The Twisted Claw

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Anyway,” the curator continued, “you’re only acting on a hunch.”

  “Have it your way,” Frank said tartly. “I hope you won’t have reason to regret your decision.”

  “Hardly,” Watkins assured him. He grinned. “You detectives tend to be overly suspicious. I doubt if the thieves are within a thousand miles of this museum.”

  At that moment a tall, muscular, hard-faced man entered the basement. He was carrying a pair of shears which he placed in a tool chest. Then he hurried away. Something about the man made Frank uneasy.

  “Who was that?” he asked the curator in a low voice.

  “Our gardener,” replied Watkins. “He takes care of the grounds around the building as well as other odd jobs.”

  “How long has he been employed here?”

  “Less than a week, actually. We’re lucky to have him. We can’t pay very much and it’s difficult to find someone to do the work.”

  The curator added that the man’s name was Starker, and that he had excellent references.

  After the guards were posted, Watkins invited Frank to his home for dinner.

  “Thank you. But I’d better stick around here. I’ll have a quick meal at one of the local restaurants later.”

  As night approached, Frank had the guards help him check all doors and windows. Then he decided to have some food. One of the men recommended an eating place about seven blocks from the museum.

  Frank strolled out of the building and down the street. He had not walked very far when he realized that two men were following him.

  As he quickened his pace, so did his pursuers. Gradually they gained on him. As the gap between them narrowed, Frank arrived at the restaurant and dashed inside.

  “Soup’s all gone, and so are the menu specials,” a waiter announced as Frank quickly sat down at a table. “We’re closing in half an hour.”

  Frank did not speak He stared at the door apprehensively. The men did not follow him into the restaurant. Obviously they wanted to avoid being seen, and were waiting for him outside.

  “How about a sandwich?” the waiter went on as he glanced at his watch impatiently. “Best I can do.”

  Frank made a selection and was quickly served. As he ate, he desperately tried to think of a way to escape his pursuers. He finally decided to call the police.

  “Where’s the telephone?” Frank asked the waiter.

  “There’s none here in the restaurant,” the man replied. “You’ll find a public booth on the comer half a block down the street.”

  “But you must have a phone here somewhere!” the boy insisted.

  “Sure,” the waiter said icily, eyeing Frank with suspicion. “We have one in the kitchen. It’s strictly for business, not for customers.”

  “This is an emergency! You must let me make a call!”

  “Don’t give me that,” the man snarled. “What’s wrong? Too lazy to walk half a block?”

  The situation was becoming more desperate. It was now closing time and several of the employees were preparing to leave.

  Frank did not like what he was about to do, but he had no choice. “I—I don’t think I could walk that far. I feel sick. It—it must’ve been the sandwich I just ate.”

  “Just a second, kid,” the waiter fumed. “Don’t accuse us of serving bad food. All our stuff is the best.”

  Frank settled into a chair. “Maybe,” he groaned. “But I felt fine till now. Ugh—this is awful.”

  The waiter rushed off and returned with the proprietor of the restaurant.

  “What’s going on here?” the man demanded. “I hear you don’t feel good. I’ve been in this business twenty years and never poisoned a customer yet!”

  “There’s always a first time,” Frank muttered weakly. “Somebody get me a taxi.”

  The proprietor turned to the waiter. “Call him a cab,” he ordered. “This kid must be some sort of mental case. The sooner we get rid of him the better.”

  Minutes later a taxi rolled up in front of the restaurant. The owner and several of his employees accompanied Frank as he trudged toward it and climbed in.

  “Take me to the museum,” he told the driver. As they sped off, he peered out the rear window in time to see two men leap out from a dark alley-way.

  Arriving at his destination, Frank went to the basement to check on the storeroom. There the two guards were engaged in idle conversation.

  “Everything okay?” Frank asked.

  “Yeah,” one of the guards replied. “Our only problem is trying to stay awake.”

  “Whatever you do,” Frank warned, “don’t fall asleep. I’ll get a couple of the other men to relieve you in two hours.”

