While the Clock Ticked Read online

  WHILE THE CLOCK TICKED

  “Mr. Wandy!” Joe shouted. “Wait! I’ll help you. Don’t move.”

  The Hardy Boys Mystery Stories®

  WHILE THE

  CLOCK TICKED

  BY

  FRANKLIN W. DIXON

  GROSSET & DUNLAP

  Publishers • New York

  A member of The Putnam & Grosset Group

  Copyright © 1990, 1962, 1960, 1932 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. Printed in the U.S.A.

  THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-07626-2

  10

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER

  I A MYSTERIOUS TIP

  II PUZZLING CLUES

  III GRIM WARNINGS

  IV STORMY SLEUTHING

  V STOLEN TREASURE

  VI WATERFRONT CHASE

  VII CRAFTY THIEVES

  VIII A PERILOUS PLUNGE

  IX THE SECRET ROOM

  X THE SHADOWY FIGURES

  XI A SUSPICIOUS CAPTAIN

  XII METEOR SPECIAL

  XIII THE EAVESDROPPER

  XIV SUDDEN ATTACK

  XV THE VANISHING CAR

  XVI A MISSING CLIENT

  XVII A DANGEROUS TICKING

  XVIII THE SLIPPERY ROOFTOP

  XIX A NARROW ESCAPE

  XX HIDDEN LOOT

  CHAPTER I

  A Mysterious Tip

  “I WONDER who that man is, Frank,” whispered blond Joe Hardy, peering curiously from a second-floor window of their home. “He looks worried.”

  His brother glanced down at the stranger just departing from the front door. “Let’s ask Aunt Gertrude. She talked with him.”

  Joe, a year younger and more impetuous than his eighteen-year-old, dark-haired brother, bounded downstairs. Frank followed.

  “Aunt Gertrude,” Joe cried excitedly, “who was the man who just left?”

  Fenton Hardy’s sister shrugged. “I don’t know,” said the tall, black-haired woman. “He wanted your father to solve a mystery. I told him Fenton was away.”

  The boys waited to hear no more. As they dashed out the door, Frank said, “Why, Auntie, we’re detectives too, remember?”

  Joe was first to reach the stranger, who was about to drive off in a convertible. “Sir,” he said earnestly, “please wait!”

  As Frank caught up with his brother, the tall, vigorous-looking man stared at them through rimless glasses. The boys saw a wary look come over his face. “Well, what is it?” he demanded impatiently.

  Quickly Frank explained. “We’re Frank and Joe Hardy. Our aunt told us you wanted Dad to solve a mystery. Since he isn’t at home, we thought maybe we could help you.”

  “Mr. Hardy’s sons!” the man burst out. “Listen! I’m in real trouble, and I must see your father. I’ll pay any amount to contact him. Just tell me where he can be reached.”

  Joe shook his head. “No use, Mr.—?”

  “Dalrymple. Raymond Dalrymple of Lakeside. I’m in the banking business. Look here, why can’t I get in touch with Fenton Hardy?”

  “Dad and Mother have gone on a camping trip up in Maine. They can’t be reached by telephone or telegraph.”

  A look of desperation came into the banker’s eyes. “I can’t entrust this business to boys,” he muttered, as if thinking aloud.

  “It’s not as if we were beginners at sleuthing,” Joe said persuasively. “Frank and I have helped Dad on many cases.” He gave a sudden grin. “Even Aunt Gertrude would admit we’ve had some success, too.”

  Mr. Dalrymple smiled faintly, then gave the boys a swift, penetrating look. “Like to follow in your world-famous dad’s footsteps, eh—be detectives yourselves, would you?” His keen eyes took in the hiking boots and khaki outfits they wore. “Fine summer morning for a hike.” He added abruptly, “Which direction are you taking?”

  Before either boy could answer he went on:

  “Try Shore Road, past the harbor. Turn off and follow Willow River Road out into the country.”

  “Why?” Frank queried, intrigued.

  “You’ll pass the old Purdy place. Know the one I mean?”

