The Melted Coins
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER I - Highway Trouble
CHAPTER II - Motel Knockout
CHAPTER III - The False Face Society
CHAPTER IV - Treasure Below
CHAPTER V - The Ghost Driver
CHAPTER VI - Masked Stowaway
CHAPTER VII - No Admittance, Please!
CHAPTER VIII - A Flattened Foe
CHAPTER IX - A Close Call
CHAPTER X - Surprise Connection
CHAPTER XI - Footsteps in the Dark
CHAPTER XII - Trustworthy Men
CHAPTER XIII - A Startled Seneca
CHAPTER XIV - Hot on the Trail
CHAPTER XV - On the Brink
CHAPTER XVI - Thieves Strike Twice
CHAPTER XVII - A Telltale Cobweb
CHAPTER XVIII - Smashed Evidence
CHAPTER XIX - Lendo’s Dilemma
CHAPTER XX - A Rebellious Youth
THE MELTED COINS
FRANK and Joe Hardy suspect that their best friend Chet Morton is the victim of a summer school swindle and offer to help get his money back. While probing a baffling burglary at the Seneca Indian Reservation in New York State they investigate Zoar College located nearby.
Clues that Frank and Joe uncover indicate that there is a connection between the Zoar College swindle and the theft of the Senecas’ gold tribal relic Spoon Mouth. This startling discovery propels the teen-age sleuths into a series of perplexing and dangerous situations.
Two strange-acting college professors, a valuable coin collection, and a taciturn Indian who refuses to discuss the mystery surrounding Spoon Mouth—all blend into a fast-paced story with several surprise twists that will thrill the vast legion of Hardy boys’ fans.
Joe hung on tight
Copyright © 1970, 1944, by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.
Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset
Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.
THE HARDYBOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 73-155243
eISBN : 978-1-101-07637-8
2008 Printing
http://us.penguingroup.com
CHAPTER I
Highway Trouble
CHET Morton strode about the Hardys’ living room, waving a white booklet. “I tell you, fellows, I’ll be a college man in just a few months!”
Joe Hardy, blond-haired and seventeen, looked skeptical. “A six-week summer course at Zoar College in New York State will get you a full year’s credit?”
“Of course. It says so right here.”
Joe’s brother Frank, dark-haired and a year older, took the brochure and scanned it. “Listen, Chet. I wouldn’t pay more than the twenty-five dollars’ application fee until I saw the place!”
Just then his father entered. Fenton Hardy, an internationally famous detective, was a tall, athletic-looking man.
“Did I hear you mention Zoar Valley?” he asked. “If you’re going there, how about doing some sleuthing for me?”
Joe grinned. “Any time, Dad. What’s it all about?”
Mr. Hardy seated himself in an armchair. “It has something to do with the Indians at the Seneca Reservation near Zoar Valley. Rod Jimerson, a Seneca who lives in Cleveland, phoned me recently asking me to take a case for him. It involves somebody known as Spoon Mouth.”
“Spoon Mouth?” Chet said. “Reminds me of food.” He called to the boys’ aunt as she passed the kitchen door. “Oh, Aunt Gertrude, could you make me a cream cheese and salami sandwich?”
“Here we go again!” Joe ribbed their roly-poly buddy, who would rather eat than sleuth. “I suppose you want the salami lean and the crust trimmed from the bread.”
“What else?” Chet said breezily. He handed the Zoar College brochure to Frank and lumbered into the kitchen.
Mr. Hardy’s peppery spinster sister disapproved of the detective work in which her nephews were constantly involved. She scolded them often for getting themselves into dangerous situations, but her affection showed through, especially when it came to cooking up a tasty dish.
With a deftness born of long practice, she now whipped a sandwich onto the kitchen table and placed a tall glass of milk beside it. Chet made short work of the treat, then rejoined Frank, Joe, and their father, who was studying the catalog.
“I think you’d better check up on this college, Chet,” Mr. Hardy said. “It seems like a very small faculty.”
“That’s right, sir. I figured that it’s pretty exclusive. Only the best professors.”
“Or else the leftovers,” Frank said.
“Well, you’ve got a few weeks before it opens,” the detective said. “It might not be a bad idea to drive out there and look the place over.”
“That’s right,” Joe said. “And if we find Spoon Mouth, we’ll see if he has a bigger appetite than Chet!”
Mr. Hardy said that he hoped he was not sending them on a wild-goose chase. “I’d go myself,” he declared, “but I’m working on a mail fraud case and can’t get away.” He added that the call from Rod Jimerson had been garbled. “The connection was bad, and finally we were cut off. But I have his address in Cleveland.”
“Hey, I have an idea!” Chet spoke up. “You know, I sent my application to the Zoar College offices in Cleveland. Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone and check there first!”
“Good idea.” Joe was enthusiastic. “When do we leave?”
“How about tomorrow?” Chet asked.
“Okay,” Frank said. “Let’s start about six in the morning. We can take the New York Thruway for a good part of the trip.”
By the middle of the next morning, Bayport had been left far behind. Chet lolled in the back seat. Frank was driving. Long before noon, Chet complained of a maddening hunger. The trio stopped for gasoline, hot dogs, and cold drinks. Then Joe spelled Frank at the wheel.
