The Secret Panel Read online

  “Why don’t we go down and see Mr. Whittaker?” Frank suggested. “I’d like to find out more about Batton. There’s just no sense in anyone trying to change a lock without even opening the door!”

  “Right!” agreed Joe. “And say, we might ask Mr. Whittaker about the Mead place. Maybe he’s seen the strange doors there, and knows whether the key we have fits any hidden locks in them.”

  The Hardvs started down the street. They had gone only three blocks when their chubby friend Chet Morton jumped out of a yellow sedan which stopped briefly and then went on. He was munching an apple.

  “Hi, fellows,” he greeted them. “I was on my way to your house. Phil gave me a ride. Going anywhere special?”

  “Well, sort of,” Joe replied. “Why?”

  “Put it off,” Chet insisted importantly. “I’ve got something to show you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Come with me to Water Street and you’ll see,” Chet said mysteriously.

  Frank winked at Joe. They were always secretly amused by their friend’s great enthusiasm for any new interest. Chet lived on a farm just outside of Bayport, and when he was not helping the Hardys on a mystery, he was constantly developing any one of a dozen different hobbies.

  Frank and Joe wondered what Chet was up to this time.

  At Water Street their friend turned down a lane leading to the shore of Barmet Bay. Frank and Joe followed as he walked onto a dilapidated dock, stopping at the edge.

  “There she is,” Chet said proudly, pointing. “Pretty swell, eh?”

  Chained and padlocked to a pile was a heavy dory. It was nicked and scarred, and badly in need of paint. Altogether, the boat did not look very seaworthy. It had a motor, but the Hardys guessed from its age that it would not run.

  “My craft’s not as fancy as the Sleuth,” Chet declared, “but I can go fishing now any time I want.”

  The Sleuth was the Hardys’ sleek, powerful speedboat. They had paid for it with reward money they had received for successfully solving a past mystery.

  “Do you own this boat?” Frank asked in astonishment.

  “Yep. Bought ’er only an hour ago. She’s the Bloodhound!”

  “How about a ride up the bay?” Joe asked, grinning.

  “Sure thing,” Chet answered enthusiastically. “You fellows start the engine while I get the oars. They’re in that boathouse over there. Came with the Bloodhound in case of emergency.”

  As their friend ran off, Frank and Joe inspected the ancient motor, which had to be cranked by hand. They turned it over until their arms ached. Then they tried priming the engine with gasoline from the spare can, but it refused even to sputter.

  When Chet returned and heard the bad news, he did not seem at all downcast. The boy said confidently that with a little work, the motor would go.

  “Can’t understand it, though,” he remarked. “That fellow assured me it was in good running order.”

  “What fellow?” asked Joe.

  “The one who sold me the boat.” After a moment’s reflection, Chet added, “But I suppose I should have tried it first to see that everything was all right.”

  Frank and Joe made no comment. They knew that Chet was a bright boy, but usually his hindsight was better than his foresight.

  “Let’s go for a ride, anyway,” Chet urged.

  It was agreed that the boys would take turns rowing. Chet started.

  Presently Frank, seated in the bow, noticed a built-in metal box. He tried to raise the lid, but it was locked.

  “What’s in here?” he asked.

  “Don’t know,” Chet replied. “Haven’t looked yet.”

  “Got a key?”

  Sheepishly the boy admitted that none had come with the boat. He said he would be sure to ask for one when the man brought the registration and bill of sale.

  “When are you going to see the fellow?” Joe asked.

  “In an hour. He had to get the papers at the bank,” Chet answered, starting to puff. “How about one of you taking a turn at the oars?”

  Frank got up to take Chet’s place. Suddenly he was thrown off balance by the rocking of the boat. The water, which had been calm when they started out, was now very choppy. Waves slapped furiously against the side of the Bloodhound.

  Chet quickly pulled the boat around so the next wave would strike it head-on. But the old dory gave a convulsive shudder and a torrent of water came rushing into it.

  “We’ve sprung a leak!” Joe cried.

  He had hardly finished the sentence when two of the seams split wide open, and water gushed through them.