  “Big stone house,” Joe answered. “Slate roof. Stands back from the road a way. Nobody’s been living there for some time, though.”

  “You’re observant,” the banker commented. For a moment he was silent, as if trying to make a decision. He pulled nervously at his hatbrim. “Okay, boys,” he said finally. “You want to be detectives. Take a look around there on your hike.”

  The brothers waited expectantly for further explanation. But instead of giving any, the banker started his car and drove off.

  “Boy, oh boy!” Joe exploded. “We have a mystery, and we don’t know what it’s about!”

  Frank, too, was baffled. “Well, let’s get back to the house. The fellows will be here soon.”

  The Hardys found Aunt Gertrude waiting for them in the living room. “Well, I suppose you’re head over heels in another case. I can tell by your faces. What did that man want?”

  Frank and Joe gave her a quick report. “We didn’t find out why he wanted to see Dad,” Frank admitted. “But one thing’s certain. We’ll hike right to the Purdy place.”

  Miss Hardy cast her eyes upward. “Well, if you’re bound to get yourselves involved in another risky case, I should know there’s no stopping you until you solve it!”

  The boys exchanged knowing winks. Beneath her peppery manner, their aunt was actually very proud of her nephews’ sleuthing abilities.

  Suddenly there came a loud banging from the back of the house and a clomp, clomp of heavy footsteps through the kitchen. The next moment a chunky, jolly-looking boy marched into the living room. He had a knapsack on his back, and wore big high-top boots.

  “Ready?” he sang out. “Tramp, tramp, the boys are marching! I got the provisions, so don’t worry.”

  “My only worry is, Chet, that you’ll eat ‘em before the rest of us have a chance.” Joe laughed. Chet Morton was one of the Hardys’ best friends.

  “Decided where you want to go?” inquired Biff Hooper, another chum, who had come in behind Chet.

  “Let’s try Willow River Road,” Joe suggested offhandedly.

  “Suits me,” lanky Biff agreed readily.

  With a hasty farewell to Aunt Gertrude, the four pals set out. Brisk walking brought them swiftly out of town on the Shore Road, which followed horseshoe-shaped Barmet Bay. Looking back, they could see the docks of the harbor.

  Some distance ahead of them was the bridge which spanned the mouth of Willow River where it emptied into the bay. The boys turned right down the river road, which had deep ditches on both sides. They rounded the sharp corner Indian file, Frank leading, then crossed to the left-hand side of the road so they would be facing any oncoming traffic.

  Suddenly there was a screeching of tires behind them. The hikers whirled to see the gleaming chromium grille of a black limousine. The big car had swerved wide around the turn, hugging the left shoulder of the road.

  “Jump!” shouted Frank. He shoved Chet Morton into the ditch and landed on top of him. Joe and Biff dived to the side also.

  Even in the instant of leaping to safety, Joe had taken a penetrating glance at the driver of the car. Now, as the boys picked themselves up, he was able to report.

  “Mean-looking customer—husky, with a big jaw. Close crew cut.”

  “Well, he nearly flattened us!” complained Biff. “What’s a tough guy like that doing in a limousine?”
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  “Running down innocent hikers,” Chet answered indignantly.

  They climbed back to the road, and started out once more. Presently they came to a section of large houses, set back on extensive grounds. Some of the estates were well kept, but a few had fallen into disrepair. Those on the left, the boys knew, were bounded in the rear by Willow River.

  Half an hour later, as they rounded a sharp bend, a long, high stone wall came into view. A tangle of ivy clung to the stones, and close-growing young trees partially screened the wall from the road. Here and there, however, the boys caught a glimpse of a bluish slate roof.

  “The Purdy house,” said Joe, looking with intent curiosity.

  “Gone to seed, since the old man died,” Biff Hooper added. “I hear he was a queer fellow.”

  Something in Joe’s lingering tone had warned the easygoing Chet Morton that there was an underlying significance to the remark.

  “Wait a minute, fellows,” he began. “Something tells me we didn’t come this way just by accident. If it’s another mystery, you can count me out! I’m not over the last one yet!”

