Danger on Vampire Trail
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER I - Sporty Swindlers
CHAPTER II - About Face !
CHAPTER III - Farewell Party
CHAPTER IV - Four Flats
CHAPTER V - A Strange Hiding Place
CHAPTER VII - Charred Evidence
CHAPTER VIII - The Missing Cruiser
CHAPTER IX - Sanctuary
CHAPTER X - Buckskin Clue
CHAPTER XI - A Shattering Experience
CHAPTER XII - Prince Cuthbert
CHAPTER XIII - A Grizzly Attack?
CHAPTER XIV - Death Warrant
CHAPTER XV - A Terrified Escapee
CHAPTER XVI - Royal Trouble
CHAPTER XVII - An Unexpected Denial
CHAPTER XVIII - The Vampire Cave
CHAPTER XIX - Then There Were Three
CHAPTER XX - The jackpot
DANGER ON VAMPIRE TRAIL
AN assignment from their famous detective father to track down a ring of credit-card counterfeiters takes Frank and Joe Hardy on an exciting camping trip to the Rocky Mountains.
The cross-country trek with their pals Chet Morton and Biff Hooper is jinxed from the very first day. Trouble with their tent trailer is compounded by vicious harassments all the way to Colorado. Here their enemies strike at Biff’s lovable bloodhound in another attempt to scare the teen-age detectives off the case. In Denver a skein of clues confuses the Hardys. How many gangs are out to get them—one, two, or three?
Strange happenings on a nearly impassable moun. tain lure Frank, Joe, Chet, and Biff to almost certain death before they discover the sinister reason for the danger on Vampire Trail.
Frank saw the robed figure of a man
Copyright ©1971 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 HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.
eISBN : 978-1-101-07663-7
2008 Printing
http://us.penguingroup.com
CHAPTER I
Sporty Swindlers
“Do you boys feel up to tackling a counterfeit case?” Detective Fenton Hardy asked his sons. He looked at eighteen-year-old, dark-haired Frank and then at blond, seventeen-year-old Joe. They were seated in comfortable leather chairs in their famous father’s study.
Frank grinned. “Of course, Dad! Well tackle anything from flying fullbacks to dangerous crooks. What’s the scoop?”
“A strange one,” Mr. Hardy replied. “A gang is counterfeiting the famous Magnacard.”
“The so-called millionaire’s charge card?”
“Yes. No questions asked on purchases or ready cash up to ten thousand dollars.”
“How can we help?” Joe wanted to know.
“By taking over the entire assignment. I’ve been asked to handle a high-priority case for the government.”
Frank and Joe had assisted their father in solving many cases. The first one was the mystery of The Tower Treasure, and in their most recent caper, The Bombay Boomerang, the boys had saved Mr. Hardy’s life.
The responsibility of a sleuthing job always gave Frank and Joe a tingling of excitement.
“Well?” Fenton Hardy said, his lips curling into a slow smile. “Anyone interested?”
Joe blurted, “You know we are!”
“When do we start?” Frank said.
“In a few days. But it’ll involve a camping trip.”
“Camping! That’s right up our alley, Dad.” Joe got up and paced around. “Chet’s been bugging us to go on a camping trip for a long time.”
“He sure has,” Frank agreed. “Chet wants to get a trailer tent, but he’s short of cash.”
Mr. Hardy said, “We might work something out. Expense money, perhaps. Then there’s a possibility of the reward.”
“What reward?” Frank asked.
Mr. Hardy explained that a very rich man, who had been duped by the counterfeiters, had posted a reward of two thousand dollars for their capture and conviction.
“Wow!” said Joe, grinning.
Realizing the importance of the exciting mission, the boys became serious. “Tell us all about the case, Dad,” Frank urged. “What’s the M.O. in this new racket?”
The modus operandi was one of the first lessons in criminal psychology Mr. Hardy had taught his sons. Habit, the boys knew, had been the downfall of many thieves, who plied their nefarious trade in the same manner every time they committed a crime.