  “Jump!” Frank warned. “Jump!”

  As the dory began to sink, the Hardys dived overboard. Chet seemed paralyzed for the moment. Only when the water reached his waist did he rouse himself and leap from the boat.

  Grimly the three set out for shore, as the Bloodhound sank to the bottom of Barmet Bay in twelve feet of water. Swimming was difficult in the rough sea but finally they reached the dock. Chet sat down and held his head in his hands. He was sad and chagrined, and almost exhausted.

  “It’s a shame,” Frank said. “Wish we could help you, Chet.”

  “Guess there’s nothing we can do,” the boy muttered. “All my hard-earned money gone.”

  “Maybe not. The fellow who sold you the dory ought to make good on it.”

  “You’re right!” Chet cried, jumping up. “When he comes, I’m going to tell him his old boat wasn’t worth a cent!”

  Although the boys waited until their clothes dried, the stranger, whom Chet described as a dark-haired, stocky man of about thirty, did not appear. Chet had become more dejected by the moment, but suddenly he brightened.

  “You can find that guy for me!” he said to the Hardys. “You’re detectives.”

  “Why do you need a detective to find him?” Joe asked.

  “‘Cause I—’cause I don’t know who he is!”

  “You don’t know? You mean you bought a boat without finding out the owner’s name?”

  “’Fraid so,” Chet said sadly.

  “Maybe the fellow didn’t even own the boat. He might have rented it—or even stolen it,” Frank mused.

  Chet turned pale. “Then I—I’d be liable!”

  “We’d better find him,” Joe said determinedly.

  The old man in charge of the boathouse was very sympathetic when he heard their story. He scratched his head thoughtfully, then said:

  “Mebbe I kin help you at that.”

  “You can?” Chet cried. “How?”

  “Seems to me the feller that sold you the boat said he was agoin’ to git one o’ them express buses out o’ Bayport just about now.”

  “Wow!” yelled Joe. “Maybe we can catch him!”

  The three boys ran all the way to the bus terminal. Chet was red-faced and puffing by the time they reached the building, only to find that the bus had pulled out a few minutes before.

  “What’s the next stop?” Joe inquired at the ticket office.

  “Lewiston.”

  Joe reported this to the others, adding, “Lewiston’s ten miles from here.”

  “Can’t do anything without a car,” Frank said.

  “We might use Dad’s,” Joe suggested.

  “We must find that man!” Chet urged. “I’ll buy you gas, and I’ll—”

  The Acme garage was in the next block and the three boys raced there. Fortunately Mr. Hardy’s car was ready. With Frank at the wheel, they drove off at once. Reaching the outskirts of Bayport, they headed westward. Just as they came into Lewiston, the boys caught up with the bus.

  “You get on, Chet, and find your man,” Frank suggested as the driver stopped in the center of town.

  “Wh-what’ll I say to him?” Chet asked helplessly.

  “You want your money back, don’t you?” Joe asked. “Hurry!”

  Excited and worried, Chet got out of the car and boarded the bus.

  CHAPTER III

  Disturbing Developmen
ts

  “MAYBE we ought to go help Chet,” Frank said to Joe, observing that their friend seemed to be having an argument with the bus driver.

  The man had no intention of delaying his trip while the inquisitive youth looked over the passengers.

  “If you want to go back there, pay your fare!” the man demanded.

  “But I don’t want to ride,” the stout boy said. “I just want to see—”

  “Give me the fare or get off!”

  Just then Frank appeared at the door of the bus. He inquired in a long-winded manner what the next stop would be, and how often the express buses ran. Chet took the cue: His friend was trying to gain time for him. He stepped farther back into the bus. In his excitement the stout boy came down hard on a woman’s foot.

  “Ow!” she cried out angrily, attracting everybody’s attention.

  The driver turned to Chet. “Hey, you! Get off this bus!”

  In despair Chet, who had not yet seen all the passengers, was about to produce the fare when Joe put one foot up on the platform. He pretended to push Frank aside, and asked the driver:

  “What time do you get to Ellsville?”

  “This bus doesn’t go to Ellsville.”

