Fanning himself with a magazine, Chet told the Hardys of his adventure. They leaned forward when he mentioned the junkyard.
“And when I saw this guy glaring at me, I decided it was now or never. So I landed on him.”
“Landed on him?”
Chet nodded, pride swelling his chest. “Just took a run, sailed off the end of the truck, and knocked him off balance. Then I dashed to the car. He didn’t know who I was, so nobody chased me.”
Joe laughed. “It’s a good thing you’ve been keeping in training on that diet.”
“My—diet?” Chet gulped. “Oh yeah, that.”
At Chet’s report of the tire tracks inside the Birnham truck, Frank jumped up. “That proves it! The gang is shipping the hot cars into Bayport in that truck at night. Were there autos in the junk lot, Chet?”
“I never noticed. I did get these.” Standing up, Chet unloaded frayed, discolored greens on the coffee table. Frank was about to groan when Chet’s eyes riveted on one of the greens. “Hey, this isn’t produce—it’s a piece of seaweed!”
“Seaweed?”
Chet checked his pocket-sized algology book. He nodded. “Yes. Not exactly seaweed, but it’s a form of marine vegetation.”
Joe recalled the salt-water traces he had detected on the crushed Dodd station wagon. When he related his findings to Frank and Chet, the three boys tried to correlate the two sea clues.
“I wonder—” Joe thought. But when he compared the sea leaf with the Pilgrim drawing, they proved to be dissimilar.
“The stolen car hideout—and maybe the place the Dodds are being held—must be somewhere not far from the ocean!” said Frank. “But where?”
“Probably north along the coast,” Joe suggested. “There are miles of beach, but we’ve scouted most of it. The police have checked all the buildings, public and private, north of the Barmet beach area.”
“How about the waterfront?” Frank asked.
“It’s possible. But where could they hide cars, even repainted, right in the face of Collig’s heavy police lookout?”
Again recalling the shipment mentioned in Slagel’s telegram to Melliman, the Hardys decided to watch Kitcher’s Junkyard that night.
Suddenly Chet remembered the small phonograph record. “Got something else,” he told the others excitedly. He stood up and slipped it out of his T-shirt.
He groaned. The edges of the black vinyl disk had curled up from heat.
“I hope it will still play,” Frank said, going to the record player.
From the speaker came the warped sound of a loud automobile collision!
“The collisions in the woods!” Joe exclaimed. “This must be how Slagel or his pals decoyed the police off the track—by playing this record and making them look for an accident instead of chasing a stolen car.”
“The paint flecks must be part of the same idea!” added Frank.
The brothers poured thanks on Chet for his reconnaissance work. But his pride was being snuffed by the beginnings of a stomach-ache. As he rose to leave, he heard Aunt Gertrude’s footsteps coming down the stairs.
“Well, guess I’ll be leaving,” he said quickly, almost sprinting to the back door.
But a friendly voice stopped him. “Oh, Chester”—Miss Hardy smiled—“I want to thank you for delivering my little gift to Mrs. Bartlett.”
“Oh, I—Yes, I delivered it. I—I—”
“It was an errand I shouldn’t have burdened you with, but she’s a lovely woman, as you could see, and I always try to send her one of my chocolate-fudge cakes.
“Before you go,” she continued, holding a second cake up to Chet’s nose, “I insist you have a piece of Laura’s delicious caramel cake. This silly diet of yours has gone far enough, and I know you like pecans and marshmallow fill—”
“Yes, yes,” the youth muttered, and to the others’ surprise rushed from the house.
That night Frank and Joe drove to the waterfront area, parking in a cobblestone alley behind a fish store. Their position afforded a good view of Kitcher’s Junkyard.
“If there’s any kind of a shipment here tonight, we should be able to spot it,” Joe whispered from behind the wheel.
The air was cold. Damp gusts from the foggy bay, just visible down a small hill, chilled the air. Both boys shivered, having neglected to bring sweaters.
Through the mist a light was visible inside the junk warehouse. Occasionally a gaunt figure appeared in the light and lounged in the doorway.
“That’s probably Kitcher,” Frank said. A moment later it began to drizzle lightly.