Mr. Hardy said, “The swindlers apparently got hold of Magnacard’s master file-important data on all the clients, including copies of their signa tures. They duplicated the credit cards perfectly, then forged identification papers—drivers’ licenses and the like. They purchase goods which are then billed to the owner of the charge card.”
“A lot of rich men must be pulling their hair out, getting all these bills!”
“To say the least. It’s up to you to keep them from getting absolutely bald!”
Joe asked, “But why the camping trip? How does that come into the picture?”
“I’ve been waiting for you to ask that,” Mr. Hardy replied. He lifted a sheaf of papers from his desk drawer. “The counterfeiters have been operating mostly in the Rocky Mountains area, although there have been some incidents in the Midwest, and the East, too.”
The detective sat back, fingers locked behind his head, while his sons examined the dossier. Then a quick look of enlightenment crossed Frank’s face. “Hey, Joe. I see it! These guys have been using the Magnacards to buy sporting equipment.”
“Exactly,” Mr. Hardy said. “They purchase motorboats, motorcycles, tents—you name it. Then they sell the merchandise lower than the retail price.”
Joe remarked, “To suckers who are unaware they’re getting hot goods. Or to dishonest, greedy people who are more interested in buying something cheap, regardless of whether the deal is on the level or not.”
The detective nodded and pulled a small photograph from his pocket. “Here’s a prime suspect,” he said. The boys leaned over the desk to look at it.
“Pretty fuzzy picture,” Joe remarked.
Frank said, “Probably a blowup from a small negative. Right, Dad?”
“That’s it. An amateur photographer took it by chance after one of the swindlers had borrowed five thousand dollars from a bank and was coming out the front door.”
The young detectives studied every detail of the photograph. The face was round, with a low, black hairline. The eyes were far apart. The mouth was small and turned up at the comers in a puckish grin. The general appearance was that of a short man in his thirties.
At that moment the trio were startled by a scream from downstairs.
“It’s Aunt Gertrude!” Frank exclaimed. He bounded from the room, with Joe at his heels. They scrambled down the stairs and rushed into the kitchen. Their aunt was pointing a shaking hand at the window. Her jaws moved, but no words passed her lips.
Instantly Frank and Joe, as well as Fenton Hardy, who had followed them, saw the cause of the woman’s fright. A huge hound dog was look ing through the window screen. Aunt Gertrude, after recovering from her shock, told them that she had been seated at the kitchen table, deep in thought. Turning her head, she suddenly had looked straight into the sad droopy eyes of the Peeping Tom dog.
Joe started to chuckle. “It’s Biff Hooper’s bloodhound, Auntie! He wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
“Don’t laugh!” she scolded.
“I’m not laug
hing,” Joe said. “But it was so funny—”
“Not funny, either!” snorted Miss Hardy.
Frank turned his head away, knowing that Aunt Gertrude’s wrath would be further aroused if she detected the faintest trace of a grin on his face.
Mr. Hardy said, “Well, that crisis is over,” and went upstairs to his study.
His sister had come to live with Mr. and Mrs. Hardy and their two sons several years ago. Beneath her stem manner, she was extremely fond of the boys. Gertrude Hardy had never approved of her brother’s daring exploits when he was a detective in the New York City Police Department, nor was she outwardly impressed by the international reputation he had acquired as a private investigator.
“Too dangerous, too risky,” she always said.
When her nephews followed in their father’s footsteps, Aunt Gertrude was even more forceful in her warnings.
Frank and Joe realized that their safety was her chief concern, and that her heart was really soft as the fluffy meringue on top of her famous lemon pies.
Meanwhile, the dog had padded around to the kitchen door. A voice called:
“Sherlock! Come here!” Biff Hooper, a tall blond boy, appeared, bent down and snapped a leather leash on the hound’s collar. He looped the end over the outside doorknob and entered.
