The Sign of the Crooked Arrow Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER I - The Abandoned Car

  CHAPTER II - Daylight Robbery

  CHAPTER III - Dead-End Clue

  CHAPTER IV - Distressing News

  CHAPTER V - Expensive Evidence

  CHAPTER VI - Police Raid

  CHAPTER VII - Another Puzzle

  CHAPTER VIII - Followed

  CHAPTER IX - Forced Landing

  CHAPTER X - A Suspicious Foreman

  CHAPTER XI - A Second Chance

  CHAPTER XII - Bunkhouse Brawl

  CHAPTER XIII - A Poisoned Point

  CHAPTER XIV - A Familiar Face

  CHAPTER XV - The Galloping Archer

  CHAPTER XVI - Mystery Smoke

  CHAPTER XVII - Captured!

  CHAPTER XVIII - A Grim Story

  CHAPTER XIX - Thundering Posse

  CHAPTER XX - Final Roundup

  THE SIGN OF THE CROOKED ARROW

  WITH only the slender clue of an arrow-shaped tie clasp, Frank and Joe Hardy pick up the trail of a cunning gang of thieves responsible for a wave of jewelry-store holdups.

  But their investigations are interrupted when a desperate plea for help comes from their widowed cousin who lives on a cattle ranch in New Mexico. Frank, Joe, and their pal Chet Morton fly there immediately. The mysterious disappearance of one cowboy after another has given Crowhead Ranch the reputation of being jinxed, and it is quickly being stampeded toward financial ruin.

  The young detectives face grave danger before they uncover a cleverly conceived plot engineered by the crooked arrow gang. In a dramatic climax Frank, Joe, and Chet aid law-enforcement officers in smashing the highly organized band of criminals, putting an end both to the troubles at Crowhead Ranch and the jewelry-store robberies.

  An arrow whizzed past Frank’s head

  Copyright © 1976, 1970, 1949 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.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-07642-2

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  CHAPTER I

  The Abandoned Car

  THE Hardy boys’ convertible, heading for the open country, whizzed past a road sign inscribed Bayport City Limits.

  Dark-haired, eighteen-year-old Frank fingered the wheel lightly. Joe, who was blond and a year younger than Frank, sat beside him.

  “What’s all this business about somebody forgetting a car?” Joe asked.

  “A man and his wife left it at Slow Mo’s garage in Pleasantville two weeks ago and never called for it,” Frank replied.

  The boys’ father, Detective Fenton Hardy, had given Frank the details of the case and suggested that his sons follow it up. The garage proprietor had appealed to Mr. Hardy to find the owner of the car.

  “Why didn’t Slow Mo contact the license bureau?” Joe put in.

  “Dad asked him that. Slow Mo says when he went to look at the plates, they were gone!”

  “Who took them off?”

  “That’s what we’re supposed to find out,” Frank said.

  Half an hour later he pulled up in front of a rickety building in the sleepy town of Pleasantville.

  “That must be Slow Mo,” Joe observed as a gray-haired man in overalls shuffled toward them.

  “Hello,” he greeted them. “What can I do for you?”

  When he learned who they were, he asked in surprise, “Where’s your dad?”

  “He’s busy on another case,” Joe replied. “He sent us to help you.”

  The old man frowned. “I sure was countin’ on him. He’s the best detective in this part of the country.”

  “You’re right there,” agreed Frank. “But I think Joe and I can make a start on solving the mystery. We often work with Dad on cases.”

  The boys’ sleuthing career had begun with finding the solution to The Tower Treasure mystery.

  Since then, their detective work had taken them all over the country and abroad as well. Recently they had uncovered The Secret of Skull Mountain and discovered the reason for the mysterious water shortage in town.

  Slow Mo, who had been dubbed “Slow Motion” in his youth, rubbed his whiskers with a grimy finger. “Well, I dunno,” he said. “But come into my office and I’ll tell you what happened, anyway.”