  He then hurried to the curator’s office to telephone his father and report what had happened.

  “You had a close call,” Mr. Hardy commented. “From what you tell me, I don’t think the column fell over by accident, either. And what about the men who followed you?”

  “No sign of them,” answered Frank. “But I did catch a glimpse of one man. He was tall and muscular. I’m sure he was Starker, the museum gardener.”

  “Get help,” his father urged. “Call the police in on this. Never mind what the curator said. This could be serious!”

  Just then a loud noise echoed through the museum. Frank asked Mr. Hardy to stand by for a moment and quickly placed the phone down on the desk.

  “Who’s there?” he shouted.

  No answer. Frank raced down into the basement. The two guards were on their feet, poised for action.

  “We heard a noise!” one of them said excitedly. “What was it?”

  Frank was about to reply when his attention was seized by a hissing sound. Then a white, odorless smoke began to filter into the room.

  “What’s that?” a guard shouted.

  In the next instant several men wearing gas masks appeared. Frank lunged at the intruders, but his body seemed to be drained of energy. He fell to the floor, unconscious!

  CHAPTER VII

  Mysterious Cargo

  “WHAT—what happened?” Frank asked groggily as he regained consciousness. He found himself staring into the face of a police sergeant.

  “You were knocked out by some kind of gas,” the officer replied. “So were all the guards in the building.”

  Still dazed, Frank struggled to sit up. “But how come you’re here?” he inquired. “Who notified you?”

  “Your father called headquarters,” the sergeant explained. “He said you’d heard a noise in the museum and went to check it out. When you didn’t return to the phone, he suspected something was wrong.”

  Frank glanced around. He saw several policemen inspecting the area. Others were helping to revive the two guards posted at the storeroom door.

  Suddenly Frank sprang to his feet. “The DeGraw collection!” he cried. “Is it gone?”

  “The storeroom is empty, if that’s what you mean,” the sergeant replied.

  At that instant the curator arrived on the scene. “I received a telephone call to come here at once. What’s—?” His words trailed off as he peered into the empty storeroom.

  “The collection’s been stolen,” Frank said.

  Watkins’s face turned pale. “This is outrageous!” He glared at Frank. “Why didn’t you stop the thieves?”

  Frank fought hard to control his temper. “I warned you, sir. We should have called in the police.”

  “Are you trying to blame me for what happened ?”

  Frank said nothing. He did not want to waste precious time by getting involved in an argument with Watkins. Instead, he began to search the area for clues.

  On the floor he spotted a short piece of rope. He examined it closely, then showed it to the police sergeant. “Do you mind if I keep this for a while?” he asked.

  The officer looked at it, then returned it to Frank. “We might need it later.”

  “Certainly.”

  “I have a couple of men coming over from the crime lab to check
for fingerprints,” the sergeant went on. “You get some sleep. I’ll let you know if we find anything.”

  “Think I will,” Frank agreed wearily. He went to the curator’s office and settled down into a comfortable chair.

  He slept several hours before he was gently shaken awake. “Hello, son,” came his father’s voice.

  “Dad! When did you get here?”

  “A couple of hours ago. I decided to let you sleep a while longer.”

  Frank grimaced. “Then you know about the robbery.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. I had a talk with the curator. Never met such a stubborn man. He should have given you more cooperation.”

  Frank filled his father in on all the facts. Then Mr. Hardy said, “We’re dealing with a shrewd ring of thieves. But they must know we’re on to their game. I have a hunch the gang will wait for a while before they pull off another robbery.”

  “What’s our next move?”

  “Breakfast and then back to Bayport. I’ve already called Joe and the others. The local police have agreed to take over in the other towns and will guard the museums heavily for an indefinite period of time.”

  Fenton Hardy and Frank arrived in Bayport in the early afternoon. Joe had just come home and was in the study with Chet.

  “Hi!” Chet greeted them. “Heard you had a run-in with the museum thieves.”

