Footprints Under the Window Page 11

  The boys, hopelessly outnumbered, were gagged and dragged a short distance. Frank was first to sight the limp, gagged form of Gomez at the feet of a white-suited figure.

  Manuel Bedoya’s voice uttered one menacing word. “Strike!”

  The next instant blows crashed upon the boys’ heads. They sank down, unconscious!

  CHAPTER XIX

  Ghost Ship

  SLOWLY Joe revived. His arms were bound tightly behind his back.

  He felt the steady throb of a motor and a rocking motion. As a splash of water hit his face, he sat up but fell back as a strong gust of salty wind hit him. Joe now realized he was in the stern of a boat moving at top speed through the darkness.

  Frank and Chet, also tied up, lay inert on deck next to him. As a wave leaped the rail and doused them, they both sat up groggily.

  Frank winced. “My head—where are we?”

  Joe whispered, looking around, “I think we’re aboard the Northerly!”

  Two Huellan thugs, whom the boys recognized as the machete men, glared at the trio from the taffrail. Nearby lay the unconscious form of Gomez. To starboard, the boys could just see the mainland. They were heading south, but where? The Hardys strained futilely against their bonds. Prisoners! And a sinister spy scheme to be executed against Micro-Eye within a few hours!

  “Watch the rocks!” a voice called out. The boys spotted Bedoya standing on the bridge above. Chet’s teeth chattered.

  Presently the yacht turned into a slow arc, then the engines stopped. The Northerly’s lights were cut, except one beam to the fore.

  The shoreline was in complete blackness. Suddenly, ahead, the three boys made out a huge, hulking outline. They drew closer to the enormous shadow.

  Frank gasped. “The Atlantis!”

  Moments later, the captives were rudely pulled to their feet and untied. The Huellan, Rodriguez, prodded them with a blunt instrument.

  “One sound and you are finished.”

  In grim silence the Hardys and Chet were thrust into a dinghy with one man at the oars; then Gomez, still unconscious, was lifted in. The two thugs climbed in and the oarsman pushed off. Bedoya and his other henchmen followed in a second boat.

  The two craft made directly for the old wreck. Nearer and nearer it loomed, until the tilted hull hovered over them. A rope ladder was lowered from the portside.

  “Up!” Rodriguez ordered the captive youths.

  Frank, Joe, and Chet gripped the swaying ladder and climbed to the freighter’s deck. The three men seized and handcuffed them.

  Chet crouched against the strong wind, trying desperately to keep his balance on the slanted deck. A shaft of light pierced the darkness as one of the men opened a hatch.

  “Down there!” he barked.

  The trio obeyed, with their captors following. Below, the boys were led aft through a dim passageway lined with broken rusted piping to an open doorway. Here an olive-skinned muscular man yanked the boys inside.

  They found themselves in a large compartment, illuminated dimly by several lanterns. Cots and chairs were scattered about. A battered desk stood near a rack of rifles. On the desk lay a crate of fruit, several sea shells of the keyhole limpet variety, and a riding crop.

  The boys’ attention was quickly drawn to a group of weary-looking people seated on blankets at the rear of the hold. The eight men and three women looked Latin American. Their wrists and ankles bound, they seemed too exhausted to show much surprise at the new arrivals.

  One of the men moaned. Seeing lash marks across his face, Frank grimaced. “The Huellan refugees!” he whispered. “Thank heavens they’re alive!”

  “Up!” Rodriguez ordered the captive youths

  “Not by much!” Joe commented, appalled. “Bedoya must have them beaten. I wonder how long they’ve been kept here.”

  “Weeks, probably,” Frank estimated. “We’ve got to get all of us out of here!”

  “Then I really did hear voices out at the cove that day!” Chet whispered, nudging both Hardys. “Probably these prisoners’ cries!”

  Frank nodded. “With Bedoya at work here, it would explain the Atlantis ‘ghost screams’!”

  Gomez, now conscious, was led in by the muscular man. The refugees cried out joyously:

  “Gomez!”

  “Luis!” “Pedro!” “Amigos—”

  Gomez’s greeting to his captive countrymen was cut short by a brutal slap from the thug. Reeling, Gomez was thrust next to the boys, who in whispers quickly established friendly terms with him.