  “What do the police think?” Frank inquired.

  “Didn’t ask them,” Slow Mo replied. “Jake, the chief, is my brother-in-law. We don’t get on, and I don’t want to bother with him. That’s why I called your dad.”

  The old man crossed the floor of the garage and entered a small room. It was stacked high with empty oil cans and old tires. A faded calendar, dating back three years, hung on the wall.

  Joe grinned. “Don’t you have one for this year?” he asked.

  Slow Mo smiled sheepishly. “Never thought of that,” he said and pointed to a couple of rickety chairs. “Sit down there.”

  The boys listened as he unfolded his story, most of which they already knew. At one point Joe interrupted to ask for a description of the couple who had left the car.

  Slow Mo looked blank. “Why, they were kind of ordinary-looking folks, middle-aged, dressed like regular people—”

  “Do you know where they went afterward?”

  “Took a train. The station’s right over there,” the garageman replied. “Pleasantville’s the terminal for one of the railroads,” he added proudly.

  “What’s the engine number of the car?” Frank asked.

  “I dunno,” Slow Mo answered. “Guess I should’ve looked. Never thought of that.”

  At Joe’s request, he led the Hardys to the rear of the garage, where a black sedan stood in a corner.

  Frank threw up the hood and glanced at the engine.

  “Got a flashlight?” he asked Mo.

  When the proprietor handed him one, Frank scanned the motor.

  “Just as I thought!” he announced. “The engine number has been filed off!”

  Joe opened the door and looked for the serial number. It was missing, too.

  “Why would anybody do that?” Slow Mo asked, running his fingers through his gray crew cut.

  “To conceal the identity of the car,” Frank explained. “This,” he added, “is a case for the local police, whether you like it or not.”

  Slow Mo put in the call and soon afterward a short, heavy-set man puffed into the garage.

  “Hello, Jake,” Slow Mo said. “These are the Hardy boys. Sons of Fenton Hardy the detective.”

  “What have they done?” Jake asked. “Want ’em arrested?”

  “No,” Frank said, laughing. “We’d like you to arrest the person who filed the number off the engine of this car.” He pointed to the sedan.

  “The engine number has been filed off!” Frank announced

  “Besides, the guy that left it here owes me two weeks’ rent,” put in Slow Mo.

  A determined look spread over the police chief’s face. “I’ll arrest him, all right. Where is he?”

  “That’s what we’d like to find out,” Frank told him. “Slow Mo said he left here two weeks ago.”

  “Got rather a head start, didn’t he?” Jake declared. He examined the car inside and out, but found nothing.

  Then he took a fingerprint kit from his car and went to work on the sedan’s steering wheel and dashboard.

  “Most of them are smudged,” he remarked. “But we’ll see what we can do.” He turned to Mo. “Let us know right away if somebody should claim the car, will you?” Then he said good-by and left.


  Frank spoke up. “Suppose Joe and I look for some clues.”

  “Sure. Go ahead,” the garage owner said.

  Frank examined the car’s upholstery, while his brother removed the mats from the floor. Then Joe opened the glove compartment. It was empty except for a narrow leather strap worn at one end. A barely discernible design had been worked into the leather.

  “Looks like part of an old strap from a wrist watch,” he commented, showing it to Frank. “Wonder why anyone would save it ”

  “It may be a valuable clue,” Frank said, continuing his own search. He pulled out the back seat and ran his hand behind the upholstery. His only reward was a hairpin and a dime. Then suddenly his fingers touched a hard object. Tugging carefully, he pulled out a piece of jewelry.

  “A tie clasp,” Frank announced, holding up the object.

  “It’s an arrow, but it’s crooked,” Joe observed.

  Slow Mo peered closely at the slightly S-shaped arrow clasp. “Probably got bent,” he said.

  “I don’t think so,” Frank replied. “Looks to me as if it had been made that way.”

  Pocketing the piece of strap and tie clasp, the Hardys said good-by to Slow Mo and got into their car. Just as Joe was about to start the engine, a man turned in from the road and walked into the garage.

