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  The Tower Treasure

  ( The Hardy Boys - 1 )

  Franklin W. Dixon

  Grownups will remember Frank and Joe Hardy and their ability to solve even the most baffling of mysteries. The first book was published in 1927, and over the years the series has sold over 50 million copies. But mysteriously, the original books have disappeared. Now, Applewood is pleased to present The Tower Treasure, the very first Hardy Boys mystery ever published.

  Join millions of fans as they match wits with the Hardy Boys on their quest to bring criminals to justice.

  ____________

  HARDY BOYS #001 - THE TOWER TREASURE

  FRANKLIN W DIXON

  CHAPTER I

  The Speed Demon

  FRANK and Joe Hardy clutched the grips of their motorcycles and stared in

  horror at the oncoming car. It was careening from side to side on the narrow

  road.

  "He'll hit us! We'd better climb this hillside-and fast!" Frank exclaimed, as

  the boys brought their motorcycles to a screeching halt and leaped off.

  "On the double!" Joe cried out as they started up the steep embankment.

  To their amazement, the reckless driver suddenly pulled his car hard to the

  right and turned into a side road on two wheels. The boys expected the car to

  turn over, but it held the dusty ground and sped off out of sight.

  "Wow!" said Joe. "Let's get away from here before the crazy guy comes

  back. That's a dead-end road, you know."

  The boys scrambled back onto their motorcycles and gunned them a bit to get

  past the intersecting road in a hurry. They rode in silence for a while, gazing

  at the scene ahead.

  On their right an embankment of tumbled rocks and boulders sloped steeply

  to the water below. From the opposite side rose a jagged cliff. The

  little-traveled road was winding, and just wide enough for two cars to pass.

  "Boy, I'd hate to fall off the edge of this road," Frank remarked. "It's a

  hundred-foot drop."

  "That's right," Joe agreed. "We'd sure be smashed to bits before we ever

  got to the bottom." Then he smiled. "Watch your step, Frank, or Dad's

  papers won't get delivered."

  Frank reached into his jacket pocket to be sure several important legal

  papers which he was to deliver for Mr. Hardy were still there. Relieved to

  find them, Frank chuckled and said, "After the help we gave Dad on his

  latest case, he ought to set up the firm of Hardy and Sons."

  "Why not?" Joe replied with a broad grin. "Isn't he one of the most famous

  private detectives in the country? And aren't we bright too?" Then, becoming

  serious, he added, "I wish we could solve a mystery on our own, though."

  Frank and Joe, students at Bayport High, were combining business with

  pleasure this Saturday morning by doing the errand for their father. Even

  though one boy was dark and the other fair, there was a marked resemblance

  between the two brothers. Eighteen-year-old Frank was tall and dark. Joe, a

  year younger, was blond with blue eyes. They were the only children of

  Fenton and Laura Hardy. The family lived in Bayport, a small but thriving

  city of fifty thousand inhabitants, located on Barmet Bay, three miles inland

  from the Atlantic Ocean.

  The two motorcycles whipped along the narrow road that skirted the bay and

  led to Willowville, the brothers' destination. The boys took the next curve

  neatly and started up a long, steep slope. Here the road was a mere ribbon

  and badly in need of repair.

  "Once we get to the top of the hill it won't be so rough," Frank remarked, as

  they jounced over the uneven surface. "Better road from there into

  Willowville."

  Just then, above the sharp put-put of their own motors, the two boys heard

  the roar of a car approaching from their rear at great speed. They took a

  moment to glance back.

  "Looks like that same guy we saw before!" Joe burst out. "Good night!"

  At once the Hardys stopped and pulled as close to the edge as they dared.

  Frank and Joe hopped off and stood poised to leap out of danger again if

  necessary.

  The car hurtled toward them like a shot. Just when it seemed as if it could

  not miss them, the driver swung the wheel about viciously and the sedan sped

  past.

  "Whew! That was close!" Frank gasped.

  The car had been traveling at such high speed that the boys had been unable

  to get the license number or a glimpse of the driver's features. But they had

  noted that he was hatless and had a shock of red hair.

  "If I ever meet him again," Joe muttered, "I'll -I'll-" The boy was too excited

  to finish the threat.

  Frank relaxed. "He must be practicing for some kind of race," he remarked,

  as the dark-blue sedan disappeared from sight around the curve ahead.

  The boys resumed their journey. By the time they rounded the curve, and

  could see Willowville in a valley along the bay beneath them, there was no

  trace of the rash motorist.

  "He's probably halfway across the state by this time," Joe remarked.

  "Unless he's in jail or over a cliff," Frank added.

  The boys reached Willowville and Frank delivered the legal papers to a

  lawyer while Joe guarded the motorcycles. When his brother returned, Joe

  suggested, "How about taking the other road back to Bayport? I don't crave

  going over that bumpy stretch again."

  "Suits me. We can stop off at Chet's."

  Chet Morton, who was a school chum of the Hardy boys, lived on a farm

  about a mile out of Bayport. The pride of Chet's life was a bright yellow

  jalopy which he had named Queen. He worked on it daily to "soup up" the

  engine.