  “Then how do I get there?” Joe looked puzzled.

  The driver was in a rather bad humor by now. “Guess you’ll have to walk,” he answered gruffly, then turned to Chet. “Are you riding or getting off?”

  “I’m getting off. And thanks!”

  The three boys hopped to the curb as the driver slammed the door and pulled away.

  They walked slowly toward their car. Chet reported sadly that the man who had sold him the dory was not on the bus.

  “What’ll I do now?” he asked anxiously.

  Frank placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “What say we get the Sleuth and inquire up and down Barmet Bay about your boat? Maybe we can find out where it came from.”

  “Great!” Chet said, looking relieved. “Let’s go!”

  They headed toward Bayport. Reaching the shore, they drove directly to the Hardys’ private dock.

  After parking the car and opening the seaward doors of the boathouse, the three climbed aboard the sleek motorboat.

  “Which way shall we go?” asked Joe as soon as they were all seated. He took the wheel and headed the Sleuth into deeper water.

  “I’d say toward the ocean,” Frank replied. “Chet’s boat was a fishing dory, and probably was owned by someone who went out to sea in her.”

  “Hear that, Chet?” Joe said with a wink. “Frank’s got his old logic working again.”

  “Wish I had his brains,” Chet replied.

  Frank laughed, and the craft sped up the coast. The boys inquired at every house and dock for a mile along the waterfront, but no one knew anything about the dory.

  “Let’s head for the other side and see what we can find out,” Chet suggested.

  Joe steered the Sleuth across the bay. As he neared the opposite shore, he called attention to the property which lay just ahead.

  “It’s the Mead place,” he explained to Chet. “We haven’t had time to tell you about the mystery we ran into this morning.”

  Chet listened wide-eyed as the Hardys told him about the car which had lost a wheel and the driver who had used the name of a dead man, and the strange key. At this point in the story Frank suddenly cried out, “I’ve lost it!”

  “Lost what?” Chet asked.

  “The key!” Frank was frantically searching through his pockets.

  Joe stared at his brother anxiously. Finally he said, “Maybe you left it at home.”

  “No. I wish I had,” Frank answered, giving a groan. “I guess it fell from my pocket when we dived out of Chet’s boat.”

  “Well, it probably doesn’t belong to the Mead doors, anyway,” Joe said.

  “Just the same, I wish I hadn’t lost it,” Frank muttered.

  “I’d like to see those doors,” Chet announced. “Let’s tie up and have a look.”

  Joe cut the motor and allowed the Sleuth to drift to shore. Here he made it fast to the dock adjoining the Mead boathouse. The boys got out and walked to the side door.

  “Wow!” Chet exclaimed. “This really is a mystery! Even the boathouse door has no keyhole or knob.”

  “Wait until you see the mansion,” Joe said with a grin. “Come on!”

  The Hardys led the way and their friend looked in bewilderment at the heavily carved rear door.

  “Are they all this fancy?” he wanted to know.

  “Yes. Each has a different design, though,” Frank replied.

  “And none has any apparent way to get in,” Joe added. “Queer, eh?”

  As the boys rounded the house to inspect the front entrance, they heard a car coming along the driveway. Frank and Joe thought it might be the man who called himself John Mead, so they waited. But the car was not Mead’s. Before the boys could get a look at the driver he backed around the curve and turned back.

  “Well, what do you make of that?” cried Joe.

  “Either somebody lost his way, or didn’t want to meet us,” Frank replied.

  He ran forward, trying to catch a glimpse of the car’s license plate, but it was almost out of sight. When it reached the highway, it roared off in the direction of Bayport.

  Frank glanced at his watch, noting the time for possible future reference. “Four-thirty,” he stated.

  “Oh, oh,” Chet cried, “I’m supposed to meet my mother at five downtown!”

  The three boys hurried to the boathouse and jumped into the Sleuth. Frank sent it skimming across the water, and ten minutes later they alighted in Bayport.

  After housing the Sleuth, the trio got into Mr. Hardy’s car and Frank took Chet to the place where he was to meet his mother. Luckily Mrs. Morton was not waiting yet.

