The Clue of the Broken Blade Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER I - Foiled

  CHAPTER II - Curious Strangers

  CHAPTER III - The Legacy

  CHAPTER IV - A Phony Voice

  CHAPTER V - Gang War

  CHAPTER VI - A Pretty Welcome

  CHAPTER VII - Danger in the Delta

  CHAPTER VIII - A Library Clue

  CHAPTER IX - The Old Map

  CHAPTER X - A Treacherous Fence

  CHAPTER XI - Faked Out

  CHAPTER XII - The Sword Adalante

  CHAPTER XIII - A Blunt Warning

  CHAPTER XIV - The Cellar Museum

  CHAPTER XV - Star-Struck!

  CHAPTER XVI - Weird Attackers

  CHAPTER XVII - Treasure in the Dust

  CHAPTER XVIII - Cool Steele

  CHAPTER XIX - Shadowy Figures

  CHAPTER XX - Duel in the Dumps

  THE CLUE OF THE BROKEN BLADE

  FRANK and Joe Hardy become involved in an intriguing mystery which revolves around their fencing master, Ettore Russo. Proof that Russo is the rightful heir to his grandfather’s estate hinges on retrieving the guard end of a broken saber lost many years ago in California.

  The young investigators’ quest is complicated by a bank robbery during which some of their father’s important records are stolen. Using Mr. Hardy’s recently purchased scientific device, a sound spectrograph, the boys identify the voiceprints of the leader of the masked robbers. A chase ensues that takes Frank, Joe, and their pal Chet Morton to the grape-growing region of California and involves them in a dangerous game of hide-and-seek with the bank robbery gang, who also are searching for the broken saber.

  A startling discovery at a movie location leads to the solution of this thrilling, fast-paced mystery.

  Frank was pushed directly into the path of the motorcycle

  Copyright © 1977, 1969, 1942 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Pumam & 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.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 73-119043

  eISBN : 978-1-101-07635-4

  13-Digit: 978-1-101-07635-4

  579 1086

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  CHAPTER I

  Foiled

  FRANK and Joe Hardy, masked and gloved, confronted each other with crossed foils. Ettore Russo, the slim, erect fencing master, was coaching them. He seemed nervous.

  “Frank, you attack. Joe, you parry. On guard. Bend your elbow a little bit more, Frank. Now thrust. Lunge!”

  While Frank carried out the instructions, he murmured to himself, “Something’s bothering Russo. He’s not himself today.”

  “Look, Frank,” came Russo’s voice. “Thrust first until your arm is fully extended, then lunge. Okay. You can take a break now.”

  Dark-haired, eighteen-year-old Frank and his blond brother Joe, who was a year younger, removed their masks and gloves. They were about to join a group of friends when Russo called them aside.

  “What’s on your mind, maestro?” Frank asked as they walked up to him.

  “I won’t be here for the tournament,” Russo said glumly.

  Joe’s eyebrows shot up. “How come?”

  “My grandfather’s will is being probated in Switzerland. I’ll have to be there.”

  “Your grandfather just died?” Frank asked.

  “No, many years ago. It’s my step-grandmother who just died. She was in her eighties.”

  Russo smoothed his wiry black hair with his hand and continued, “You see, Granddad married a young girl late in life. In his will he left his fortune in trust, the income going to her during her lifetime. But the capital was to revert to his blood heirs after her death.”

  “And now you’ll get an inheritance?” Joe asked.

  “Maybe. My grandfather’s will states that upon her death the estate is to be divided according to the terms specified on the sword Adalante.”

  “Now what does Adalante mean?” Joe wanted to know.

  “Adalante is a championship saber that grandfather owned. Unfortunately it was broken and lost in a duel he had in California in the late eighteen hundreds. The tip end was found and is now in the possession of a cousin in Tessin, the Italian part of Switzerland. But there is no will etched on it, so it must be on the guard end.”

  “Do you think your grandfather was playing a joke?” Frank asked. “How could he expect anyone to find the other half of the broken blade?”

  “He was eccentric all his life,” the maestro said. “Maybe his idea was to test the ingenuity of his grandsons.”

  “Could be. Now what happens?”

  “My grandfather often told my father that his first grandson would get three-fourths of the estate, the balance to be divided among his other grandchildren. I’m the eldest grandson.”

  “That’s terrific!” Joe said.

  Russo shrugged. “My father is no longer alive to testify. And my cousin Fabrizio Dente, based on a claim by his mother, who is still living, declares that he is the sole heir.”

  Frank shook his head. “It certainly leaves you in a fix. Unless you find the other end of the saber, of course.”

  Russo sighed. “Did you ever look for a needle in a haystack? All I can do is go to Switzerland and fight my cousin in court. That means I’ll have to close the school.”

  The Hardys’ friends, Biff Hooper, a blond six-footer, and olive-skinned Tony Prito, joined them.

  “Close the school?” Biff said. “That means we can’t take part in the tournament!”

  Russo nodded sadly. “I’ve no one to replace me.”

  “We could keep the school open for you,” Biff offered. “We can’t give lessons, but we can supervise training a few evenings a week!”

