaimed. “But it’s open!”
Frank saw that the whole tiled surface had flapped downward. It was now hanging flush against one side of the hole, its colored mosaic glistening in his light.
“I’m down here,” called Joe. “That tiled square must be hinged like a trap door. Either its supports gave way, or someone must’ve opened it by remote control. And that’s not all—there’s a tunnel down here!”
Frank shone his flashlight down the hole. It was brick-walled and about twelve feet deep. In the side opposite the flap-down tiled surface was an opening just large enough for Joe to enter without stooping. Alongside this opening, a metal ladder was attached to the wall, for climbing in or out of the hole.
“Wow!” Chet dropped to his knees and peered below. “Where do you suppose that opening leads?”
“I’ll bet there’s a tunnel going all the way to the house,” Joe answered, shining his own beam through the opening.
Frank told Chet of Mrs. Hardy’s theory that the tiled surface had been the floor of an old summerhouse. He added, “The summerhouse was probably built on purpose to hide this end of the tunnel.”
“That’s quite a drop,” Frank said anxiously. “Are you hurt, Joe?”
“No! I managed to break the fall. It was easy after some of those judo slams we’ve takent Besides, this floor feels spongy. It must have been padded in case of an accident.”
Frank peered in all directions. “Looks as though we’ve lost our spook for good.”
“Then let’s search this tunnel,” Joe proposed.
Chet gulped uneasily. “How do you know what we’ll find at the other end?”
“We don’t. That’s why we want to find out.”
“B-b-but you said yourself that someone may have opened this by remote control,” Chet said shakily. “How do we know the crooks aren’t using the tunnel right now? And—and they may even be trying to lure us into a trap!”
Joe chuckled and aimed his flashlight into the tunnel entrance. “There’s some kind of phone in there, hanging on a hook—probably an intercom to the house. Want me to call and ask?”
Frank looked serious. “I think Chet has a point, Joe. Maybe one of us should stay here—outside the tunnel—in case of emergency.”
“Okay, you two flip a coin. Me for the tunnel!”
Frank spun a nickel, caught it, and slapped the coin on the back of his other hand. “Winner goes with Joe. You name it, Chet.”
“Uh—well—heads.”
Frank shone his
beam on the coin. “Heads. Guess you’re elected, Chet. But look—you don’t have to go! Why don’t you stay here and I’ll—”
“Nothing doing,” Chet protested bravely. “I won the toss, so I’ll go.” With the look of a condemned man en route to the electric chair, the pudgy youth climbed down the metal ladder. He could smell the dank, musty passageway.
Joe was already inside the tunnel entrance. “Come on!” he called back over his shoulder.
As Chet followed Joe into the tunnel, his bulky form brushed the intercom phone off its hook. Instantly a red light flashed on, evidently a signal to indicate that the circuit was now “live”—no doubt a buzzer was ringing at the other end of the line!
Chet clutched Joe. They stared at the unit as if it were a rattlesnake about to strike.
Suddenly a voice crackled from the phone. “Hello ... hello!” Joe snatched up the instrument as the voice went on, “Is that you, Waxie?”
Joe responded in a curt, flat tone, “Yeah?”
“Well, what do you want now?” the voice inquired irritably. “What did you come back for?”
Joe glanced helplessly at Chet; then, snatching at the first inspiration that came into his head, he replied nasally, “Orders.”
“Orders? What’s the matter with you, Waxie? You gettin’ absent-minded? The boss gave you all the dope—about the disappearing floor—” The voice broke off as if the speaker had suddenly become suspicious. “Wait a minute! What’s going on out there? Who is this?”
Joe dropped the phone and gave Chet a shove. “Come on! Let’s go!” he muttered urgently. “Now we’ve really stirred up a hornet’s nest!”
The boys scrambled up the ladder and told Frank what had happened. All three ran for the car. In moments Frank was gunning the motor and the convertible was roaring off down the lane.
“What a bad break!” Joe grumbled as they turned onto the main road.
“It was my fault,” Chet admitted, “and I’m sorry. But I sure learned something—namely, not to get mixed up in any more of your nutty cases! So next time count me out!”
The Disappearing Floor Page 6