The Clue of the Broken Blade

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Joe parried. “Pressure glide.”

  Parrying, Frank called, “Envelopment.”

  They continued to attack and parry in turn, the blades clashing and sliding against each other in the cadence of a deadly dance. The audition soon drew a crowd of spectators.

  Neither boy attempted to score, knowing it would have drawn blood, but their performance was colorful and convincing. When they finally paused after several minutes of intricate swordplay, the audience applauded loudly.

  “They’ll do fine,” Rossi called out. “Sign ’em up, Gene.”

  “That solves that problem,” the director said with relief. “I guess we’ll be able to shoot today after all.”

  While the swordplay had been going on, Chet kept glancing around in the hope of spotting one of the film’s stars. But neither Douglas Clark nor Brenda White appeared.

  Gradually it penetrated Chet’s consciousness that every time he looked over the crowd, the shadowy figure of a man seemed to be just fading out of his range of vision.

  When he deliberately looked for the man, the figure immediately drifted behind one of the trailers. Chet noticed that he wore a peaked cap pulled low over his face.

  Was he one of the fellows who had been tailing them? Chet wondered. Or the one who had phoned Steele’s house and threatened them?

  Pushing his way through the crowd, Chet circled around to the spot where he had lost sight of the shadowy figure. He was just in time to see the man duck behind the next trailer.

  Chet followed. The man quickened his pace and disappeared around the far end. When Chet ran around the corner, he saw the trailer’s door close.

  “I’ve got him cornered!” Chet muttered. He climbed the steps and flung open the door.

  Instantly a yapping ball of fur attacked his ankles, nipping with tiny sharp teeth.

  “Go away, dog!” Chet commanded. He backed through the door, tumbled down the steps, and sat in the dust. Someone scooped up the furious little Pomeranian in time to prevent it from leaping at Chet, who looked up ruefully.

  Brenda White stood in the doorway, clutching the tiny dog!

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said contritely. “Did naughty little Fifi hurt you?”

  Examining his ankles and finding no trace of blood, Chet said, “No, ma’am.” Embarrassed, he got to his feet and brushed himself off. “It was my fault, Miss White. I shouldn’t have burst in that way. But I was chasing a man and thought he ran in there.”

  “Into my trailer?” the movie star said with a tinkling little laugh. “There’s no one here but me and Fifi. We just came in ourselves.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Chet said. “Sorry I disturbed you.”

  “It’s all right,” Brenda White said. “I’m glad you’re not hurt.” She closed the door.

  Chet circuited all of the other trailers, the Nissen huts, and the grape pickers’ tar-paper shacks, but he failed to spot the man wearing the cap. By the time he got back to the Hardys, their fencing demonstration was over. The audience had dispersed and the director explained to Frank and Joe what the scene would be.

  “You’ll get a better idea when you read the script,” he said. “Before you go to Wardrobe for your costumes and to Makeup, stop by Production and get a copy of exterior scene four from the script girl.”

  “Yes, sir,” Frank said.

  They started toward the Nissen hut containing the Production Office. Chet fell in at their side.

  Zeller called after them, “The script girl’s name is Laura.”

  Frank and Joe waved acknowledgment.

  Chet said, “Some man in a cap is sneaking around spying on somebody—maybe us. I tried to catch up with him to see what he looked like, but he got away.”

  “Think it’s one of our tails?” Joe asked.

  Chet shrugged. “He realized I was after him and took off like a scared rabbit.”

  They reached the Production Office and went in. Frank told the brunette at the reception desk that they had been sent by Mr. Zeller to see Laura, the script girl.

  “In there,” the receptionist said, pointing to a door. The boys entered and saw a woman sitting at a desk with her back to them.

  Hearing their steps, she glanced over her shoulder.

  Frank and Joe stopped dead in their tracks. “Mom!” they exclaimed in unison.

  The script girl was their mother, Laura Hardy!

  “But—but you’re supposed to be at the Grand Canyon!” Joe said as Mrs. Hardy rose to hug her sons.