  “Well, to be honest, Chet,” Frank said with a chuckle, “we did have a visitor, just before you showed up. He suggested we look over this place.”

  “No fooling!” Biff exclaimed eagerly.

  The boys had reached the main gate to the place. To their surprise, they found it open, with the marks of automobile tires in the driveway.

  As the four walked up the drive, which was lined with the dense green foliage of thick bushes and trees, the silence was broken by a gruff voice:

  “Hey, you fellows!”

  A figure in the white helmet and black boots of a motorcycle patrolman strode toward them.

  “It’s Mike DiSalvo,” said Joe, recognizing the officer. “What’s up, Mike?” The Hardy boys, through their father’s detective work and their own, knew all the Bayport policemen.

  “Harbor thieves,” said the officer briefly. “I was driving up Willow River Road when I spotted them roaring toward me. Then they hit that sharp bend, and I lost sight of them. I was sure they’d ducked in here, but I can’t find the car. It was a big, black limousine.”

  CHAPTER II

  Puzzling Clues

  “A BLACK limousine! One nearly killed us half an hour ago, Mike!” Frank exclaimed.

  As they walked on to the high, rambling gray stone house, Joe gave a description of the tough-looking driver. Mike DiSalvo nodded thoughtfully.

  “Sounds like one of the gang,” he agreed. “They’ve been stealing goods from the ships and warehouses for months. We suspected they’d been using that black car, but today was the first time I had a chance at them. Well, that limousine is hot now!”

  The officer straddled his motorcycle, which stood before the entrance of the old mansion. There was a deafening roar as he started the motor.

  “Thanks for the tip, boys!” Mike shouted. “By the way, what are you doing out here?”

  “Hike!” shouted Frank in reply.

  “Case?” the policeman guessed, grinning.

  “Maybe. Know anything about this place?”

  The officer throttled down. “Not much, except it’s been closed for years. Peculiar that gate being open, though. I still think I saw the limousine duck in here. Couldn’t be, I guess, since the car is nowhere around.”

  As the motorcycle rumbled out the driveway, Frank called, “We’ll close the gate!”

  The roar of the motorcycle died away, and the boys were left in the brooding silence of the rundown, neglected estate.

  “Funny,” commented Biff Hooper, looking around him. “I never heard of anything mysterious about this place. It’s not even supposed to be haunted.”

  “Well, let’s have a look around,” Frank suggested. “Mr. Dalrymple acted as though something funny might be going on out here.”

  “You do have a case then!” declared Biff.

  “Not exactly,” Joe admitted wryly. “I have a hunch that since he couldn’t see Dad, Mr. Dalrymple is testing us. He doesn’t really expect us to turn up anything.”

  “He doesn’t!” Biff echoed incredulously. “Doesn’t he read the newspapers?”

  Frank and Joe, though still in high school, had already earned a name for themselves as sleuths. They had been trained by their father, who had been a crack detective in the New York City Police Department. After retiring to go into private practice in the city of Bayport, Fenton Hardy had enhanced his reputation by handling difficult and dangerous cases for the government, large corporations, and private individuals.

  From him Frank and Joe had learned the need for careful observation and the importance of laboratory work. In fact, they already had a small but well-equipped lab of their own in the loft above the Hardy garage.

  The Tower Treasure, the first mystery the brothers had solved on their own, was one that had puzzled all Bayport and baffled the police. As Fenton Hardy became busier, he allowed his sons to help on his cases. But they worked best on their own, following their own clues and meeting dangers resourcefully. Recently, the young sleuths had encountered several harrowing adventures before they rounded up a gang of jewel thieves in What Happened at Midnight.

  Frank shrugged. “I guess Joe and I will just have to prove ourselves to Mr. Dalrymple.”

  “Right. Let’s get started,” Joe urged. “How about Biff and me checking doors and windows?”

  Frank agreed. “Meantime, Chet and I will look over the grounds.”

