The Sinister Signpost Read online

  “These guys,” the young man shouted, “are trying to pin some sort of car accident on me!”

  Alden eyed Roger suspiciously. “I don’t think the Hardy boys would accuse anyone without good reason. If you were involved in an accident, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Frank and Joe glanced at each other. It seemed wise not to force the issue. They told Mr. Alden about their encounter with a dragster the previous day, but could not say for certain that the driver of the bright-orange car was Roger.

  “Then only my son can clear up this matter,” Alden said. He put the question to Roger.

  The young man became even more arrogant. “I didn’t ram into anybody’s car, and I never heard of Shore Road!”

  His father was in a quandary. Finally he said, “Until this matter can be investigated further, I forbid you to drive your dragster in the competitions today.”

  “We’ll see about that!” Roger muttered defiantly. He glared at the Hardys, then turned and walked off at a furious pace.

  “I don’t know what to do about my son,” Alden said with remorse. “His mother died several years ago, and I haven’t been able to spend much time with him. He’s been getting more difficult to live with every day.”

  “I’m sure he’ll straighten out,” Mr. Hardy remarked sympathetically.

  “I hope so,” Alden replied. Suddenly his mood changed. He turned to Frank and Joe. “Now down to business. Your father tells me you two are going to work with him on the case,” he said.

  “That’s right,” Frank replied.

  “Excellent! I’m sure you have some questions of your own you’ll want to ask me. However, I must fly to Washington immediately after the competitions. How about all of us meeting in my office Monday morning?”

  The Hardys nodded.

  Alden looked at his wrist watch. “It is time for me to get to my post. I’m the official timekeeper for the stock-car runs. Perhaps you would like to join me out on the track.”

  “Would we!” the boys answered excitedly.

  As they started to Walk off, Frank bent down and picked up a small packet which had fallen from his brother’s pocket during the scuffle. It was Joe’s detective kit. Each of the Hardys carried one. Among the items that had spilled out was a magnifying glass and a metal signaling mirror. He handed the kit to Joe.

  Suddenly a voice crackled from the loudspeaker of the P.A. system.

  “The first trial run will be made by car number twenty-two. The driver is Roger Alden!”

  “What!” exploded Alden. “How did he get his hands on a car? I must stop him! Roger doesn’t have enough experience for closed-circuit racing!”

  CHAPTER III

  Prime Suspect

  ALDEN rushed toward the starting line with the Hardys close at his heels.

  “Stop that car!” he shouted.

  But it was too late. Roger roared off.

  “Flag that car down!” Alden ordered one of the track officials.

  “I’ll try to signal him with my mirror when he comes along the straightaway,” Joe said.

  Frank and Joe ran alongside the track opposite to the direction Roger was headed. They watched him as he skidded dangerously on the far turn.

  “Did you see that?” Frank yelled.

  “Yes. He took that curve too fast.”

  The boys hurried down the straightaway. As Roger came around the second far turn, his car spun out of control and crashed through the fence on the sideline. A huge geyser of dust erupted from the spot.

  Frank and Joe rushed to the scene of the accident. An ambulance sped by them with its siren screaming. They arrived just as two white-coated men were helping Roger move away from the damaged vehicle.

  “Is he hurt?” Joe asked quickly.

  “No,” one of the men replied. “He’s lucky. I think he just had the wind knocked out of him. But we’ll take him to the hospital for an examination, anyway.”

  Shortly Roger’s father and Mr. Hardy came running up.

  “Are you all right?” Alden asked his son nervously.

  “I—I guess so,” Roger gasped, still trying to catch his breath. Then he glared at the Hardys and pointed an accusing finger at them. “You guys are the cause of this!” he screamed. “You reflected sunlight into my eyes with that mirror of yours!”

  “You’re crazy!” Joe retorted.

  A rangy young man appeared and gazed at the wrecked car in disbelief. “My car!” he groaned. “It’s almost totally demolished!”

  “Are you the owner?” Alden queried.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “How is it my son was driving your racer?”

