The Ghost at Skeleton Rock Page 2

  “Now what?”

  Frank considered. “Once Hugo hits the cross-road, there’s no telling which way he’ll head. Guess we better notify the police.”

  Across the highway from the trailer court was a roadside store with a gasoline pump. The boys hurried over and put through a call to Chief Collig on the store’s pay phone.

  “I’ll send out a radio alert,” the officer promised, after hearing Frank’s story. “Maybe the highway patrol can pick those men up before they cross the state line.”

  “Thanks, Chief! We’ll keep in touch,” said Frank.

  Somewhat dejectedly, the boys plodded back to their convertible. “What a wild-goose chase!” Frank groaned.

  On the way back to Bayport, Joe brightened suddenly as a thought struck him. “Maybe we could spot Hugo’s trailer from the air. That bright-orange trailer ought to stand out on any road!”

  Frank agreed. “We can ask Jack Wayne to take us up,” he said.

  When they reached home, Frank parked the convertible in the driveway and the boys hurried into the house. Before they were halfway through the kitchen, the telephone rang.

  “Maybe it’s Chief Collig with some news!” Joe exclaimed. He reached the hall first and scooped up the phone. “Hello.”

  “This is Chet, Joe,” came a breathless voice over the wire. “Something’s up! I need help right away—over at my place.”

  Chet Morton, a chubby pal of the Hardys, attended Bayport High with them. Good-natured and fond of eating, he was usually slow moving and easy going. But now his voice throbbed with fearful urgency.

  “Chet! What’s this all about?” Joe demanded.

  “I can’t explain over the phone, but get here fast,” his friend pleaded. “This is important!”

  “Okay. We’ll be there pronto.”

  “What’s wrong?” Frank asked as Joe hung up.

  “Search me. Chet seems to be all worked up. Sounds as if he’s in real trouble. He wants us to come out to the farm on the double.”

  “All right. But first let me call Jack Wayne.”

  Snatching up the phone, Frank dialed Jack’s cubbyhole office at the airport. When the pilot answered, Frank gave him a quick account of their adventures with Hugo and Abdul. Jack was thunderstruck to learn that the brothers were already on the trail of “Hugo purple turban.”

  “Joe and I figure,” Frank went on, “that the quickest way to spot the trailer is from the air. Could you go up and reconnoiter a bit?”

  “Sure,” Jack replied.

  Frank described the hardtop coupé and orange trailer, then hung up and hurried out to the car with Joe. Twenty minutes later they reached the Morton farmhouse on the outskirts of Bayport.

  The boys ran up to the front door and rang the bell. Two pretty girls answered the door. One was Chet’s dark-haired sister, Iola. The other, a blonde with sparkling brown eyes, was her chum, Callie Shaw. The two girls often double-dated Frank and Joe.

  “Well! Imagine meeting you two here!” said Iola in pleased surprise.

  “You’re just in time,” Callie said. She held up a puppet dressed like Little Red Ridinghood. “We were just practicing for a puppet show we’re going to give at the hospital bazaar. You two can help us—”

  “Where’s Chet?” Joe interrupted.

  “Why, out in the barn,” said Iola. “But—”

  “Come on, Frank!”

  Without waiting to explain, Frank and Joe rushed outside and headed around the side of the barn to the rear. Voices became more audible at every step. Suddenly both boys pulled up short and stared at each other in amazement.

  “Did you hear somebody mention the name Hugo?” Joe whispered breathlessly.

  Freezing in their tracks, the Hardys listened intently.

  “We’ll get the Hardys and get ’em good, Hugo!” said a rough voice.

  “Yeah,” came the chuckling reply. “We’ll ambush them tonight!”

  CHAPTER III

  The Hijacked Dummy

  “AMBUSH?” Joe flashed his brother a startled glance.

  Frank clenched his fists. “I don’t know what’s going on back there, but let’s find out!”

  With their hearts thumping and their fists ready for trouble, the Hardys dashed around the corner of the barn, then stopped dead in open-mouthed astonishment. The only person in sight was Chet Morton, propped up against the back of the barn.

  “Hi, fellows!” he greeted them, lifting his eyebrows in an innocent, deadpan look. “Expecting someone else?”