At an even speed they passed through the beautiful rolling country of New York State. The highway divider was sometimes a meadow, sometimes a craggy island of trees.
As Joe drove up a hill Chet called out, “Hey, look at that guy! He’s having trouble!”
A quarter of a mile away, in the opposite lane, a car approached with front wheels wobbling. Joe slowed down and pulled onto the shoulder to watch the crippled vehicle.
Suddenly it swerved onto the center island and careened over the grass.
“Holy Toledo!” Joe said. “He’s going to hit us!”
He gunned the motor, whipping up gravel as the convertible shot forward. The oncoming car missed them by inches, rolled into a ditch, and landed on its top, all four wheels spinning.
Joe set the emergency brake and the three boys jumped out and ran to the wreck. Inside they saw a man and woman, both elderly, struggling to get out. In the rear seat were two huge German shepherds.
“Good night! Look at those dogs! Chet said.
“He’s going to hit us!” Joe cried out
He gingerly opened the rear door while Frank and Joe took care of the people in front. They were pulled out, dazed, but there was no sign of serious injury.
The dogs, too, looked befuddled. Chet found their leashes in the rear and snapped them onto the collars of the groggy beasts.
“Better sit down on the grass,” Frank said to the couple as he and Joe eased them onto the ground. Chet tethered the dogs to the door handle, then examined the front wheels, which by now had stopped spinning.
“Your steering is shot!” he said. “How did it happen?”
The man smiled wanly.
“I don’t know. All of a sudden I couldn’t control the car and tried to push the brake.”
“I think you must have gotten excited and hit the gas instead,” Joe said, “the way you shot across the median strip.”
The woman spoke for the first time. Her hands were shaking as a result of the shock. “They’ve been calling back a lot of cars recently. Maybe this is one of the faulty ones.”
“Well, your garage mechanic will find out soon enough,” Frank said. “Do you live around here?”
“No, we live in Hawk Head,” the man replied. “I’m Dr. Rideau and this is my wife.”
As the boys introduced themselves, cars driving by were slowing down to rubberneck at the wreck and soon a State Police car pulled up. Frank told what they had seen and added, “It was a miraculous escape, Officer. They seem to be okay.”
“We can’t take chances,” the policeman replied. “I’ll get an ambulance.” He walked to his car and radioed for help.
Frank, Joe, and Chet gave their names as witnesses to the accident, then said good-by to the Rideaus.
“I’m a retired dentist,” the man said, shaking Joe’s hand. “You have been very kind to us. If you should find yourself in our area, please drop in to see us. Remember—Hawk Head, New York.”
“You must come for dinner,” Mrs. Rideau added.
Chet beamed. “You bet we will. Thanks for the invitation.”
The boys proceeded without further incident the rest of the day. It was night before they reached Cleveland, and they found a comfortable motel at the edge of the city. Tired from the long trip, they went to bed right after dinner.
“We’ll look up Rod Jimerson first thing in the morning,” Frank said.
“Wait a minute,” Chet pleaded. “Since you’re so suspicious of Zoar College, why don’t we go there first? If it’s a phony, I want my twenty-five dollars back.”
“I thought you were convinced it was a great college,” Joe reminded him.
“Well, you never—can—tell.” Chet’s lips puffed a couple of times, then he dropped off into a gentle snore.
As they finished breakfast the next morning, Frank reconsidered their plans. “Okay, Chet, we’ll take your advice and go to the Zoar office first,” he said.
With Frank at the wheel, they drove into downtown Cleveland. Joe studied the map and directed his brother. They passed the tall new buildings, drove into a side street, and continued into an older part of the city.
“Good night, is it down here?” asked Chet.
Glancing up at a row of dilapidated buildings, he spied the faded number on a dirty glass door. Frank parked the car in the next open spot. He locked it and the trio walked back.
“There must be some mistake,” Chet mumbled.
“Well, you said it was exclusive,” Joe needled.
They took a rickety self-service elevator to the third floor, walked down a hall, and came to a door marked Z.C.
Stepping inside, they found themselves in a dingy office. To the left was a switchboard, presided over by a stout blond girl who chewed gum furiously. She pulled out a plug and adjusted her headset. Then she swung around in her chair and stared at the visitors. “Yes, please?”
“We’d like to speak to somebody from Zoar College,” Chet spoke up.
The switchboard buzzed, and the girl turned around, inserting a jack. “Yes, this is the Bondway Trucking Company.... No, there’s nobody in. ... Will you leave a message?”
She jotted down something on a pad, pulled the plug, and looked at the boys.
“We must be in the wrong office,” Frank said.
“No you’re not,” the girl said matter-of-factly.
“We don’t want a trucking company,” Joe informed her.
“I answer the phone for them. They have desk space here,” she replied tartly.
Just then a door opened and a thin youth who looked about nineteen drifted into the office. He had a sallow face and huge eyes partly covered by a mop of hair.
The girl nodded toward him. “They’re looking for Zoar College,” she said.
“What do you want?” the youth asked coldly.