  “Roger offered me a hundred bucks if I would let him make the trial run,” the young man explained. “Now all I have is a pile of junk.”

  “Serves you right,” Alden snapped, “but I’ll pay for the damage.”

  Roger was helped into the ambulance and taken to the hospital. Although his father was greatly upset over the incident, he did not request that the competitions be discontinued. Instead, Alden told the participants to carry on. At the signal, engines began roaring to life. The Hardys and Chet watched the day’s activities and were thrilled by the performance of the skillful drivers.

  After dropping Chet off at the Morton farm, the three detectives headed home. When they arrived, Mrs. Hardy announced that supper was ready to be served. As they ate, the boys discussed the day’s events.

  Aunt Gertrude looked at them scornfully. “Racing of any kind is just dreadful! It should be outlawed!”

  “When properly organized,” Frank put in, “it’s a fine sport.”

  “I call it utter nonsense!” Aunt Gertrude retorted. She hurried out of the room before her nephews could argue the point.

  The next day the boys rose late. After eating a hearty breakfast and attending church services, they settled down to read the voluminous Sunday newspapers. Shortly the telephone rang. Frank scooped up the receiver. The caller was Iola Morton, Chet’s sister.

  “Chet won’t be able to see you later,” she sobbed. “He’s had an accident!”

  Frank and Joe leaped into their convertible and drove to the Morton farm. They arrived to find the entire family standing on the front porch of the house. Chet was seated on the steps, exclaiming that he was all right. His face was blackened with soot.

  “I don’t need a doctor!” the chubby youth insisted.

  “What happened?” Frank asked worriedly.

  Mr. Morton, a good-looking, normally jolly man, turned to the Hardys. “Chet was experimenting with a highly volatile fuel on the engine of that old car I keep in the barn. He was pouring some into the carburetor when it suddenly blew up.”

  “It seems the racing bug has bitten him,” said Iola, a slim, pretty girl. She was a witty, light-hearted person and was a school chum of the Hardys. Iola was Joe’s favorite date.

  “I was afraid something like this would happen,” Frank remarked. “However, I didn’t expect it so soon.”

  Mrs. Morton, an attractive, dark-haired woman, hurried to meet Dr. Mills, a Bayport physician, as he drove up to the house. He examined Chet, then left after saying that fortunately the boy had not been injured.

  “You’d better call off your experiments,” Joe advised his friend.

  “I’ll make sure he does,” Mr. Morton said. “I’m getting rid of that old car right away.”

  “But you can’t!” Chet protested. “I’m on the threshold of producing the Morton super-duty racing car!”

  Frank and Joe helped to convince him that such experiments should be left to the experts. Chet was crestfallen for a moment, then his face suddenly brightened.

  “I’ll drop the race-car project in favor of another idea,” he said. “A rocket-propelled bicycle!” The Hardys shook their heads in despair and returned home.

  Monday morning found Mr. Hardy and his sons in Keith Alden’s office. The company president was seated comfortably behind his desk, ready to discuss the case with them.
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  Frank was the first to speak. “Dad says that you suspect someone is trying to steal your experimental motor. Why?”

  “My motor,” Alden replied, “uses a valve of a very unusual design. In fact, we’re not equipped here at the plant to make one. However, I learned of a company on the West Coast that specializes in valve manufacturing. They said they could do the job, so I gave them the green light.”

  He went on to say that one day Mr. Dillon, president of the valve company, had telephoned him excitedly. A stranger, who refused to identify himself, had appeared with the specifications of a valve exactly like the one to be used in Alden’s experimental motor.

  Keith Alden rubbed the back of his neck. “Beats me how the fellow got hold of my design.”

  “What’s the name of the company, sir?” Joe asked.

  “Exeter Valve. It s a small outfit and, lucky for me, very reputable. Mr. Dillon told the guy he’d like to study the specifications further before agreeing to handle the job. The stranger refused and scooted off.”