  Frank grinned. “That’s a good suggestion. We’ll mind the store for you, maestro!”

  Russo looked rather relieved. “Maybe it would work,” he said. “I don’t know when I’ll be back, and if I close down too long, I might lose most of my students.”

  Phil Cohen and rotund Chet Morton, the Hardys’ best pals, had joined the group and Chet spoke up. “Stop worrying, maestro. I’ll pitch in, too. But I want a handicap from now on!”

  Russo looked puzzled. “Why?”

  “Well,” Chet explained, “I’ve got a lot more surface to touch!”

  Everyone laughed, and Biff needled Chet about his giant-sized appetite.

  “We’ll work the extra weight off you!” Russo promised. “Come on. You and Tony have a practice bout.”

  The two donned their wire-mesh masks and suede single gloves worn on the weapon hand. They took positions on the salle strip which was quite close to regulation size, six feet wide and forty feet long.

  The maestro acted as bout director, taking his place about eight feet from the strip and halfway between Chet and Tony.

  “Biff and Frank, start out by watching Chet,” he said. “Phil and Joe, watch Tony.”

  Frank and Joe had studied the rules for fencing with foils, which were slightly different from those for épée and saber. In foil, the first to score a total of five touches was the winner. Touches were counted only if they were on the trunk of the body. Those on arms, legs, and head were off target. The latter incurred no penalty, but did not score, either.

  If a contestant was hit, the judges would raise an arm and call out hit or touch.

  The boys made a few lunges, bent the blades to th
e floor to test their flexibility, then saluted each other by raising the blades vertically in front of their masks.

  “Ready?” the director said.

  Tony and Chet assumed their guard positions, right foot forward, knees slightly bent, sword arm bent into a V, foils crossed and touching. Both boys answered, “Yes.”

  “Fence!” the director commanded.

  Chet advanced, making a feint as he did. Tony retreated one pace, guessed that Chet’s move was a feint rather than a real attack, thrust and lunged instead of parrying.

  Biff and Frank raised their right arms and said, “Touch!”

  “Halt!” the director ordered and called one against Chet.

  The next two touches were off target, one off Chet’s right shoulder, the other on Tony’s left arm. Although they were not counted as penalties, the director halted the action each time, just as he did for good touches.

  At the command “Fence!” Chet immediately moved to attack. Tony retreated, the blades clashing as lunge was met by parry, and parry by counterparry.

  Chet scored the next two good touches, then Tony made three in a row. Chet took three more to win!

  “Bout!” the director said. “Chet, you don’t need a handicap!” He turned to Tony. “You failed to anchor your left foot when you made that last advance lunge. Next time hold it flat on the floor and you’ll keep your balance if you’re parried.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tony said ruefully, “I’ll remember.”

  The fencing lessons were one hour for each group. Frank and Joe got home in plenty of time for dinner. As they turned into the driveway, they saw a truck backed up to the stairway leading to their laboratory over the garage. Two men were unloading a large crate.

  The boys got out of the car and went over to them. The wooden crate was about two feet square and more than two feet high. It was marked “Fragile.”

  “What’s that?” Frank asked the men.

  “Mr. Hardy ordered it,” one of them replied. “He told us to put it in the lab.”

  Tony thrust and lunged

  Frank and Joe looked at each other. Their father had been out of town for two weeks. As a famous private investigator Fenton Hardy had many enemies, and this would not be the first time someone had used a ruse to get into their expensive lab and damage it.

  Joe asked, “What’s in that crate?”

  The man who had spoken shrugged. He and his colleague dragged the crate off the truck and began to carry it up the stairs. It looked as though it weighed well over a hundred pounds.

  “Wait a minute!” Joe said, following them.

  Frank ran after Joe. The men continued on, paying no attention to them. Then, halfway up, one of them missed a step.

  The heavy crate teetered dangerously toward Joe!

  CHAPTER II

  Curious Strangers

  JOE grabbed the man about the waist to steady him. At the same time Frank reached past his brother to catch a corner of the crate and keep it from falling. After a heart-stopping moment, the man recovered his footing.

  From below a voice called up, “Careful there. That equipment’s quite expensive!”

  They all looked down. A taxicab was backing out of the driveway and Fenton Hardy, a suitcase in one hand and a small package in the other, stood at the bottom of the stairway.

  Frank ran down. In a tone of relief he said, “Are we glad to see you, Dad! We didn’t know if these deliverymen were on the level or not.”

  “They’re only carrying out my instructions,” Mr. Hardy replied. “I’ll be back as soon as I take my suitcase inside. Meantime you can uncrate my new acquisition. But be careful. It’s delicate.”

  By the time Fenton Hardy returned to the lab, the deliverymen had left in their truck and the boys had uncrated the object.

  “This is a complicated piece of equipment,” Joe remarked as they set it gently on the floor.

  Four dials were on the front panel. Three were labeled Monitor Level, Scan Playback Level, and Recording Level. The fourth could be turned to any of three stops, which were marked Mark Amp, Scan Plbk, and Rec Amp. There were also four plug-in holes—Scan Output, Line In, External Speaker, and Microphone Input.