A black sedan moved slowly down the street and parked in front of the junkyard. The brothers leaned forward as they recognized Slagel emerging from the car, its motor still running.
“Guess he’s not staying long,” Frank whispered.
Kitcher and several other men appeared in the light of the doorway and conversed with Slagel. The burly ex-convict shrugged. He held up his hand to the rain which by now was heavy, and shook his head. Then he returned to his car and drove off.
“Looks as if he doesn’t plan to come back,” Frank said. “Think we should follow?”
“I’d rather find out what’s going on here,” Joe answered. “I’d say Slagel’s appearance proves that if there is to be a shipment, it will be to Kitcher’s.”
The street became silent, but the lights in the warehouse remained on. During the next hour Kitcher emerged several times to look at the rain. Another hour passed, then two. Except for the periodic drone of a distant foghorn, the only sound was that of gurgling gutters.
Shivering, the boys rolled up the windows, leaving them open a crack. Joe turned on the heater, hoping the engine noise would not give away their presence. After the car warmed up, they listened to the mesmerizing patter of rain-drops on the roof. Soon Joe fell asleep.
Yawning, Frank kept his eyes fixed on the junkyard area, feeling more and more sleepy. He felt a sensation of dizziness when he nudged his brother to take the next shift.
“Come on—I’m falling off. Wake me in—Joe?”
His brother’s eyes remained closed. Frank shook him more vigorously. “Joe!”
Feeling his own eyes dimming, Frank tried to rouse Joe. He could not awaken him. Panic seized him. Joe was unconscious and Frank felt himself slumping to the floor!
CHAPTER XV
Double Attack
DESPERATELY shaking his head, Frank pushed open the door and pulled his brother outside into the rain. Leaning against a wall, he breathed in large draughts of air.
Mumbling, Joe revived. “What happened?”
“Don’t know, but I have a fair idea.” Frank shut off the car motor and opened all the windows wide. “My guess is carbon monoxide.”
“I don’t get it. We left the windows open enough so we shouldn’t have had that much CO inside.”
“Somebody may have clogged our exhaust.” Frank investigated but nothing was stuffed into it now.
The warehouse was dark. “I wonder when the men left,” Joe said, disappointed.
The brothers crossed the silent, dark street. The warehouse door was locked, so the Hardys peered over the fence into the lot. The yard was strewn with junk, including numerous heaps of rusted piping and battered automobiles.
“Well, chalk off one wasted night,” Joe said as they returned to the car.
“It wasn’t exactly dull.” Frank smiled. “I have a hunch our friends’ shipment may come off tomorrow night. Maybe the weather changed Slagel’s mind.”
By late the next morning the weather had cleared. After wiring their father, the boys repaired the car exhaust which, they found, had been punctured in several places.
“I wonder when those crooks did this,” said Frank. “Probably before we left here last night.”
After lunch Frank and Joe drove out to the Dodd farm for their appointment with Martin Dodd. Parking near the barn, they got out and waited.
Presently Frank looked at his watch. “The professor
should have been here by now.”
Fifteen minutes later the brothers walked to the back of the house. Here the ground was still muddy from the previous night’s rain. Frank pointed out a confused jumble of footprints and suddenly Joe stumbled on a hard object in the mud. Looking down, he gasped in alarm.
It was the broken half of a smashed telescope!
“The professor must have been in a scuffle!” he said. Nearby Frank found a dead bat. Both boys recalled the one they had seen on the beach some days before. “I may be crazy,” said Joe, “but I wonder if somebody’s leaving these dead bats around on purpose.”
Finding no clues to Martin Dodd’s whereabouts, Frank and Joe drove away. “I’m worried, Joe,” said Frank. “If Slagel and his gang have captured the professor, every move we make may endanger the lives of three people.”
“I wonder,” Joe replied, “if the professor came upon a clue to the car hideout.”
“Or the answer to the Pilgrim mystery,” Frank added.
The Hardys stopped at headquarters to report the professor’s seeming disappearance. Chief Collig was concerned, and said he would order his men to conduct a search. Back at the house, Frank and Joe found a coded telegram had arrived for them. “It’s from Dad!” Joe said.