  “And they won,” Frank replied ruefully.

  “By the way,” Joe said, “Sam Radley telephoned from California. He had trouble getting an airline reservation and won’t be here till tomorrow morning.”

  At Joe’s request, Frank repeated the story about the robbery. Then he produced the piece of rope he had found on the floor of the storeroom.

  “Looks like ordinary rope to me,” Chet muttered.

  “It does,” Frank agreed. “My guess is that it’s part of the rope the thieves must have used to tie up the loot. But here’s what I find particularly interesting. Notice that it’s neatly spliced.”

  Joe shrugged his shoulders. “So what?”

  “Doesn’t it suggest anything to you?” Frank questioned.

  Suddenly Joe’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I get it. Experienced sailors are usually good at splicing ropes. Maybe the crew of the Black Parrot have been committing the robberies!”

  “Could be,” said Mr. Hardy. “But I have a hunch that they’re only involved in transporting the loot.”

  Frank agreed. “The thefts seem to be the work of a skilled gang.”

  Joe eagerly suggested that they try again to investigate the Black Parrot. Their father was reluctant. He warned the boys that they would surely be recognized by the captain and most of the crew.

  “We won’t attempt to board the ship,” Frank explained. “We’ll observe it from a distance. With luck, we might pick up some useful information.”

  There was a long pause. “All right, I’ll go along with your plan,” Mr. Hardy said finally. “But you must be extremely careful.”

  “We will,” Frank promised.

  Joe was jubilant. But an instant later his enthusiasm disappeared. “Wait a minute. We’ve overlooked something. Where do we find the Black Parrot?”

  “I have a hunch that the ship will be back at the East Coast sooner or later,” Frank said. “Let’s try all the ports up to Canada.”

  During the next few days the Hardys checked the shipping schedules in the newspapers, and kept in constant contact with the various harbor authorities. A week went by before Frank’s prediction proved to be correct.

  “You were right!” Joe said. “The Black Parrot is due to dock at Stormwell again day after tomorrow.”

  “We’ll leave for Canada in the morning,” Frank decided. “Too bad we can’t use Dad’s plane. But Jack’s flying him to Philadelphia tomorrow. He wants to have another talk with Watkins.”

  Chet needed no persuading to go along. They arrived at their destination late the following afternoon and checked in at a hotel near Stormwell.

  “How about something to eat?” Chet suggested.

  “Okay,” Frank answered, smiling. “I noticed a dining room just off the lobby.”

  “So did I,” the stout youth admitted.

  “You didn’t expect Chet to miss any spot where food is served,” Joe said to his brother jokingly. “He has a built-in compass that would lead him to all the restaurants within fifty miles.”

  “Cut it out, fellows,” Chet said.

  They entered the dining room and sat down at a table. A waiter handed each of them a menu. While they were trying to decide what to order, Frank could not help overhearing a conversation between two men sitting at an adjacent table.

  “The Black Parrot wasn’t due in till tomorrow,” one of them said angrily. “So what happens? The ship shows up a couple of hours ago. It’s forcing me to rearrange my docking schedule.”

  “I don’t like those Parrot ships, anyway,” the other man commented. “There’s something strange about them. Wish they’d stay away from Stormwell.”

  “Luckily the Black Parrot won’t be in port long. It isn’t picking up much cargo, and the crew looked as if they were in a big hurry to get underway again.”

  Frank leaped to his feet. Followed by Joe and Chet, he rushed past the startled waiter and out of the restaurant.

  The hotel manager quickly secured a rental car, and the boys headed for the docks.

  As they approached the waterfront, Joe pointed toward the pier. “There she is! What’s that they’re hauling aboard?”

  “Looks like a pile of logs,” Chet said. “I’d say about a dozen.”

  Frank’s attention was focused on a flatbed truck from which the cargo was being lifted. On the side of the vehicle was the name Norland Lumber Company, Cloud Lake, Canada.