  CHAPTER XVI

  Weird Attackers

  STUNNED by the discovery of his mother on a California movie location, Frank’s next thought was of his father. “Where’s Dad?” he asked.

  As he spoke, a door marked Maintenance Department just beyond Laura Hardy’s desk opened and Fenton Hardy stepped out. He was carrying a cap in his hand.

  Joe rushed over to put an arm around Mr. Hardy’s shoulder, while Frank grinned at the famous detective.

  “Dad, what’s going on here?” Joe asked.

  Mr. Hardy smiled at them without the least sign of surprise. But before he could reply, Chet exclaimed in amazement, “That was you I was chasing, Mr. Hardy! Why didn’t you let me know?”

  “I was testing your running ability, Chet.” Mr. Hardy looked at his sons. “Tell me, what are you doing here?”

  “After you, Dad,” Frank insisted.

  Fenton Hardy explained that he and his wife had met Zeller at the Grand Canyon, where the director had begged him to investigate the attempts on Ettore Rossi’s life.

  “Gene was so upset that I agreed,” Mr. Hardy said, “and we cut our vacation short. As a cover-up I was hired as a maintenance man and your mother is here as a script girl.”

  “That’s a neat idea,” Chet stated. “You get to meet all the important stars!”

  Joe laughed. “Mom, Chet’s ga-ga about Miss White.”

  “She’s gorgeous,” Chet said dreamily.

  Frank changed the subject. “I was wondering about those planned accidents plaguing Mr. Rossi. Maybe the people responsible for them have the wrong man. It could be that they’re really after Ettore Russo.”

  “Your fencing instructor in Bayport?” the detective asked in surprise. “Why would anyone be after him?”

  The boys explained about their maestro being one of the grandsons of Giovanni Russo; about the will written on the sword Adalante; and how Russo had paid their way to California to search for the guard end of the broken blade.

  When they finished their story, Mr. Hardy said thoughtfully, “Frank, your deduction is sound. That must be the explanation. Ettore Russo’s greedy cousin in Switzerland probably hired these criminals to dispose of him, and they picked the wrong man because of the similarity in names. Besides, I remember Russo telling me that he lived in California before opening the school in Bayport.”

  The boys told their father about the Bayport bank robbery and the theft of his voiceprint file. But he already knew, because he had been in touch with Chief Collig. However, the capture of Red Bowes was news to him. Frank and Joe related everything else that had happened since their arrival in San Francisco.

  “Oh dear!” Mrs. Hardy said. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”

  Mr. Hardy said, “It sounds to me as though the answer to all this lies in Stockton, not here. You can’t leave Zeller in a spot after agreeing to act in those sword-fighting scenes, but as soon as your work in the movie is finished, we’ll all go to Stockton.”

  “How about Mr. Rossi?” Mrs. Hardy asked. “Shouldn’t you stay here to protect him from danger?”

  “He won’t be in any if we let his tormentors know they’re bugging the wrong man,” Mr. Hardy replied. “I’ll suggest to Gene that he issue a publicity release about his stuntman. Mention can be made that his name is very similar to Giovanni Russo’s grandson.”

  “The newspapers would like that,” Laura Hardy said.

  “Not to mention radio and TV,” Frank added. “It’s a good feature stor
y, and the goons will be sure to hear it.”

  “It won’t place Mr. Russo in any danger either,” his father went on, “because he’s out of the country.”

  Mrs. Hardy smiled at her sons. “How’s your money holding out, incidentally?”

  “They’re almost as broke as I am,” Chet volunteered.

  Frank and Joe frowned at him. “We’re earning plenty for our movie work,” Joe said. “We don’t need any money.”

  “I’m going to see Gene about that publicity release,” Mr. Hardy declared. “Well talk about Stockton later.”

  Joe said, “Come on, Frank. We’d better get out of here, too. We have to go to Wardrobe, then to Makeup, and we’re due on the set in an hour.”

  Mrs. Hardy gave them a copy of the exterior scene script and they left with their father.

  Chet lingered behind to talk to Mrs. Hardy. She opened her purse and took out some bills.