BOYS—HAVE LEARNED WE ARE WORKING ON THE SAME CASE. MELLIMAN MEMBER OF GANG SMUGGLING GAS, WEAPONS TO HIDDEN ARSENAL SOMEWHERE NEAR BAYPORT. WATCH DOCKS.
“The same case!” Joe exclaimed. “Melliman’s traffic in gases could explain the liquid gas.”
Frank went for Slagel’s telegram to Melliman and read the opening aloud:
“ ‘More nerve now, trying for 8-cylinder stock.’ ”
The words seemed to take on a different mean ing and a far graver one.
“Eight cylinders of nerve gas,” Frank said grimly, “probably smuggled and then shipped up the coast to Slagel’s gang!”
“That must be why Dad wants us to watch the docks!”
The young sleuths decided to watch both the junkyard and the docks that night. They phoned Chet and asked him to come over. When their stout friend arrived, he entered the crime lab hesitantly.
“You fellows been cooking up something?”
Joe grinned. “Chet, have you ever heard of the wooden horse?”
“Sure. Wasn’t that the roadblock the people of Troy used to keep out the attacking Greeks?”
“Not exactly.” Frank laughed. “It was a huge gift from the Greeks to the Trojans. But they had really packed the horse with soldiers. When the Trojans accepted the gift, the Greeks were able to get inside the city walls and defeat them.”
“What of it?” Chet shrugged.
“We have a similar plan.” Frank clarified his remark. “We’ve decided that if everything else fails, there’s one way we might blow this case wide open. That’s to buy a car and allow it to be stolen!”
“Buy a car!” Chet exclaimed.
“Yes. Joe and I have enough money to buy a secondhand sedan at Harpertown, where we’re unknown. If it’s flashy enough, Slagel’s gang may steal it out on Shore Road—and us too. Our car will have a large trunk and we’ll be in it!”
Chet shook his head. “And I suppose you’ll ask me to drive it.”
The Hardys grinned but did not answer. Instead, they said they wanted Chet to help them that evening. They would use Mr. Hardy’s car.
By nine o’clock the car was parked between two automobiles a block away from the junkyard.
Presently Slagel arrived and great activity became evident around the lighted lot. Kitcher moved about, making notes on a clipboard as men carried metal junk inside the building. Melliman was nowhere in sight.
“I guess he works behind the scenes and is the brains of this whole operation,” Frank whispered.
Soon several tow trucks bearing Kitcher’s name rolled out of the warehouse and headed downhill toward the docks. Tied behind each of them were five battered cars.
“They couldn’t be stolen,” Chet said. “Nobody would buy them.”
As the warehouse doors closed, the boys decided to follow the shipment and Frank drove off.
Reaching the docks, he parked near a row of steel drums, behind which the boys stationed themselves.
The lights of a barge glittered in the waters of Barmet Bay. The name Arachne was painted on its side in white letters. The dilapidated cars were being unhitched from the tow trucks and rolled toward the barge.
In an hour all the junk cars had been loaded onto the barge. Several loads of rusted wire and sheet metal followed. Slagel and Kitcher returned to their car. A whistle sounded over the churning water, then slowly the Arachne backed into the dark bay toward the south.
“Come on. Let’s take the Sleuth!” Frank motioned.
The boys reached the Hardy boathouse in record time. A minute later the Sleuth’s motor roared to life. A night wind fluttered at their backs as they reached the mouth of Barmet Bay. Joe peered through field glasses.
“There it is!” he cried out.
The lights of the Arachne moved slowly down the coast. Her bow and stern lamps off, the Sleuth increased speed. When Frank had swung farther out to sea he headed parallel to the coast. Abreast of the barge, he throttled down to six knots.
“We can’t do this foreverl” Chet protested. “They’ll catch on!”
Frank slipped off his shoes. “I’m getting a closer look at what and who’s on that barge.”
“You’re crazy!” Joe protested. “You wouldn’t have a chance against all of them!”
“I’ll be careful. Keep the Sleuth on course and give me about twenty minutes.”