  “Did you get a description of him?” Frank asked.

  “Yes,” Alden replied. “He was tall, wore black rimmed glasses, and had a beard and mustache that looked phony.”

  “Obviously a disguise,” Mr. Hardy commented.

  “I’m certain it was by sheer accident that the stranger went to the same company I was dealing with,” Alden declared. “And I’m also sure that his valve sketch was a direct copy of my own design.”

  “Leaping lizards!” Joe interjected. “Maybe the stranger has the plans to your whole motor!”

  “We doubt that,” Mr. Hardy said.

  Alden grinned. “Your father is referring to the precautions I have taken to prevent the plans from being stolen.”

  “What kind of precautions?” Frank asked.

  Alden explained that there were only two sets of plans in existence. “One set, the original, is safely hidden. The other is recorded on film slides.

  “The work is divided among the technicians here,” the man continued. “No one worker knows what the other is doing. Each receives his assignment in the form of a slide, which is placed in a burglarproof projector. He displays it on a small screen and uses it for his job.”

  “Sounds foolproof,” Joe commented.

  “That’s what I thought,” Alden said. “Yet somehow specifications for my motor must be leaking out of the plant.”

  “So far,” Mr. Hardy told his sons, “only half of the slides have ever been seen by anyone other than Mr. Alden. That’s why we doubt that the entire design has fallen into the wrong hands.”

  The boys asked Alden if he had the slightest reason to suspect any of his workers.

  “No,” he replied. “And just to be sure, I had them all double-checked.”

  “What about ex-employees?” Joe suggested. “Have you had any trouble in the past?”

  Alden rubbed his chin dubiously. “Come to think of it, I did. But that was several months ago.”

  He stated that Vilno Sigor, an engineer and designer, had worked in his research department. The man had created a number of small, but clever inventions which were used by the company.

  “Then one day Vilno came to my office and accused me of picking his brain,” Alden said. “I told him that was what I was paying him for, and reminded him of the generous bonuses he received for his ideas. Vilno wanted more. He demanded a partnership in my firm. When I refused, he became furious and left. I haven’t seen him since.”

  “Too bad,” Frank muttered. “He might have been our man.”

  “Now take his twin brother Barto,” Alden remarked. “He’s still employed in my research department as a sheet-metal worker. An excellent craftsman. His job is to fabricate the bodies of our experimental race cars.”

  “A twin brother?” Frank exclaimed. “That’s a lead. Barto could be in cahoots with Vilno!”

  Alden grinned. “You’d be wasting your time investigating him. He’s the direct opposite of Vilno in engineering knowledge and in temperament. Even if he got a look at the plans of my motor, he’d never be able to understand them.”

  Despite Alden’s opinion of Barto, the boys were determined to list the sheet-metal worker as a prime suspect.

  The young detectives asked about the two experimental cars that had met with accidents after their windshields had been mysteriously crazed. Alden told them that each of the vehicles was powered by a prototype of his motor.

  “But whether the accidents were the result of sabotage, I can’t say,” he added.

  Mr. Hardy spoke up. “Right now let’s tackle this case one step at a time,” he advised his sons. “We have to assume that somewhere in this plant there’s a clever crook. He’s managing to steal specifications of the experimental motor. Our first job is to find out who he is. And we’ll have to find him fast!”

  CHAPTER IV

  Fingerprint Hunt

  “So YOU want to work in my plant as undercover agents,” Alden said, when told about the boys’ plan. “I like the idea.”

  “Thanks,” Frank replied. “When do we start?”

  “Tomorrow, if that’s all right with you fellows,” Alden said. He glanced at his wrist watch. “I see it’s nearly lunchtime. Let’s have some food.”

  After a delicious meal in the company’s cafeteria, Alden conducted the Hardys on a tour of the plant. The boys watched with interest as various machinists turned out parts for the experimental motor. Each of the men worked from a plan projected on a small screen.

  The last item on the tour was a visit to the research department. There Alden introduced the boys and their father to Barto Sigor.