  “Put this away in case of emergency,” she said.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Hardy,” he replied with a grateful grin. “If we don’t need it, I’ll return the cash in Bayport.”

  The sword-fighting scene went well. Zeller told Frank and Joe that they would be needed for a similar scene the next morning. After that they would be through.

  That afternoon the vineyard scene was shot. The boys played grape pickers. They had borrowed suitable clothing from some of the workers on the farm, who had all been hired as extras, too.

  By noon the next day they were finished and had been paid. Mr. and Mrs. Hardy took them to lunch at the Golden Gate Restaurant near the vineyard, where all the motion-picture personnel ate. During the meal they discussed their next move.

  “I think we’d better drive to Stockton separately,” Mr. Hardy said. “If your enemies pick up the trail again, there’s no point in their knowing about Mother and me.”

  “Suppose we meet somewhere in Stockton for dinner tonight?” Joe suggested.

  “All right. Where?”

  “Swanson’s Drive-in Restaurant on the north side would be a good place,” Chet said. “We could park our cars next to each other and talk without being overheard.”

  It was decided to meet at Swanson’s at six o’clock that evening.

  The boys went to Stockton and checked into a motel near the restaurant. Promptly at six they drove to the drive-in’s parking lot and waited.

  A carhop had just taken their orders when a black Plymouth slid into the next spot. In it were Mr. and Mrs. Hardy.

  Mr. Hardy did not even say hello until their order was taken, too. Then he said, “Any sign of a tail on you?”

  “We didn’t see any,” Joe replied.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “At the Delta Motel.”

  “We’re at the Northside Plaza,” Mr. Hardy said. “When do you plan to search that old wine storage building at Carson’s Ski Lodge?”

  “According to the sign they had up last week,” Frank said, “the lift should be in operation till eight o’clock. So let’s do it right now.”

  “I’m all for that,” Mr. Hardy agreed. Turning to his wife, he said, “I’ll go in the boys’ car, Laura, and you can drive back to the motel in this one.”

  “All right, Fenton.”

  When they had finished eating and paid their checks, Mr. Hardy slipped into the back seat of the Chevrolet with Chet. Mrs. Hardy moved over to take the wheel of the Plymouth.

  At that moment a green Buick drove in on the other side of her car.

  “Oh, oh,” Frank said in a low voice. “There’s Harry Madsen and his friend Amos Cain.”

  After a quick look, Joe and Chet averted their faces so that the pair would not recognize them. Joe whispered, “Don’t back out yet, Mom. Wait until we leave.”

  Mrs. Hardy nodded.

  Frank started the engine and pulled out. Joe and Chet kept their heads turned, but Mr. Hardy got a good look at the two men as Frank drove off.

  “I’m pretty sure they weren’t tailing you,” Mr. Hardy said. “It must have been a coincidence that they came in.”

  “Probably,” Chet agreed. “It’s a popular place.”

  Nevertheless Frank kept one eye on the rear-view mirror whenever he could, and the others watched out, too. But there was no sign of pursuit.

  Soon they reached the ski lodge. No one was in sight. The place was no longer boarded up, but it was closed for the day. Frank parked in front of the lodge and they all got out.

  Joe looked at his watch. It was a few minutes after seven, and still light. “They must have closed early,” he remarked.

  Pointing to the stone building atop the mountain, Frank said to his father, “That’s it up there, Dad.”

  They went to look at the chair-lift engine. To their surprise it was not locked. After examining it for a few moments, Fenton Hardy started it.

  Joe got a flashlight from the car and thrust it under his belt. Then he and Frank took seats on the lift. Mr. Hardy shifted the engine into gear, and with a slight jerky motion the boys started the long trip upward.

  They rose higher and higher over the slope, until halfway up they were more than thirty feet above the grade. Then the distance to the ground diminished as they neared the peak.

  They stepped off the lift only a dozen yards from the oaken door of the stone building. Their double seat continued on, took a hundred and eighty degree turn around a stanchion, and headed back down the hill on the moving cable.

  Frank tried the door of the lodge. It was locked. They walked around and discovered that a window had been broken.