  Chet jumped out and waved good-by. “See you tomorrow, fellows. And don’t forget to work on my case!”

  “Don’t worry,” Frank called out to his friend, then headed home.

  Mrs. Hardy, a slim, attractive woman, was in the kitchen mixing batter for popovers, and from the oven came the appetizing aroma of roast beef.

  “Smells good,” Frank said, grinning. “Where’d you learn to cook?”

  “That’s my secret,” his mother replied with a smile.

  “Speaking of secrets,” Joe began, “I wish you wouldn’t keep so many to yourself.”

  “What do you mean?” Mrs. Hardy was puzzled.

  The boys told her of the man who had been about to change the back-door lock, and that they had stopped him.

  “Well, I’m certainly glad you did!” their mother exclaimed. “There must be a mistake. I didn’t phone Ben Whittaker.”

  “We didn’t think you had,” replied Frank. “Let’s go right down there and find out what that guy Batton is up to. Come on, Joe.”

  “Okay, but be back in time for dinner.”

  “We will.”

  A few minutes later Frank and Joe parked in front of Ben Whittaker’s store. He was just closing the shop, but smiled at the boys as he let them in.

  “Has Mike Batton gone for the day?” Frank asked.

  “Yes. In fact, he didn’t come back here after he went out on some errands a few hours ago.”

  “Mr. Whittaker,” Joe asked, “have you found Batton to be entirely honest?”

  The locksmith looked startled. “Why—ah—yes,” he answered. “What’s on your mind, boys?”

  They told the elderly man about finding his assistant changing the back-door lock on the Hardy house without authorization.

  Mr. Whittaker looked concerned and went immediately to his desk.

  “Here’s the order,” he said, holding up a pad.

  “May I see it?” Frank asked.

  Whittaker handed him the pad. Written on it was “Hardy—back-door lock” and under it “Mrs. Eccles.” Frank suggested that the locksmith call Mrs. Eccles to see if she had left an order to have her lock changed.

&n
bsp; Mr. Whittaker apprehensively made the call. His expression became more grave as he spoke with Mrs. Eccles. When he finally hung up, he said in a weary voice:

  “She’s very upset. She never ordered any lock-work either, but her lock was changed while she was out shopping. And when she returned, two hundred dollars was missing from her desk drawer!”

  Mr. Whittaker paced up and down, completely baffled. “I can’t understand it. Batton came with excellent references.”

  “How long has he worked here?” Frank asked.

  “I hired him just about a week ago. Needed help badly and—” The man’s voice trailed off.

  “Where does he live?” Joe asked.

  “In a boardinghouse on Dover Street. I’ll call him.”

  The woman who answered the phone said Batton was out and had left word he would not be back until late that evening.

  The locksmith looked strained and tired, so the boys left. “We’ll call you if we hear anything, Mr. Whittaker,” Frank said. “I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

  “Yes. My employee is a thief,” Mr. Whittaker said sadly and locked the shop door. “Thanks, boys.”

  Both Frank and Joe felt uneasy as they drove home, and were more suspicious of Batton than before. One mistake might happen, but hardly two of the same kind. And what about the money?

  “What I can’t understand,” said Joe, “is this. If Batton is a thief, why did he pick our house? The Eccles are pretty wealthy, but we’re not.”

  “It’s a puzzler, all right,” Frank agreed. “I’m still inclined to think that Batton never intended to put a new lock on our door; he just planned to get into the house. But why? In any event, he covered himself nicely with that false order on the phone pad.”

  When the boys reached home they learned that Mr. Hardy would not return until the next morning. Mrs. Hardy and her sons sat down to dinner and during the meal Frank and Joe told her everything that had happened that day.

  “Looks as if you have two or three mysteries on your hands,” their mother said with a smile when they had finished their report. “Which one will you work on first?”

  “All of them at once,” Joe replied with a grin.

  “Sometime tomorrow,” Frank said, “I want to dive for that lost key. I meant to ask Mr. Whittaker if he knew anything about the Mead place, but didn’t have the heart to. He was so upset.”