  “I wonder who that guy is,” Joe asked. The stranger had broad shoulders, bushy black eyebrows, and a large nose. “Looks like a prize fighter.”

  The boys waited a moment. Then they heard the men’s voices from inside, arguing loudly.

  “We’d better see what’s going on,” Frank said. “Sounds as if Slow Mo’s in trouble!”

  They got out of their car and dashed inside. The stranger was snarling at Slow Mo.

  “All right, I didn’t leave it! And I don’t care if the license plates are gone. I’m taking that car!”

  With that he gave Slow Mo a wallop. The elderly garage owner staggered backward and fell. His head struck the side of a door with a resounding crack and he sprawled unconscious.

  Frank and Joe leaped forward. The burly stranger, surprised by their sudden appearance, halted abruptly. Then he whirled about and ran out the side door of the garage.

  While Frank bent over Slow Mo, Joe tore after the assailant. He was only a few yards behind his quarry when the man bounded up the steps of the old Pleasantville railroad station. A train was just pulling out.

  With a lunge, the man grasped the handrail on the last coach, teetered precariously a moment, then pulled himself aboard. By this time the train was moving fast.

  Joe summoned all his strength for a final burst of speed and made a frantic leap!

  CHAPTER II

  Daylight Robbery

  JOE missed the train by inches, however. Breathless and disgusted, he watched as it roared down the tracks.

  Dejected, he turned and walked back to the garage. He told Frank, who was bathing Slow Mo’s head with cold water, what had happened.

  “How is he?” Joe asked anxiously.

  “Coming to,” Frank replied.

  As the boys watched, Slow Mo’s eyelids fluttered open.

  “Wh-where am I?” he asked in a daze.

  “In your office,” Frank replied. “Take it easy.”

  “I remember now,” the man said. “Big guy hit me. Where’d he go? Did he get the car?”

  When Frank told him about the stranger’s escape, Slow Mo sighed.

  “I’m sorry he got away. But I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you boys on my account.”

  Assured that Slow Mo was well enough to be left alone, the boys drove to police headquarters to report what had happened.

  “I’ll send out a seven-state alarm,” the police chief said crisply. “Thanks for your help, boys.”

  A few minutes later Frank and Joe were headed back to Bayport.

  “I don’t like the looks of this, Joe,” Frank said, frowning.

  His brother agreed. “Do you think that guy was trying to retrieve the car for the people who left it two weeks ago?”

  “Could be,” Frank replied. “But why the big rush to leave the garage—unless he wanted to steal it!”

  “What I’d like to know,” Joe said, “is who took the license plates and filed off the engine number.”

  All the way home the boys tried vainly to figure out what was back of the mystery. “Maybe Dad’ll come up with something,” Joe said as they pulled into the Hardys’ driveway.

  They entered their father’s study and found him seated in a red-leather chair poring over a dossier of criminal records.

  “Hello, boys,” he said. “How did you make out at Slow Mo’s?”

  “Dad,” Frank began seriously, “there sure is something fishy about that abandoned car.”

  Fenton Hardy sat forward in his chair. Frank told about the stranger who had attacked Slow Mo, then showed his father the worn watch strap and the tie clasp.

  His father examined the clasp, repeating the words “crooked arrow” over and over.

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

  “Boys,” replied Mr. Hardy, “I believe you’ve dug up a clue that may tie in with a baffling case I’m working on.”

  “What is it?” Frank asked eagerly.

  “You’ve read about a series of jewelry-store robberies in and around Bayport, haven’t you?”

  Frank and Joe nodded as the detective went on.

  “I found out that similar crime waves broke out in three other cities early this summer, and that the method is almost alike.”

  Joe pointed to the papers on his father’s desk. “Is that what these are about?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Hardy replied. He reached for a folder lying on a low bookshelf behind his desk. “And here are statements from the various victims in the Bayport area.”