“Hiya, guys,” he said breezily. “Just taking old Sherlock on a training exercise and he got away from me. Headed right for the Hardy home. Are you baking pie today, Aunt Gertrude?”
“I was going to,” Miss Hardy replied, “until that beast frightened me!”
“Don’t mind him,” Biff said and straddled a kitchen chair. “He’s harmless.”
Biff Hooper was a six-foot, broad-shouldered athlete—big and powerful as a football lineman, fast and hard-hitting as a boxer. But his usual good-natured smile was missing now, and the Hardys sensed that he had a problem.
A huge hound was looking through the screen
“What’s up, Biff? You look worried,” Frank said.
“Something wrong?” asked Joe.
“Could be.” Biff hesitated, and Aunt Gertrude stepped out of the kitchen, realizing the boys wanted to talk in private. “It’s about Chet,” Biff added.
Chet Morton, the Hardy boys’ closest friend, lived on a farm on the outskirts of Bayport. He was on the high school’s grid squad by virtue of his ample bulk, which could plug a hole in the team’s forward wall like a truck. Neither Frank nor Joe had seen Chet in several days.
“What’s the matter?” Frank prodded. “Did something happen to Chet?”
“Oh no,” Biff replied. “At least not yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe I’m imagining things,” Biff said with a frown. “But I noticed Chet coming out of the bank—”
“You think he robbed it?” Joe quipped.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Biff retorted. “I saw him coming out of the bank holding an envelope—I mean clutching it!”
“Go on,” Frank urged.
“So I said, ‘What do you have there, Chet? The key to Fort Knox?’ ”
“What did he say?” Joe asked.
“He wouldn’t tell me anything,” Biff replied. “Chet seemed awful mysterious. He looked up and down the street and hurried off to his jalopy. I thought you fellows ought to know about it, seeing you’re such buddies.”
Joe said, “Do you think someone’s after Chet’s hard-earned money?”
“Possibly.”
Just then the phone rang. Joe picked up the kitchen extension.... “Chet? We were just talking about you!”
The voice on the other end was curt. “Joe, I haven’t got time to gab.”
“How come?”
“Never mind. I’ve got to see you and Frank right away.”
“Where are you?”
“Home.”
“We’ll come right over.”
Joe hung up and turned to the others. “Your hunch seems to be right, Biff. I think Chet’s in trouble. Let’s go, Frank!”
CHAPTER II
About Face !
AFTER bidding good-by to Biff, the Hardys jumped into their car. Minutes later they arrived at the Morton farm and drove up to the comfortable rambling house.
As they parked, a dark-haired, pixie-like girl came to the door. She was Iola Morton, Joe’s “special friend.” She and Joe often double-dated with Frank and his girl friend, Callie Shaw.
“Why the frowns?” Iola said breezily as she hooked an arm through Joe’s.
“We think your brother’s in trouble,” Frank said. “He phoned us to come out.”
Iola laughed. “That was just a trick to get you here in a hurry. He’s over there behind the barn,” she said, pointing.
“I’m glad to hear he’s okay,” Joe said, “but I ought to sock him for worrying us!” He and Frank trotted around the barn. To their amazement, they saw Chet standing beside a brand-new trailer tent. It was opened up and ready for occupancy.
“That’s a beauty!” Frank said. “Where’d you get it, Chet?”
“And where’d you get the green stuff to buy it?” Joe asked. “This outfit’s worth more than a thousand bucks!”
Chet beamed. “One question at a time,” he said with a matter-of-fact air. “First, let me show you around this camper paradise.”
Frank and Joe stepped inside. The smell of newness pervaded the air, and the interior was bright and spotless. Fold-out arms of the compact little trailer provided two bunks, sleeping four. Other facilities included a lavatory, refrigerator, and a three-burner gas stove.
“Chet, this is simply the greatest!” Joe exulted. “How did you know that Frank and I were going on a camping trip?”