  “But where are those two men we heard?” Joe asked in surprise.

  “You’re looking at ‘em, pal. Both of ’em!” Chet replied.

  To prove this, he switched over to his two “tough guy” voices and uttered a few more blood-curdling threats.

  “You?” Frank could hardly believe his ears.

  “That’s right.” The stout boy chuckled. “A slight case of ventriloquism, gentlemen. Learned it from books. Thought it might come in handy helping you fellows on your cases.” He burst into laughter. “Oh, boy, did you two ever fall for my act—hook, line, and sinker!”

  “And that phone call begging for help?” Joe growled. “That was just a trick, too, to get us over here?”

  Chet nodded. “But don’t hold it against me.”

  The Hardy boys grinned, then Frank said, “You sure fooled us. I’ll say you’re good.”

  “I sure am!” Chet agreed. “In fact, I may make a career out of ventriloquism,” he went on, turning serious. “Man, I can see myself now, doing a big show on television! Chet Morton, Man of Many Voices—World’s Greatest Imitator!”

  This time it was the Hardys’ chance to needle their friend. “World’s Greatest Appetite, you mean!” Joe hooted. “Otherwise known as Chet Morton, Man of Many Helpings!”

  Chet’s moonface took on a hurt look. “Okay, okay. Just because I happen to appreciate good food,” he sulked. “If you fellows don’t think I’m ready for the big time, just listen to this.”

  He jerked his thumb toward the house and whispered, “Here comes my pesky cousin, Jinny.”

  A moment later a little girl’s shrill, whiny voice seemed to come drifting around the corner of the barn:“Oh, Chet! Your mother says you better get in the house right this minute and start cleaning up the basement! Y’hear me? You better come quick, or I’m gonna tell her just where you’re hiding!”

  The boys were amazed at the demonstration. Chet’s lips had hardly moved.

  “That’s pretty convincing, Chet,” said Frank.

  Chet looked somewhat mollified. “It ought to be good,” he bragged. “I’ve been studying and practicing secretly a whole month. I’m even thinking of buying a Hugo!”

  “A Hugo?” Frank and Joe gasped together.

  “Sure,” Chet said calmly. “The same kind of dummy Professor Fox uses.”

  “Oh!” The Hardys relaxed as they recalled the act to which Chet was referring. Professor Fox was a star ventriloquist on TV. His dummy, Hugo, had become so popular that it was being copied and sold on a large scale. The dummy came in various-priced models.

  “I’m going to get the most expensive Hugo on the market,” Chet bragged. “I’ve been saving to buy it by doing extra chores around the farm. I have enough money now.”

  Just then Chet’s bull terrier, Spud, came wandering out to see what was going on.

  “Watch me fool him,” Chet said with a wink at his friends. “Over there, boy!”

  He pointed to a clump of bushes and threw his voice once again:

  “Here, Spud! Come on, boy! Got a nice thick juicy steak for you! Come on, fella!”

  Instead of responding, the bull terrier stood still, eyeing his master quizzically.

  Chet lost his temper. “Well, go on, dopey. What’re you waiting for?” The bull terrier merely panted and wagged his tail.

  “Wow! Did you ever fool him!” Frank gibed. Both he and Joe doubled up with laughter.

  Chet turned beet red and grumpily threw his d
og a stick to chase. Then he casually suggested, “Let’s get some lemonade and cookies.”

  On the way back to the house, Joe said thoughtfully, “Some of those Hugos come with Oriental turbans, don’t they, Chet?”

  “The better models do,” replied the stout boy. “Why?”

  “Oh, just a hunch I had about something.” Turning to his brother, Joe went on, “Do you suppose Dad’s message might have referred to one of those dummies?”

  Frank nodded. “It’s an idea.”

  “Don’t tell me you fellows are wrestling with another mystery?” Chet inquired uneasily.

  “Right. And you’re just the one to help us solve it,” Joe told Chet, slapping him on the back.

  “Not me!” Chet protested with a shudder.

  Getting involved in the Hardys’ crime cases always gave Chet the jitters, although the roly-poly high-school boy had already been through several dangerous adventures with Joe and Frank.