  “We owe you some apologies,” Frank said, and briefly explained what they had learned.

  Gomez was astonished upon hearing of the boys’ visit to Baredo. “If only I had not become frightened and run away from you!” he muttered ruefully to Frank and Joe. “I was afraid to trust anybody before finding my missing friends.”

  The news of Colombo and Santilla’s escape cheered Gomez. He had not been aware of the plot against Micro-Eye, nor of Bedoya’s presence in Bayport. Gomez had learned of North’s double-dealing while on the Dorado and also overheard Captain Burne speak of “the investigator, Fenton Hardy.” The Huellan added that the search for his betrayed compatriots had finally led him to the cemetery at Oak Hollow and his capture.

  The four stopped talking as Manuel Bedoya entered, followed by a heavy-set figure with his coat collar up. As the second man faced them, they gasped. Orrin North!

  The magnate squinted balefully at the boys and Gomez. “You three have been a headache to us,” he rasped angrily. “And you!” He strode over and shook his fist at Gomez. “You almost wrecked my ‘refugee’ business!”

  “Business!” Joe retorted. “You mean kidnapping and treason!”

  “Shut up!” North snapped, his eyes blazing. “You Hardys will regret not cooperating with me. Too bad you would not heed the machete warning of Rodriguez and his friend.”

  “What’s your motive in this spy game, North?” Frank asked coolly.

  “Let’s just say money.”

  Frank went on, “You pretended Gomez was a thief, provided the tomb hideout, plus the Atlantis for Posada’s Footprints plot?”

  “You catch on fast,” North said mockingly. “The warning sign I put up here, and the ghost legend helped keep people away—but not you nosy kids. My pilot saw you snooping around the cove last week. I’ll bet you copped that sea shell, too!”

  North went on, boasting that leaving messages in the sea shells had been his idea. He pointed to the brawny thug. “Musco here swam the shells ashore.”

  “After you tricked these Huellans into giving names of underground friends,” Joe accused him.

  “Not me personally,” North qualified, “but you’ve got the idea. Sometimes Bedoya had to be more—persuasive.” He chuckled. “Nice system, eh? The shells were picked up, the names and other information hidden in clothes, and sent to Cayenne. How do you like my title: Orrin North, Liberator of the Huellas?”

  Gomez’s eyes blazed and he kicked at the magnate. “You dog!”

  North stepped back, laughing raucously. He turned to Bedoya. “Manuel, I’m not hanging around here any longer than I have to. Everything ready for this morning?”

  “Everything—if the Northerly is.”

  “It’s shipshape.” North rubbed his hands and said to the boys, “Too bad you’ll miss seeing us pull off our big job today. Manuel, they’re all yours!” he added, and left.

  Chet nervously watched as Bedoya leaned against the desk and fingered the riding crop. Frank glanced up at a clock on the wall. Four A.M.! He decided to take the offensive.

  “So Posada sneaked you in here via the Capricorn to get the Micro-Eye camera!” he said.

  “Yes,” Bedoya said, cracking the whip against the desk. Chet jumped.

  The master spy continued, “I failed to learn from Miss Hardy on shipboard of your father’s whereabouts, but I understand he is far from here, unfortunately for you!”

  “You think you’re going to break into Mic
ro-Eye?” Joe taunted. “You don’t have a chance!”

  “I think we have a perfect chance,” Bedoya countered blandly. He laughed.

  Frank suddenly recalled Al, the spy, he had seen at the tomb meeting.

  “We know you have an inside man,” the young detective spoke up. “How did he get clearance as a guard?”

  “Oh, but Al Raker’s not a guard,” Bedoya said, raising his brows. “He’s a laundryman.”

  “A laundryman!”

  “Of course!” Joe burst out. “The man I thought I recognized at Corporated Laundries! And I saw North in there—probably leaving a message!”

  “Corporated Laundries!” Frank exclaimed. “So that’s how Raker took photos inside the plant. But the maintenance building is isolated—where did Raker suddenly get a guard’s uniform?”

  Bedoya cracked the riding crop again, close to Frank’s face. “You are very inquisitive.” He smiled. “But I can afford to tell you.”