  Frank and Joe retraced their trip for a few miles, then turned onto a country

  road which led to the main highway on which the Morton farm was situated.

  As they neared Chet's home, Frank suddenly brought his motorcycle to a stop

  and peered down into a clump of bushes in a deep ditch at the side of the

  road.

  "Joe! That crazy driver or somebody else had a crack-up!"

  Among the tall bushes was an overturned blue sedan. The car was a total

  wreck, and lay wheels upward, a mass of tangled junk.

  "We'd better see if there's anyone underneath," Joe cried out.

  The boys made their way down the culvert, their hearts pounding. What

  would they find?

  A close look into the sedan and in the immediate vicinity proved that there

  was no victim around.

  "Maybe this happened some time ago," said Joe, "and-"

  Frank stepped forward and laid his hand on the exposed engine. "Joe, it's

  still warm," he said. "The accident occurred a short while ago. Now

  I'm sure this is the red-haired driver's car."

  "But what about him?" Joe asked. "Is he alive? Did somebody rescue him,

  or what happened?"

  Frank shrugged. "One thing I can tell you. Either he or somebody else

  removed the license plates to avoid identification."

  The brothers were completely puzzled by the whole affair. Since their

  assistance was not ne
eded at the spot, they climbed out of the culvert and

  back onto their motorcycles. Before long they were in sight of the Mortons'

  home, a rambling farmhouse with an apple orchard at the rear. When they

  drove up the lane they saw Chet at the barnyard gate.

  "Hi, fella!" Joe called.

  Chet hurried down the lane to meet them. He was a plump boy who loved to

  eat and was rarely without an apple or a pocket of cookies. His round,

  freckled face usually wore a smile. But today the Hardys sensed something

  was wrong. As they brought their motorcycles to a stop, they noticed that

  their chum's cheery expression was missing.

  "What's the matter?" Frank asked.

  "I'm in trouble," Chet replied. "You're just in time to help me. Did you meet

  a fellow driving the Queen?"

  Frank and Joe looked at each other blankly.

  "Your car? No, we haven't seen it," said Joe. "What's happened?"

  "It's been stolen!"

  "Stolen!"

  "Yes. I just came out to the garage to get the Queen and she was gone,"

  Chet answered mournfully.

  "Wasn't the car locked?"

  "That's the strange part of it. She was locked, although the garage door was

  open. I can't see how anyone got away with it."

  "A professional job," Frank commented. "Auto thieves always carry scores

  of keys with them. Chet, have you any idea when this happened?"

  "Not more than fifteen minutes ago, because that's when I came home with

  the car."

  "We're wasting time!" Joe cried out. "Let's chase that thief!"

  "But I don't know which way he went," Chet protested.

  "We didn't meet him, so he must have gone in the other direction," Frank

  reasoned.

  "Climb on behind me, Chet," Joe urged. "The Queen can't go as fast as our

  motorcycles. We'll catch her in no time!"

  "And there was only a little gas in my car, anyway," Chet said excitedly as he

  swung himself onto Joe's motorcycle. "Maybe it has stalled by this time."

  In a few moments the boys were tearing down the road in pursuit of the

  automobile thief.

  CHAPTER II

  The Holdup

  CHET MORTON'S jalopy was such a brilliant yellow that the boys were

  confident it would not be difficult to pick up the trail of the auto thief.

  "The Queen's pretty well known around Bay-port," Frank remarked. "We

  should meet someone who saw it."

  "Seems strange to me," said Joe, "that a thief would take a car like that.

  Auto thieves usually take cars of a standard make and color. They're easier

  to get rid of."

  "It's possible," Frank suggested, "that the thief didn't steal the car to sell it.

  Maybe, for some reason, he was making a fast getaway and he'll abandon

  it."

  "Look!" Chet exclaimed, pointing to a truck garden where several men were

  hoeing cabbage plants. "Maybe they saw the Queen."

  "I'll ask them," Frank offered, and brought his motorcycle to a stop.

  He scrambled over the fence and jumped across the rows of small plants until

  he reached the first farm hand.

  "Did you see a yellow jalopy go by here within the past hour?" Frank asked

  him.

  The lanky old farmer leaned on his hoe and put a hand to one ear. "Eh?" he

  shouted.

  "Did you see a fellow pass along here in a bright yellow car?" Frank

  repeated in a louder tone.

  The farmer called to his companions. As they ambled over, the old man

  removed a plug of tobacco from the pocket of his overalls and took a hearty

  chew.

  "Lad here wants to know if we saw a jalopy come by," he said slowly.

  The other three farm hands, all rather elderly men, did not answer at once.

  Instead, they laid down their hoes and the plug of tobacco was duly passed

  around the group.

  Frank grit his teeth. "Please hurry up and answer. The car was stolen. We're

  trying to find the thief!"

  "That so?" said one of the men. "A hot rod, eh?"

  "Yes. A bright yellow one," Frank replied.

  Another of the workers removed his hat and mopped his brow. "Seems to

  me," he drawled, "I did see a car come by here a while ago."

  "A yellow car?"