  Frank glanced over the reports. “Both here and out of state,” he observed, “the victims were alone in jewelry shops when a stranger entered. They became faint and lost consciousness immediately after they had been accosted.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Hardy, “and as you’ll see if you read further, the victim always woke up without the slightest idea of what occurred. Then he discovered that his money and valuable jewelry were missing. And no one has been able to describe the thief sufficiently in order to give us a lead.”

  “Why do the people faint?” asked Joe.

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out, especially since there are obviously no unpleasant after-effects,” his father replied. “Also, it seems that as soon as an investigation is started, the crime wave dies out, only to flare up in another city.”

  “Boy! These aren’t conventional holdups!” Frank exclaimed, shaking his head.

  “No. But they do have an oddly conventional aspect—reminds me of the old cops-and-robbers movies. In every case the victim reports that a man has approached him and asked him a question.”

  “A question?” Joe put in. “Not the old ‘Got a match?’ routine!”

  “Exactly!” said Mr. Hardy. “Or the query may have to do with the time of day or the location of the nearest bus stop.”

  “But what makes you think this case ties in with the mystery of the car at Slow Mo’s?” Frank spoke up.

  Fenton Hardy smiled. “This crooked arrow tie clasp,” he said. “Sam’s been checking out a small restaurant on the waterfront called Mike’s Place. It’s a hangout for shady characters. While he was there, someone used the words ‘crooked arrow’ in discussing the recent jewelry-store robberies.”

  Sam Radley was Mr. Hardy’s operative, who assisted him on his cases, and the boys knew him well.

  “Crooked arrow?” Joe repeated. “Do you suppose that could be a symbol of the gang?”

  Mr. Hardy shrugged. “It’s possible.”

  Just then a tall, angular woman strode through the doorway of the study.

  “Hello, Aunt Gertrude,” said the boys.

  “Hello,” she replied, then blurted out, “Shame on you, Fenton Hardy! I just hea
rd you talking about a new case. I suppose now you won’t be going out West to visit Cousin Ruth!”

  Aunt Gertrude, Mr. Hardy’s unmarried sister, lived with the family and often felt it necessary to keep the male members in line, especially when Mrs. Hardy was away on a visit, which she was at present.

  “Well, I—”

  “It’s not every day you have an invitation to visit a ranch in New Mexico!” Aunt Gertrude interrupted the detective. “And besides, you need a vacation. I’m worried about you!”

  “Now, Gertrude,” Mr. Hardy said soothingly, “I haven’t forgotten about Ruth—it’s just that I have a few important matters to tend to before I take any trip.”

  “Your health is important too,” his sister spluttered. With that she popped out of the room.

  Frank and Joe grinned broadly. “Orders from headquarters, Dad!” Joe remarked teasingly.

  “She’s quite a sergeant, all right.” Mr. Hardy laughed.

  He opened a desk drawer and took out an aerial photo of the ranch Ruth Hardy had been running since the recent death of her husband. The boys looked over the picture and listened as the detective described the area.

  Secretly Frank and Joe wished they could accompany their father to the sprawling Crowhead Ranch. Though they already had planned a camping trip with their friend Chet Morton, they gladly would have postponed it.

  That evening after dinner the boys went to their crime detection lab over the garage and examined the worn watch strap. Careful scrutiny revealed no distinguishable fingerprints.

  “I think we should take this strap to a chemist for analysis tomorrow,” Frank suggested.

  “Good idea,” Joe agreed. “Maybe we can find out what kind of person wore it.”

  After breakfast the next morning Frank and Joe took the strap to Mr. Strand, a chemist in Bayport. He knew the boys well, and promised to have an analysis for them as soon as possible.

  As they rode home through a residential area just outside of town a stoplight flashed on, and Frank brought their car to a halt. Near the corner they noticed two men in conversation.

  While the boys waited for the light to turn, one of the men walked away. A moment later the other man suddenly slumped to the sidewalk.