  The boys separated. Frank and Chet, examining the earth carefully, moved around the big house until they came to the back.

  “Whoops!” Frank exclaimed suddenly, bending down.

  “What? I don’t see anything,” Chet said. “Just matted grass!”

  Frank pushed aside the limp blades and pointed out the distinct impression of a footprint in the earth.

  “Somebody came through here last night,” he said. “The grass was flattened and broken when it was dewy.”

  “Pal, you sure have X-ray eyes,” Chet marveled.

  By tracking carefully, Frank followed the prints down the yard and into a belt of thick woods where a path, apparently a well-used trail, led to Willow River.

  “Whoever was here probably came to do some fishing,” Chet remarked.

  “Could be,” Frank murmured. To himself he added, “Or the person might have been after something besides fish.”

  Presently the four boys met once more.

  “Find anything?” Frank asked his brother.

  “All the doors and windows seem to be locked,” he replied. “But there are scratches around the front-door lock. Somebody must have tried to open it in the darkness.”

  Briefly, Frank described his own findings. “Doesn’t add up to much,” he admitted. “Not enough to impress Mr. Dalrymple.”

  “Well, thank goodness!” declared Chet. “That’s one mystery we’re rid of! Now let’s do what we started out to do.”

  “Chet means let’s eat.” Biff grinned.

  But Joe stood silent, looking up at the rambling stone house. “It’s such a big old place,” he mused. “For all we know, somebody could be inside it right now, watching every move we make.”

  “Yes,” Frank agreed. “I wouldn’t write off the footprints and key scratches. Take them together, with Mr. Dalrymple’s queer hint—I’ll bet they do mean something.”

  Chet cast an uneasy glance at the blank dark windows above his head. “Let’s go! Are we hiking, or aren’t we?”

  “So good for your appetite,” Biff teased.

  “Okay, okay. I just don’t like the idea of something peeking at me out of windows,” the stout boy blurted.

  Frank grinned. “All right. We’ll get away from the spooks.”

  With his knapsack jiggling up and down, Chet eagerly turned and marched down the driveway to the road. Laughing, the other three boys followed. Secretly, the Hardys felt a strong urge to investigate further, and hoped they would have the chance to do so.r />
  As they left the driveway, Frank closed the heavy wooden gate behind them. But there was no way for him to lock it, since he did not have the key. Soon the four friends again reached the sunshine of Willow River Road and resumed their hike.

  “I don’t understand why a sensible banker like Mr. Dalrymple would be interested in a run-down place like that,” said Joe.

  “Forget it!” Chet begged. “Think about something pleasant. Forget mysteries!”

  “Concentrate on important things,” Biff needled him. “Eating and sleeping, for instance.”

  “Yes, eating and sleeping.” Chet defended himself. “Who can live without food? Luscious, delectable food! And sleep—soothing sleep! We grow when we sleep.”

  “You grow much more, and you’ll be a giant beach ball.” Biff grinned.

  But Chet was now scanning the countryside. The boys had left the estates behind. A heavily wooded hill rose up on their right. A field of fresh-cut, drying hay fell away on the left. At the bottom of the field a huge oak tree spread its shading limbs invitingly.

  “Now there is the place for both,” Chet said. “First our lunch. Then, refreshing sleep—before our walk home.”

  Frank, Joe, and Biff looked at one another, eyes twinkling. There remained a full hour until lunchtime!

  “No,” said Biff. “Thumbs down.”

  “Why?” Chet pleaded.

  “No water. What’s a picnic without water?”

  Another half hour went by. Chet sighted a clear stream, flashing in the sun, pouring through a green meadow. “There!” he exclaimed in triumph.

  “Uh-uh!” said Joe, poker-faced. “No shade. I can’t eat in the blazing sun. Hurts my digestion.”

  “Oh-h,” the stout boy moaned, but proceeded doggedly ahead. Presently the woods closed in on both sides, and the road crossed a small creek.

  “Now?” Chet sighed hopefully.

  “No.” Frank shook his head.

  “Oh-h! Now why?”