  The boys watched as the logs were lowered into the hold of the Black Parrot. Then crewmen began to scurry around the deck. Shortly the ship’s engines rumbled and a boiling caldron of foamy water appeared at the stern.

  “That was a short visit,” Chet muttered as he and the Hardys watched the freighter glide away from the pier.

  “Odd,” Joe remarked. “Why would the ship come here just to pick up a dozen logs?”

  Frank’s thoughts were elsewhere at the moment. “Norland Lumber Company,” he said to himself. “This might be worth investigating.”

  The boys saw two men climb into the truck and drive off.

  “What do you make of it?” Joe asked.

  “I’m not sure yet,” Frank said. “But right now, I think we’d better check out that lumber company.”

  After returning to the hotel, Frank phoned the local police.

  “Yes. I can tell you something about the Norland firm,” an officer said in response to his question. Actually, it’s a lumber mill. I hear it may close down.”

  “Where is it located?”

  “Thirty miles northwest of here—just off the Old Pine Road.”

  “Thank you,” Frank said. He hung up and turned to his companions. “Let’s drive out to the mill.”

  “But it’ll be dark when we get there,” Joe pointed out.

  “I know, but time is important.”

  They hurried to the car and started off. The Old Pine Road was unpaved and driving was difficult.

  Suddenly the car began to wobble. Frank stopped and jumped out. Seconds later he gave a cry of dismay, “We have a flat!”

  “Great!” Joe muttered in disgust. “Just what we need!”

  He and Chet helped Frank to take out the spare tire. While Frank jacked up the car, Chet flopped down on the spare. Pffft! The tire collapsed under his weight.

  “Oh, nol” Joe shook his head. “The spare’s no good!”

  “We’re stuck,” Frank admitted. He furrowed his brow. “The mill can’t be more than a mile from here. Let’s walk.”

  Chet did not think much of this suggestion, but he did not want to stay in the car, either. “I’d better go along,” he mumbled. “Somebody has to see to it that you guys don’t get
into trouble!”

  The trio trudged on. Darkness had settled over the trees and progress was slow.

  Joe took out his flashlight and scanned the area. “Look,” he said. “Tire tracksl”

  “They were made by a heavy truck,” Frank concluded. “Like the one we saw at the pier.”

  He motioned Joe and Chet to halt, and listened intently.

  “What’s the matter?” Joe whispered after a few minutes of tense silence.

  “I thought I heard something in the underbrush.”

  “Like what, for instance?” Chet quavered.

  Frank shone his light at the trees, but all was still. “Maybe it was just a squirrel.”

  “I think we should wait till tomorrow,” Chet suggested. “This looks like trouble!”

  “Why don’t you walk back to the car and Joe and I’ll go alone,” Frank said.

  Chet shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “No,” he said. “I’ll come with you.”

  Proceeding cautiously, they finally spotted a small group of wooden buildings ahead. Light came from a window in one of them.

  “That must be the mill,” Joe whispered. Frank nodded, then signaled to his brother and Chet to follow.

  All at once the ground gave way beneath them. A split second later the boys plunged into a deep hole!

  CHAPTER VIII

  Fire!

  THE boys lay stunned. Shortly, beams of light pierced the darkness from the rim of the hole above.

  “We have visitors,” a man’s voice snarled.

  “Three, to be exact,” said another.

  “Who are you?” Frank demanded as he struggled to his feet.

  There was no response. Instead, a rope was tossed down into the hole.

  “Start climbin’ out of there!” one of the men ordered. “And don’t try anythin’. We’re armed.”

  Frank helped his brother and Chet to their feet. Then they hoisted themselves up out of the hole. The boys could only make out the vague images of three men holding pistols and powerful flashlights.

  “Now talk!” one of the men growled. “What’re you kids doin’ here?”

  “Sightseeing,” Chet said innocently.

  “The fat one’s a comedian!” the fellow boomed. “He won’t think it’s so funny when we throw them back in the hole.”