“Cut it out,” Chet replied. “I’ve been trying to persuade you for a long time. Thought I’d take the bull by the horns and do something about it.”
“Honest,” Frank said. “We are going on a trip.”
Chet’s eyes narrowed. “Business or pleasure?”
“Business primarily,” Frank replied. “Dad’s given us a new case.”
“When I go camping,” Chet said, “I want to go for fun. None of this dangerous detective stuff.”
“But we’d chip in expense money,” Joe said. “Dad would help finance us.”
“And then there’s the two-thousand-dollar reward,” Frank said evenly, watching Chet’s face for a reaction.
Chet’s eyebrows shot up.
“There’s a reward for catching some credit-card counterfeiters,” Frank explained.
“Where do we go?”
“Out West.”
“Now you’re talking!” Chet said, putting a hefty arm around Frank’s shoulder.
As they stepped out of the camper, Joe said, “Chet, where’d you buy this? And if you don’t mind my asking, how much?”
The stout boy put one foot on the trailer step and assumed an attitude of casual superiority. “My astute business acumen,” he said, “culminated in a most beneficial purchase.”
“Come on,” Joe said, annoyed by Chet’s pretentious air. “Give us the straight facts.”
“All right. To put it in language you understand, I put an ad in the newspaper and landed a great bargain.”
“Go on,” Frank prodded.
“A man came to me,” Chet said, “and offered this beauty at a reduced price. After he had purchased it, his wife became ill and their camping trip was called off.”
“What do you call a reduced price?” Frank asked.
“How about four hundred dollars?” Chet replied, arching his eyebrows.
“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “That’s a steal!”
“Was everything legal?” Frank wanted to know, recalling what his father had told them about the credit-card gang.
“All in order,” Chet assured the boys. “I’ll get my plates tomorrow.”
Joe laughed and told Chet how Biff had seen him coming from the bank with the money.
“Sure, I was holding onto it tight,” Chet said. “That fou
r hundred dollars was my entire fortune.” He added, “Hey, maybe Biff would like to come along, too!”
“It’s your camper,” Frank said. “Why don’t you invite him?”
Chet said he would, and the Hardys departed for home. Mrs. Hardy, who had been out shopping, was delighted to hear of their plans. “Be sure to take your heavy sweaters, and raincoats, and—”
“Our rubbers,” Joe finished the sentence.
“Of course not,” Laura Hardy said with a pretty smile. “I was about to say take your waterproof boots.”
As Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude busied themselves preparing dinner, the boys told their father of the camping plans. “If Biff can go, it’ll really beef up our forces,” Joe concluded.
Later that evening Biff Hooper phoned. “I think I can join you on that trip, Frank. But I’ll have to bring my hound along.” Biff explained that he had been training the bloodhound and did not want to break the routine.
“Not a bad idea,” Frank said. “Having a dog named Sherlock on a detective case might bring us luck.”
Preparations for their trip occupied the Hardys and their friends for the next two days. Frank and Joe had installed a trailer hitch on their car and had gone to Chet’s house to pick up the camper.
The outfit presented a sleek silhouette, low enough for the driver to have clear vision to the rear.
On the morning of departure the Hardy family got up at five o’clock. At six Biff arrived with the sad-eyed hound and got in the back seat with Chet. Frank took the wheel and Joe sat alongside of him. With shouts of good-by and wishes of good luck from the elder Hardys, the quartet set off.
Fenton Hardy had briefed his sons the night before. He wanted them to check out sports resorts in the Rocky Mountains area for evidence of Magnacard swindles and try to track down the perpetrators. They were also to quiz merchants who had been duped. Their father had given them a typed list of the dealers’ names and addresses.
As they drove out of town, Joe remarked, “I wish we had more concrete clues to start with.”
“Hah!” said Chet. “If I know you guys, you’ll fall into a mess of them soon enough!”