  “This won’t get you into any danger,” Joe assured him. Hastily he explained about the puzzling message which Mr. Hardy had sent from Puerto Rico.

  “Where do I come in?” Chet asked suspiciously.

  “When you go shopping for a Hugo dummy, just keep your eyes open. Better yet, let us go with you. Maybe we’ll run across some kind of a clue.”

  “We-e-ell ... I guess I can go along that far with you,” Chet agreed grudgingly.

  “Where did you plan on buying your dummy?” Frank asked.

  “Biwen’s Novelty Shop. That’s where I’ve been getting all my books on ventriloquism.”

  “Okay. Let’s go!”

  After stopping in the house for lemonade with the girls and to pick up Chet’s wallet, the three boys piled into the convertible and drove off. A few minutes later they pulled up in front of the novelty shop on King Street.

  A bell tinkled as they walked in and Mr. Bivven, the squat, baldheaded proprietor, came out of the back room to greet them.

  He beamed at the trio across the counter. “Something you’d like, boys?”

  Chet said he wanted to look over the store’s stock of ventriloquist’s dummies.

  One by one, Mr. Biwen showed his stock, but Chet turned them all down and asked for a Hugo dummy. The proprietor went to his storeroom and emerged presently with a cardboard box. It contained a Hugo dummy, clad in a tuxedo and red turban.

  “I just received this today,” Mr. Biwen said. Taking out the dummy, Chet set it on the counter and began putting on an impromptu ventriloquist act.

  Frank watched, chuckling, for a moment. Then he picked up the instruction sheet which was lying in the box and began to read it. The simple directions were printed in three languages—English, French, and Spanish.

  The doorbell tinkled again and two men entered the shop. One was tall and rough-looking, with large ears that stuck out from his head; the other was short and swarthy-complexioned.

  Joe, who was standing alongside Chet and Frank, watched the men out of the corner of his eye. They stopped in front of a trayful of water pistols and began picking them over. It looked as though they were killing time until the proprietor could wait on them.

  “Okay. I guess I’ll take this one,” Chet decided finally.

  As he pulled out his wallet to pay for the dummy, Mr. Biwen put the figure back in the box and started to wrap it.

  “Good thing you stopped in today, son,” he remarked chattily. “This here’s the only Hugo in stock. If you’d waited any longer, I reckon you’d have been plumb out o’ luck.”

  “Just a minute!” said the tall man, stepping forward. “That dummy is exactly what I been lookin’ for. How much is the kid payin’ for it?”

  “Eighteen dollars and ninety-five cents.”

  “Then I’ll give you twenty bucks!”

  Mr. Biwen hesitated. He hated to lose the extra profit, but Chet was a good customer and he didn’t want to offend him.

  “Nope. I’m sorry, the deal’s already closed.”

  “Twenty-five!”

  Mr. Biwen gulped and shook his head. “I told you before, mister, it’s no go. First come, first served. Dummy’s already sold to Chet here.”

  Grinning triumphantly, Chet counted out the money. But as the proprietor turned to ring up the sale on the cash register, the short man suddenly whipped out a shiny, blue-steel revolver.

  “It’s a cinch that gun’s no toy!” thought Joe, wincing.

  “We want that dummy!” snarled the short man.

  As Chet stood quaking, the tall fellow grabbed Hugo off the counter!

  CHAPTER IV

  A Double Burglary

  THE armed intruders kept the boys and Mr. Bivven covered as they backed hastily toward the door with the Hugo dummy.

  “Don’t try any hero stuff and don’t call the cops after we leave,” warned the swarthy gunman. “If you do, you’ll sure regret it!”

  Then the tall man jerked open the door and the two dashed out to a car parked at the curb. Frank and Joe rushed to the window just in time to see the short man slide behind the wheel.

  “Watch it, fellows,” Chet begged.

  Pale and trembling with excitement, he half expected to see the store’s show window shattered by a hail of bullets. Instead, the engine roared and the car, a green sedan, sped away.

  “No luck on the license number!” Joe groaned. “The rear plate was caked with mud.”

  “After them!” Frank cried, dashing out the door.