  Joe wondered whether it was a special radio or a secret decoder.

  “Neither,” said Frank. “Look here.” He pointed to a small, round speaker, a meter with a needle pointer, a pair of tape-recording spools, three rows of push buttons, and a drumlike contraption with heavy white paper rolled onto it.

  Mr. Hardy came in, still carrying the small package.

  “What is it, Dad?” Joe asked. “Some new outer-space device?”

  His father set down the package and gave the machine a fond pat. “It’s a sound spectrograph,” he said. “The latest gadget to combat the world of crime.”

  “What does it do?” Frank wanted to know.

  “It converts voices into picture patterns,” Mr. Hardy explained, “and records them on that roll of paper in the form of graphs. It is based on the fact that no two persons have identical vocal cavities. That is what gives each person’s voice its distinctive tone.”

  Joe said, “Couldn’t a criminal beat it just by disguising his voice?”

  Mr. Hardy shook his head. “The spectrograph can’t be fooled. Experiments have been conducted with the best voice imitators in show business, and the device always instantly identifies them.”

  “What do you intend to use it for?” Frank asked.

  Mr. Hardy opened the package. It contained several reels of sound tape. “I have collected recordings of the voices of top criminals in the country, and plan to make spectrograms of all of them and keep them on file. Just like fingerprint files are kept.”

  “Don’t the various police departments have records like this?” Frank asked.

  “Some do, with great success. In cases of kidnapping, for instance, the kidnapper’s voice can be taped when he phones a ransom demand, and then be checked against the file.”

  “Say, that’s great!” Joe exclaimed. “Will you show us how to use it?”

  “I insist,” Mr. Hardy said with a smile. The detective had tutored his sons in anti-crime technology ever since they had shown an interest in the subject. Fenton Hardy, his skills honed to a fine edge in the New York Police Department, had gained renown as a super sleuth. He left the force to set up a private practice, and when Frank and Joe grew old enough, they assisted him. Their first case was known as The Tower Treasure, and their latest success was called the Mystery of the Flying Express.

  Both boys were eager to learn more about the sound spectrograph.

  “Let’s start right away!” Joe said.

  “Take it easy,” Mr. Hardy replied. “It’s quite complicated. The manufacturer conducts a two-week training course in New Jersey. I’ll phone to Somerville in the morning and arrange for you to attend.”

  Frank and Joe were enthusiastic.

  “Incidentally,” their father added, “by the time you come back from Voiceprint School, your mother and I won’t be here.”

  “New case?” Frank asked.

  “No. Just a plain old vacation. Don’t you think we deserve one?”

  Frank grinned. “Where are you going, Dad?”

  “Grand Canyon. Aunt Gertrude will be here, however; so the house won’t be empty when you return.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about us, Dad. And have a good time,” Joe said.

  The Voiceprint Identification Course, as it was officially called, began the following Monday. The boys arrived in Somerville on Sunday evening and registered at a motel next to the school.

  When they reported to their first class at the Voiceprint Laboratories early the next morning, they learned that the course involved seventy hours of classroom lectures and laboratory work, plus twenty hours of homework.

  “Looks as if we won’t have much spare time,” Joe said during lunch.

  Frank nodded. “My head’s spinning already with all the new info. They really cram it into your skull!”<
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  The boys spent the next few days either in class or in the lab, and did not relax until evening when they had dinner in the motel’s restaurant.

  On Thursday night they called their father. He told them that he had completed the voiceprint records and stored them with the tapes in the Bayport Bank and Trust Company for safekeeping.

  “That was a good idea,” Frank said. “Especially since you won’t be home for a while.” He told his father of their progress, wished him a good trip, and hung up.

  “Okay, let’s get some chow,” Joe suggested.

  They had just settled themselves for dinner in the dining room, when two men entered and took a table next to their booth. One was tall, thin, and had a sad face, the other was burly with a swarthy complexion.

  At the same time the boys heard someone slide into the booth next to theirs on the other side of the dividing partition.

  After the waitress had taken their orders, the burly man smiled at Frank and said, “Evening, boys.”

  They politely returned the greeting.

  “We’ve noticed you in here before,” the man continued. “Are you staying at the motel?”

  “Yes, sir,” Joe said. “We’re taking the Voiceprint Identification Course next door.”

  “Oh?” the man said. “I thought that was only for people in police work. Aren’t you a little young for that?”

  “Well, our Dad...” Joe started to reply when Frank kicked him under the table.

  To Joe’s relief the waitress interrupted the conversation by bringing the food. They all ate in silence for a few minutes.

  Then the burly man said, “I’ll bet those machines are quite expensive.”

  “Nearly fifteen thousand dollars,” Frank said.

  The thin man asked, “Can anyone buy them?”

  Frank and Joe looked at each other. Were they being pumped? Had the two men followed them into the restaurant on purpose?

  Even though he was suspicious, Frank decided there would be no harm in answering the thin man’s question. He said, “The machines are sold chiefly to law-enforcement agencies and government offices. But a few have been purchased by private individuals. People who apply for machines are thoroughly investigated, however. If they are found to have any criminal connections, they’re turned down.”