  The Huellan reached into a foot locker and pulled out a white work outfit. Stitched over one of the jacket pockets in red was the word “Corporated.”

  “Simple,” he began. “Raker rides with Gale—also one of our men—in the truck to Micro-Eye. Raker sits in the back with the clean laundry. They are admitted by the gate guards. Then”—the chief spy grinned—“comes our little miracle.”

  Bedoya quickly turned the white jacket and trousers inside out. The boys gasped. They were identical to a Micro-Eye guard’s uniform!

  “The rest is easy,” Bedoya continued. “Raker dons a mustache and forged badge, then he is let out at the maintenance building by Gale. Next, he walks to the main plant. Dykeman’s guard-shifting plan helped—Raker goes about unsuspected.”

  “And with a miniature camera!” Joe cut in.

  “Correct. Raker then returns to the maintenance building and Gale sneaks him back into the truck, where he once more reverses the uniform.”

  “But,” Frank interrupted, “the gate has logged in two laundry employees in the truck. If Gale handles the laundry alone, wouldn’t any guards watching be suspicious?”

  “Gale doesn’t work alone,” Bedoya said smugly. “Since our laundrymen collect and deliver regularly at the maintenance building, the gate guards do not inspect the bundles.”

  “Inside one of which is another spy!” Joe finished. “He takes Raker’s place until he gets back!”

  “Ingenious, no?” Bedoya boasted. “Our third man comes in as ‘clean’ laundry and leaves in a pickup bundle. But today that bundle will leave with the satellite camera.”

  “Then why did you have Valdez try to cut through the fence that day?” Frank asked. “He didn’t have a chance of getting in.”

  “Of course not,” Bedoya agreed. “But it helped to make Dykeman think we were working from outside.”

  Frank pressed further. “And you used the luggage—and clothing—of innocent travelers to smuggle out the films and stolen data to Cayenne?”

  “Correct,” Bedoya affirmed. He admitted that Valdez had broken into travel agencies and obtained names of tourists flying to Cayenne.

  Their agents at Corporated Laundries would wait for the travelers to leave dry cleaning there, the Huellan added. The Micro-Eye secrets were then cleverly sewn into some of the garments which the customer indicated he would take on the trip. In certain cases Valdez would have to risk entering the person’s home to make sure the information was in the suitcase.

  “And what happened to Raymond Martin?” Joe demanded.

  “Oh, we have him safely tucked away.” Bedoya would explain no further. Just then Musco whispered something in his ear. Leaving two armed thugs with the boys, the men left the compartment.

  Frank, Joe, and Chet looked around for some means of escape. Their heads throbbed with pain. Gomez and the refugees slumped into dejected silence.

  Suddenly clanking sounds from below and the gurgle of rushing water aroused the four prisoners. Frank again looked at the clock.

  “Six-thirty!” he thought. “We have to get free!”

  At that moment Bedoya re-entered with Musco. The boys and Gomez were unhandcuffed and pushed through the door toward a companion-way.

  “And now, we must part,” Bedoya said jeeringly.

  The Hardys, Chet, and Gomez were jostled down the rusted stairs. Musco, Rodriguez, and Bedoya followed closely. The sound of rushing water became louder. The group came to a halt outside a watertight door.

  “I would have enjoyed testing your endurance at greater length,” said the spy leader. “But time is short. All right, Musco!”

  Musco threw open the steel door to the thundering din of gushing water. It was a dark aft compartment flooding from gashes in the hull!

  “You’ll never get away with this!” Frank shouted.

  But the next instant the boys and Gomez were thrust savagely into the turbulent chamber. Torrents of ice-cold sea water enveloped them as Bedoya’s mocking voice rang out. “If you are found, it will appear as an accident. Remember—this is a ghost ship!”

  His laughter reverberated. Then the heavy door swung shut and clinked. The icy water rose higher and higher, swirling about the foursome.

  CHAPTER XX

  Countdown

  THE Hardys, Chet, and Gomez floundered in the darkness, trying to keep their heads above the rising water. They clawed around, groping blindly for a way out.

  “This whole stem section must be submerged!” Frank realized.

  The Hardys tried yanking at the steel door, but it would not budge. By now, none of them could stand. “I—I can’t stay up much longer!” Chet gasped. As a furry rodent brushed his cheek, he choked on a mouthful of salt water.