  The Hardys leaped into their convertible and took off. Luckily, traffic was light. In the distance Joe caught a glimpse of the getaway car. “There it is!” he yelled.

  Frank speeded up. The green car whined in a turn to the right at the next intersection. As the convertible followed, the other car suddenly put on a fresh burst of speed.

  “They must have spotted us in their rear-view mirror,” Frank muttered through clenched teeth.

  As the chase continued, the green car shot through a stop sign. When the boys reached the crossing, a stream of traffic barred the way. Then a huge tank truck halted for a left turn, completely blocking the intersection. By the time the route was clear, the getaway car was nowhere in sight.

  “What luck!” Joe groaned.

  The boys cruised around for a while, hoping to locate the trail again, but finally gave up.

  “Guess we may as well go back and get Chet,” Frank sighed.

  A police squad car was parked in front of the novelty shop. When the Hardys walked in, Mr. Biwen was relating the details of the holdup to the officers.

  “These are the boys,” he said, nodding at Frank and Joe.

  “Any luck tracing the thieves?” one of the officers asked.

  Frank shook his head glumly. “We couldn’t even get their license number.”

  He gave a detailed description of the green sedan, and also reported the general route which the thieves had taken.

  “I’ll put it on the radio right away,” said the other policeman. “There’s still a chance we can stop ’em before they get out of town.” He hurried outside to the squad car.

  The other officer took down the names and addresses of everyone involved, then left the shop.

  “Too bad, Chet,” Joe sympathized. “Looks as if you’re out of luck for a dummy today.”

  “You’re telling me,” the young ventriloquist answered gloomily.

  “Don’t be too sure of that,” put in Mr. Biwen with a grin.

  “Huh?” Chet’s eyes popped. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean there might just be another Hugo back in the storeroom. Dummies have been selling quickly, but while I was talking to those officers, I suddenly remembered tucking another box up on the top shelf. But don’t get your hopes too high till I make sure.”

  Chet waited in eager suspense. A few moments later Mr. Biwen reappeared, beaming triumphantly. “Yes! Got one right here.”

  “Hot ziggety!” Chet pounced on the box in delight, ripping off the cover. As he pulled out the dummy, both Frank and
Joe gave a yelp of excitement.

  This one wore a purple turban!

  “My stars!” Mr. Biwen chuckled. “Seems like you two are just as het-up as your friend here about finding this extra Hugo. But I reckon that’s only natural, seeing as how you took your lives in your hands trying to save the other one.”

  Frank and Joe merely smiled and made no effort to explain their jubilation. But the same thought was passing through both their minds. Could this be the “Hugo purple turban” referred to in their father’s message? And had the two men made off with the wrong dummy?

  Meanwhile, Chet was putting the new Hugo through its paces. “Boy, this is for me!” he gloated. “I’ll work with it at home this evening!”

  As the proprietor wrote out the sales check, Joe examined the dummy but could find nothing unusual about it. Frank again glanced at the instruction sheet. This one was also printed in the same three languages.

  Suddenly Frank’s eyes narrowed. “That’s funny,” he muttered under his breath.

  “What’s funny?” Joe asked.

  “These directions. The ones in French and English are the same as those which came with the other dummy. But the directions in Spanish are different.”

  Both boys could read French and Spanish.

  “You’re sure?” Joe asked.

  “Positive.” After Mr. Biwen finished writing out the sales check and tore off a copy for Chet, Frank asked the man, “Does any other store in Bayport sell the Hugo dummies?”

  “You’d like one too, eh?” The proprietor smiled. “Well, now, let me think.” He paused and scratched his chin. “Might try Hanade’s over on Bay Street.”

  “Hanade’s?”

  “That’s right. Nice elderly Japanese. Runs a puppet-repair shop, and handles all kinds of interesting doodads.”

  The Hardys thanked him and left the store with Chet. Outside, their stout pal asked Frank why he was so interested in finding another dealer.

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to take up ventriloquism, too?” he teased.

  “Not a chance,” Frank replied, and explained about the curious difference in the instructions. He added, “It might be a fluke, or it might mean something. Anyhow, I’d like to check another set of instructions.”