Chet blurted, “I paid my twenty-five bucks and I want to be sure—”
The boy looked him up and down slowly. “Take down his address and phone number, Mabel.”
Frank brought out a matchbook he had taken from their motel which bore the address and number.
“Room fifteen,” he said.
“We’ll be in touch with you,” the woman said.
The boys left. As they walked down the windy street, Frank glanced over his shoulder and noticed the youth behind them. Then a gust blew up and he had to squint to keep dust from getting into his eyes.
“What do you make of that high-class establishment?” Joe asked Frank.
“Think it’s a phony?” Chet queried.
Frank shrugged. “Wait till they call us. We’ll probably find out then.”
“Where to now?” Joe asked.
“We’ll go see Dad’s client.”
Frank consulted a street map for the address their father had given them. It was clear across town in a residential section. They found the house, parked, and walked up to the door.
A woman answered the bell. She said that Rod Jimerson had a room there but was at work.
“Do you mind telling us where?” Frank asked.
“Not at all. He’s an ironworker on one of the new office buildings going up downtown.” She gave directions and the boys thanked her.
On the way to the car, Joe happened to glance back. “Hey, isn’t that the creepy office boy from Zoar College?” he asked.
“Looks like him,” Frank replied.
The youth was slumped behind the wheel of a fairly new car parked some distance behind them.
“Why is he tailing us?” Chet wondered nervously.
“Maybe he wants to return your twenty-five bucks,” Joe quipped.
“He doesn’t strike me as the charitable type,” Frank said. “I don’t like this.”
After turning several corners they managed to lose the trailing car. Soon they came to the construction site. Frank had to drive around the block three times before finding a suitable parking spot.
The building loomed above them like a giant skeleton, its bare steel beams towering skyward. On the street was a freight elevator. Beside it was a stack of hardhats used by the construction men.
“Where can we find Rod Jimerson?” Joe asked a man who was loading brick onto the elevator.
“He’s up with the angels, right on top.”
“Mind if we join you?”
“Hop aboard if it’s important.”
“It sure is.”
The elevator rattled to the top, where the boys stepped off onto a narrow platform. Construction workers were guiding a girder, which was being lowered by a boom.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” a workman demanded.
“Are you the foreman?” Frank asked.
“That’s me.”
“We’d like to speak to Rod Jimerson.”
“Who gave you permission to come up here?”
“Nobody,” Joe said. “But we’d like to see Jimerson for a moment. It’s important.”
“Okay, he’s over there. But be careful!” The foreman pointed to a young man tightening a bolt with a large wrench.
Joe stepped toward him, balancing on top of a high beam. He looked down, then quickly averted his eyes from the long drop.
He had moved only a few steps when a blast of wind whipped across the top of the framework. Joe teetered, lost his balance, and plunged!
CHAPTER II
Motel Knockout
JoE dropped with arms outstretched, wrists bent and fingers clawed like grappling hooks. He touched the edge of the girder and hung on tight.
Shouts went up all around him but he heard them only faintly as his body swayed in the stiff wind. His knuckles grew white. The strength seemed to be draining out of his aching arms.
/> “Hold it, I’ll get you!” Rod Jimerson called out. He put his tool aside and worked his way along the girder. Leaning over, he grasped Joe’s wrists in his viselike hands, then hoisted the exhausted boy up beside him.
“Easy now,” he said, and guided Joe back along the girder to the platform where Frank and Chet stood, white-faced but vastly relieved.
“Thank you,” Joe managed to say weakly. “Boy, I thought my number was up!”
“We almost had to pick you up in pieces,” Frank said.
“That was a careless thing to do,” the foreman yelled angrily at Joe.
Rod Jimerson held up his hand. “Hold it, Mike! He’s had enough. I don’t think he realized how dangerous it was.”
The foreman mopped his head. “I know, I know. But I’m responsible up here and an accident is all I need!” Shaking his head, he walked away.
“We came to see you, Mr. Jimerson,” Frank spoke up.
“You did?” The Seneca’s eyebrows lifted and his tanned forehead wrinkled above his high cheekbones. “Well, let’s go down to the street where we can talk.”
After the freight elevator had rattled to the bottom of the steel frame, all four stepped out onto the wooden sidewalk and stood in the shade of a gallery which protected pedestrians.
“Now, what’s it all about?” Rod Jimerson asked.
Frank quickly told him the story and added, “It seems you had a bad phone connection, Mr. Jimerson. But why didn’t you call Dad back later?”
“I did, but the line was busy. Then other things came up.”
“Well,” Joe said, who by now had recovered from his shock, “we’re here to help you if we can.”
“What about this person called Spoon Mouth?” Frank put in. “Is he lost or did he run away?”
Rod Jimerson laughed, tilted back his hardhat, and said, “Spoon Mouth is not a person.” He explained that Spoon Mouth was a highly revered object which had been stolen from the Indians.
“Something like an idol, you mean?” Chet asked.
“No, I wouldn’t say that. There’s a lot to tell, but I’ve got to get back to work.” He glanced at his watch and added, “Where are you fellows staying? Maybe I could meet you tonight.”