  “Somebody’s been in here!” said Frank.

  “I wonder how long ago,” Joe mused.

  “It must be since the place closed today,” Frank replied. “Otherwise the operators would have noticed the break and boarded it up.”

  Joe snapped his fingers. “I’ll bet that’s why the lift engine wasn’t padlocked! Whoever broke in here, probably busted the lock and used the lift to get up and down again.”

  “Well,” Frank said, “as long as the window’s broken, we might as well take advantage of it.” He climbed inside, careful to avoid the jagged pieces of glass jutting from the frame. Joe followed.

  As they stepped onto the floor, Frank grabbed Joe’s arm and put a finger to his lips.

  “What’s the matter?” Joe whispered.

  Frank sniffed. “Smell the smoke?”

  “From a cigarette!”

  “Right. Someone’s in here!”

  The young sleuths tingled with a mixture of fright and excitement. If somebody had just preceded them, why? How many were there? And where were they hiding?

  As the odor of cigarette tobacco drifted out through the broken window, the boys surveyed the dim interior. The room they were in was small and rimmed with benches. At one end was a potbellied stove for the skiers in winter.

  In addition to the locked front door there was another door. What lay beyond? they wondered. Somebody was there, they felt sure.

  After a whispered consultation the boys decided to climb out, circle the building, and spy into the mysterious room from a window on the far side.

  Frank had one foot through the broken windowpane when a bloodcurdling yell sounded behind them.

  Immobilized by surprise, the Hardys froze for a moment, then turned to see two weird faces, grotesquely flattened by nylon stocking masks. One man was tall and thin, the other burly.

  The tall man held a pistol in his hand. “Look what we’ve caught, Homer!” he said.

  “The Hardy boys! What a catch, Charlie!”

  The voices sounded familiar in spite of the slightly muffled tone.

  “Pretty far from New Jersey, aren’t you?” Frank asked.

  For a moment there was stunned silence, then Joe delivered his shot. “You won’t find any spectrographs here, Charlie!”

  With that the men ripped off their masks. “Okay, so you recognize us,” Charlie said. “Little good it’ll do you.” He waved his gun at the boys. “Cross your hands
in front of you!” he ordered, and pulled two cords from his pocket.

  CHAPTER XVII

  Treasure in the Dust

  FROM down below, Mr. Hardy and Chet watched Frank and Joe climb through the broken window. Suddenly the sound of a breaking twig made them turn around.

  A squat, muscular man had stepped out from behind the ski lodge. He pointed a revolver at them.

  “Up with your hands!” he ordered.

  Mr. Hardy and Chet obeyed. Commanding them to turn their backs, the man checked them for weapons.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” Mr. Hardy asked.

  “Never mind,” the man replied. “Just keep quiet!”

  He kept his gun on them while he periodically peered up at the mountaintop. Several minutes passed, then four people emerged from the stone building. Frank and Joe were first, their wrists bound together in front of them.

  Charlie got on the lift with Frank.

  “All right,” the squat man with the gun told Mr. Hardy. “Bring the next seat into position so the other two can get on.”

  Perspiration stood out on the detective’s forehead as he obeyed. When everyone was on the lift, he started the engine again, furiously trying to think of a way to escape.

  When the four were halfway down, the cable stopped moving. Mr. Hardy attempted to get the lift operating again, but could not.

  “What’s the matter?” the gunman asked gruffly.

  “Don’t know. Give me a minute to check it out.”

  Up on the lift, meanwhile, Homer and Charlie became impatient. “If he can’t get it going,” Charlie called to his accomplice, “we’ll have to reduce the weight and throw these kids overboard.”

  “You can’t do that!” Frank cried out.

  “Oh no?” Homer sneered. “It would save us a lot of trouble. Let’s not waste any time!”

  He lifted Joe’s safety bar and pushed him off the seat. Frantically the boy grasped the bottom of the chair and hung on for dear life. His captor pulled out a gun and smashed it on Joe’s fingers. Joe winced in pain. Desperately he swung one foot around and kicked his adversary in the shin.