Before Joe could say more, Frank was overboard and swimming toward the ghostly lights. He was midway between the two crafts when Joe saw the black fishing boat. Joe stiffened with fear as he deciphered the international code message which was being flashed by lights from the fishing boat to the barge.
“O-n-e o-f H-a-r-d-y k-i-d-s s-w-i-m-m-i-n-g t-o-w-a-r-d y-o-u. S-t-o-p h-i-m.”
Joe jumped into the water instantly and swam toward his brother. Frank, fighting strong currents, had not noticed the warning. Minutes later, he reached the barge and caught his breath. Then, grasping the damp wood with his wet hands, he pulled himself up and slid noiselessly over the side next to a braced car.
Suddenly someone struck him a hard blow on the head. His next sensation was of falling to the water. Frank blacked out before he reached it, but revived as he felt two arms grab him and take him to the surface.
Desperately, Joe bore his brother througli the waves to the darkened Sleuth as the noise of the barge motors became fainter and fainter.
Joe was almost at the end of his strength when he touched the hull of the Sleuth. Chet leaned over and hauled Frank, semiconscious, aboard. The next instant, Joe heard Chet cry out and saw him topple backward out of sight.
Grabbing the rail, Joe swung into the stern of the boat. To his horror, Chet lay motionless beside Frank. Joe whirled to face the attacker—a muscular, black figure in a glistening skin-diving suit.
The man raised a sharp, dripping piton and lunged at Joel
CHAPTER XVI
Retreat Trick
BLOCKING the thrust of the spike, Joe threw all his remaining strength into a hard-fisted uppercut. The blow sent the diver reeling against the fan-tail of the Sleuth. Staggering, the black figure noticed Chet beginning to revive. In a flash he dived overboard and disappeared.
Joe hurried over to Frank, who by now was sitting up groggily. “Thank goodness you’re all right,” he said. “Chet, you okay?”
Chet winced and rubbed his jaw, but smiled gamely. “You Hardys are the ones I’m worried about!”
“You can’t keep us down!” Joe said with a grin as he helped Frank to his feet.
“Thanks for saving my wet skin,” Frank said.
Shivering, Joe crouched out of the wind and started the engine. He pointed to starboard. “Look!”
Fifty yards away the fishing boat idled in the waves, its l
ights extinguished. Through the darkness, the boy could see its pilot pulling another figure aboard. Then the boat sped in the direction of Bayport.
“Let’s go!” Frank said.
The Sleuth followed. It was just closing the gap near the mouth of Barmet Bay when the motor began sputtering. The gas gauge read empty. In disgust the boys watched the black boat vanish down the coast.
“How are we going to make the boathouse?” Chet asked nervously.
Frank pointed to the emergency oars. “The tide’s coming in, so that’ll help us row.”
Joe was angry about the fishing boat and its occupants getting away. Frank consoled him. “At least we’ve learned the owner of that boat is in on this racket. Also, I’m sure we had our first meeting with the spider-man!”
“Who?” chorused Joe and Chet.
“The skin diver—he’s powerful enough to scale cliffs. And that pike he had is used for mountain climbing.”
Chet shuddered. “Or a weapon.”
“He’s the one who trapped Callie in the net,” Joe added.
Frank expressed disappointment at his failure to get a look aboard the barge or at the man who had knocked him into the water. “We’ll have to tackle the problem from another angle.”
“Not tonight!” Chet begged. “We’ve had enough.”
The Hardys agreed and the boys rowed wearily to the boathouse.
First thing the next morning Frank checked with police headquarters. There were no leads to any of the missing Dodds. The brothers were discussing what move they should make next, when the telephone rang. It was Tony Prito. He excitedly asked the boys to come to the Napoli’s boathouse at once. “It’s important!”
When they met him, Joe asked, “What’s up?”
“Can’t tell you yet.” Their friend, wearing swimming trunks, hurried them aboard his motorboat and steered north out of Barmet Bay. He slowed down just past Bay Bluff.
“I think I saw something out here yesterday, and if it’s what I suspect—”
Tony headed toward the shoreline, studying the water closely. Suddenly he cut the motor and leaned over the side. The Hardys followed his pointing finger.
The Shore Road Mystery Page 9