  "No-'twarn't yeller, come to think of it. I guess, anyhow, it was a delivery

  truck, if I remember rightly."

  Frank strove to conceal his impatience. "Please, did any of you-?"

  "Was it a brand-new car, real shiny?" asked the fourth member of the

  group.

  "No, it was an old car, but it was painted bright yellow," Frank explained.

  "My nephew had one of them things," the farmer remarked. "Never thought

  they was safe, myself."

  "I don't agree with you," still another man spoke up. "All boys like cars and

  you might as well let 'em have one they can work on themselves."

  "You're all wrong!" the deaf man interrupted. "Let the boys work on the

  farm truck. That way they won't get into mischief!" He gave a cackling sort

  of laugh. "Well, son, I guess we ain't been much help to you. Hope you find

  the critter that stole your hot rod."

  "Thanks," said Frank, and joined the other boys. "No luck. Let's go!"

  As they approached Bayport, the trio saw a girl walking along the road

  ahead of them. When the cyclists drew nearer, Frank's face lighted up, for he

  had recognized Callie Shaw, who was in his class at Bayport High. Frank

  often dated Callie and liked her better than any girl he knew.

  The boys brought their motorcycles to a stop beside pretty, brown-eyed

  Callie. Under one arm she was carrying a slightly battered package. She

  looked vexed.

  "Hi, Callie! What's the matter?" Frank asked. "You look as if your last

  friend had gone off in a moon rocket."

  Callie gave a mischievous smile. "How could I think that with you three

  friends showing up? Or are you about to take off?" Then her smile faded and

  she held out the damaged package. "Look at that!" she exclaimed. "It's your

  fault, Chet Morton!"

  The stout boy gulped. "M-my fault? How do you figure that?"

  "Well, dear old Mrs. Wills down the road is ill, so I baked her a cake."

  "Lucky Mrs. Wills," Joe broke in. "Callie, I'm feeling terribly ill."

  Callie ignored him. "That man in the car came along here so fast that I

  jumped to the side of the road and dropped my package. I'm afraid my cake

  is ruined!"

  "What man?" Joe asked.

  "The one Chet lent his car to."

  "Callie, that's the man we're looking for!" Frank exclaimed. "Chet didn't

  lend him the car. He stole it!"

  "Oh!" said Callie, shocked. "Chet, that's a shame."

  "Was he heading for Bayport?" Joe asked.

  "Yes, and at the speed he was making the poor Queen travel, you'll never

  catch him."

  Chet groaned. "I just remembered that the gas gauge wasn't working. I

  guess the car had more gas in it than I thought. No telling where that guy

  may take my Queen."

  "We'd better go to police headquarters," Frank suggested. "Callie, will you

  describe this man?"

  "All I saw," she answered, "was a blur, but the man did have red hair."

  "Red hair!" Frank fairly shouted. "Joe, do you think he could be the same

  man we saw? The one who wrecked his own car?"

  J
oe wagged his head. "Miracles do happen. Maybe he wasn't hurt very much

  and walked to Chet's house."

  "And helped himself to my car!" Chet added.

  Frank snapped his fingers. "Say! Maybe the wrecked car didn't belong to

  that fellow-"

  "You mean he'd stolen it, too!" Joe interrupted.

  "Yes-which would make him even more desperate to get away."

  "Whatever are you boys talking about?" Callie asked.

  "I'll phone you tonight and tell you," Frank promised. "Got to dash now."

  The boys waved good-by to Callie and hurried into town. They went at once

  to Chief Ezra Collig, head of the Bayport police force. He was a tall, husky

  man, well known to Fenton Hardy and his two sons. The chief had often

  turned to the private detective for help in solving particularly difficult cases.

  When the boys went into his office they found the police chief talking with

  three excited men. One of these was Ike Harrity, the old ticket seller at the

  city ferryboat office. Another was Policeman Con Riley. The third was Oscar

  Smuff, a short, stout man. He was invariably seen wearing a checkered suit

  and a soft felt hat. He called himself a private detective and was working

  hard to earn a place on the Bayport police force.

  "Smuff's playing up to Collig again," Joe whispered, chuckling, as the boys

  waited for the chief to speak to them.

  Ike Harrity was frankly frightened. He was a timid man, who had perched on

  a high stool behind the ticket window at the ferryboat office day in and day

  out for a good many years.

  "I was just countin' up the mornin's receipts," he was saying in a

  high-pitched, excited voice, "when in comes this fellow and sticks a revolver

  in front of my nose."

  "Just a minute," interrupted Chief Collig, turning to the newcomers. "What

  can I do for you boys?"

  "I came to report a theft," Chet spoke up. "My hot rod has been stolen."

  "Why, it was one of those crazy hot rods this fellow drove!" Ike Harrity cried

  out. "A yellow one!"

  "Ha!" exclaimed Oscar Smuff. "A clue!" He immediately pulled a pencil and

  notebook from his pocket.

  "My Queen!" shouted Chet.

  Chief Collig rapped on his desk for quiet and asked, "What's a queen got to

  do with all this?"

  Chet explained, then the chief related Harrity's story for him.