  Frank said, “Try to find out where the water’s coming in! It’s our only way out!”

  The three dived again and again, desperately seeking a breach in the hull large enough for them to squeeze through. Their breathing grew labored.

  Gomez groaned. “It is no use! The openings are too small!”

  “Keep looking!”

  Joe, bursting above water, touched the overhead with his hand. There was almost no room left!

  Then suddenly Frank felt a strong pressure against his feet. He plunged beneath the surface, fingering the bulkhead. An inrushing stream of water led him to a jagged hole about two feet high and a foot wide. Frank shot above.

  “I’ve found the opening!” he shouted. “But we’ll have to widen it!”

  Joe and Chet wrenched loose a section of rusted pipe near the overhead and swam toward Frank’s voice. “Here!”

  With not a second to lose, the two boys dived and battered at the side of the opening. As they came up for air, Joe gasped, “We can’t get enough force behind the pipe!”

  Desperate, the four prisoners submerged again, each gripping the pipe. They pushed it against one end of the gash and tried to bend out the edge. Suddenly, to their amazement, the lever began to jockey with new force.

  Someone on the outside was trying to help them!

  The opening grew wider!

  The boys felt as if their lungs would burst, but finally Gomez wriggled through, then Joe. He pulled Chet outside, and Frank followed.

  When they broke the sunlit surface of Cobblewave Cove, the four drew in long, shuddering gulps of air. Utterly exhausted, they floated to a large hump-shaped rock and collapsed onto it.

  Who had been their rescuer? Frank sat up.

  “Fellows, look!” From the shadow of the Atlantis, somebody was swimming toward them! As the figure neared the rock, the Hardys cried out in astonishment:

  “Dad!”

  “Frank! Joe!”

  Fenton Hardy grasped his sons’ hands and climbed up. He wore old, torn clothes.

  “Dad! How?—Where?—”

  The well-built, keen-dyed detective was equally amazed at seeing his sons. Catching his breath, he explained, “I spotted Orrin North’s yacht out here an hour ago from a motorboat I’d rented, and swam to the Atlantis. Are you all right?”
<
br />   “Barely,” Chet said with a weak smile.

  Gomez was quickly introduced, then Mr. Hardy continued his story. Upon hearing men’s voices from the wrecked freighter, he had dived near the stern. “When I saw the pipe coming through the hole, I knew someone was trapped, so I pitched in, not dreaming it was you at the other end!”

  “You saved our lives!” Frank said. “But, Dad—you haven’t been away? You’ve been in Bayport?”

  “Yes, in order to watch North’s activities. But tell me what you’re doing here.”

  The boys tersely recounted their involvement with Micro-Eye, and explained Bedoya’s imminent plot to steal the camera.

  “At eight o’clock!” the detective repeated, shocked. “I saw the Northerly start up the coast a short while ago.”

  “With Bedoya and his men aboard!” Joe guessed. “Come on!”

  Overcoming their fatigue, the five swam to shore. They raced across the beach, through the pine barrens, and up a dirt road.

  Fenton Hardy looked at his waterproof watch. “It’s almost eight now!”

  Frank urged, “Let’s flag the first car!”

  Gomez, concerned for his imprisoned friends, was reluctant to leave. “You wait here,” Mr. Hardy said. “We’ll notify the Coast Guard and have them send a boat to the Atlantis.”

  “Gracias!”

  A sedan approached, and the boys signaled frantically. The car stopped, and the Hardys and Chet jumped in.

  “Micro-Eye Industries! Quick! Emergency!”

  The young driver recognized the Hardys, and though puzzled at their bedraggled appearance, reacted instantly. “You bet!”

  The sedan shot north along the coast. It was now ten after eight! Reaching town, the driver sped up a boulevard leading directly to the Micro-Eye plant. They heard sirens wailing. Eight-fifteen!

  As the plant came into view, they gasped. Billowing smoke almost obscured the buildings. Squad cars idled along both curbs. Policemen and armed plant guards seemed to be everywhere.

  “Bedoya’s smoke bombs!” Frank exclaimed. He directed the driver to stop at the main gate, as Joe yelled, “There goes the laundry truck!”