  “I am pleased to meet you,” Barto said in a quiet voice. He was a short, stocky man with bushy eyebrows and dark, wavy hair. His steel-gray eyes were fixed on the young detectives.

  “These two lads will be working here in the plant for a while,” Alden told him. “They’re taking an automotive engineering course at school and would like to get a little practical experience.”

  “Ah,” Barto responded. “So you want to learn the automobile business. That’s good. Do not hesitate to call on me if you have any questions.”

  “We won’t,” Joe answered.

  Later, while driving home to Bayport, Frank and Joe discussed the case with their father.

  Then Joe said, “What’s your opinion of Barto, Frank? He seems pleasant enough.”

  “I agree he’s a weak suspect, but—”

  “You have something on your mind, son,” Mr. Hardy guessed. “What is it?”

  “Mr. Alden said that Barto would not understand the motor specifications even if he got a look at the plans,” Frank replied. “However, since Vilno and Barto are twins, it’s possible that they could have switched identities.”

  “There’s only one flaw in your theory,” Mr. Hardy said. “Vilno is not a sheet-metal worker. How could he perform his brother’s job at the plant?”

  “I didn’t think about that,” Frank admitted. “Still, I’d like to check it out.”

  “There’s one way of settling the question,” the older detective suggested. “Try to get Barto’s fingerprints. But do it without his knowledge. We don’t want Barto, or anyone else in the plant, to suspect you’re working on a case.”

  The boys retired early that night. The next morning they started for the Alden plant immediately after breakfast. Mr. Hardy, who had been supplied with a microfilm report of all the employees’ records, remained at home to check the information against his files on criminals.

  The boys spent the morning watching the skilled machinists perform their various tasks. Finally they positioned themselves so they could peer into the research department to observe Barto. The young detectives noticed that he wore a pair of thin rubber gloves constantly. Joe made a casual remark about this to another mechanic.

  “Barto always keeps those gloves on,” the man said. “He uses certain acids in his work. Also, he says the gloves give him a better grip on his tools.”
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  Eager to discuss the situation, the young detectives retreated to a secluded corner of the plant.

  “Those gloves of Barto’s make it impossible to get his fingerprints,” Joe commented.

  “He’ll have to take them off sometime,” Frank pointed out. “Maybe when he has his lunch.”

  At noon most of the workers went to the cafeteria. Barto, however, did not leave the shop. Instead, he walked to a clothes rack in one corner of the room and pulled a sandwich, wrapped in wax paper, from the pocket of his jacket. He then sat down on a bench, removed his gloves, and unwrapped the sandwich. The boys watched from a distance.

  “We might get a good print from that wax paper,” Joe whispered.

  “Right,” his brother agreed. “Let’s see what he does with it.”

  After Barto finished eating, he crumpled up the wax paper, put his gloves back on, and strolled out of the shop through an exit door. The young detectives rushed to a window and peered outside. There they spotted the suspect walking toward a flaming incinerator. The man tossed the wax paper into it and returned to the shop.

  “Well, that’s that,” Joe muttered disappointedly.

  “We can’t waste too much time trying to get Barto’s prints,” Frank said. “Let’s follow him when he quits work for the day.”

  A few minutes before five o’clock the boys hurried to the parking lot to pick up their car. Then they posted themselves outside the main gate. Workers began to spill out of the plant.

  “There’s Barto!” Joe said.

  The boys watched their suspect walk to a street corner and wait. Soon a bus came along and Barto climbed aboard. The boys followed the vehicle. Eventually the trail led them to the center of Clayton. The bus stopped and Barto got off.

  “We’ll park the car and follow him on foot,” Frank declared.

  They shadowed their suspect in the best detective fashion. Barto bought a newspaper. Then he stopped at a refreshment stand and ordered a glass of orange juice. When he had finished and walked off, Joe rushed to the stand to seize the glass. But before he could do so, a counter-man swept up the tumbler and plunged it into a sink filled with soapy water.