Footprints Under the Window Page 4

  “Looks as if he’s on to us. Let’s go!” Frank urged.

  The white-suited man suddenly cut sharp right and disappeared down a narrow side street.

  “Don’t let him get out of sight!” Joe urged.

  Pretense abandoned, the boys broke into a run. With Frank at his heels, Joe nimbly dodged two laborers shouldering a long metal pipe and whipped around the corner.

  Wham!

  Joe had collided full tilt with a man, and he fell backward onto Frank. Both boys landed in a sitting position on the pavement. They looked in astonishment at the roly-poly figure of the man, who was slowly getting to his feet.

  Oscar Smuff!

  “Oowwww!” Groaning, the would-be investigator glared at the Hardys. “You! You! You would get in my way!”

  Smuff, muttering furiously, snatched up a notebook from the sidewalk. He continued to sputter. “You Hardys! Who else would interfere just when I was on the track of conspirators!”

  “Of consp—” The boys stared in dismay past the self-styled detective. Their own pursuit seemed hopeless. The side street was deserted.

  “What conspirators?” Frank asked, gritting his teeth to hide his irritation.

  “Don’t know yet,” Smuff raged, “but I’m hot on their trail—or was until you two meddling amateurs bumped into me.”

  “You sort of got in our way yourself,” Joe retorted.

  Smuff ignored him. He peered around the corner, then darted off after the workers carrying the pipe. Despite their annoyance, Frank and Joe were curious and followed.

  “What’s up?” Joe asked. Smuff gave him a reproving look, then whipped out a pencil. His round face glowed with importance.

  “The code of the underworld!” he whispered, and waddled faster. “I’m trying to break it!”

  Frank frowned. “The what?”

  “You’ll see. Stick with me and learn something about detecting!” Smuff motioned them ahead to overhear the laborers’ conversation.

  “You Hardys would get in my way!” Smuff groaned

  “If they don’t take the pennant this year,” one was saying, “they’ll never win it. The league is getting too tough.”

  “Say,” the other replied, “I’ve got peanut butter and jelly today. What’d you bring?”

  “Sardine, and a bacon and tomato.”

  Smuff, perspiring heavily, frenziedly wrote in his notebook.

  “Don’t you get it?” he asked the boys. “That’s all a secret lingo. ‘Pennant’ is a munitions plot—and ‘league’ is the explosive! ‘Tough’ means it’s hard to get!”

  Frank bit off a smile. “I see. But how about the peanut butter and jelly?”

  “Haven’t figured ‘em out yet—the ‘sardine’ means the plot’ll take place at sea.” He detected Joe’s grin and grimaced. “You won’t laugh when I crack this case wide open.”

  The workmen placed the pipe in a truck, then leaned against it and opened paper bags. Smuff edged closer as the men took out thick sandwiches. They now noticed the pudgy fellow peering curiously at them. “Want somethin’, Mac?” one of the workers called out. Smuff flushed and backed away. The men shrugged and bit into their sandwiches, resuming their conversation.

  Joe clapped Smuff’s shoulder. “Good luck on the bacon and tomato! Hope they’re not too dangerous.”

  Smuff stalked off indignantly, and the Hardys returned to their car. Joe roared with laughter. “Wow, talk about wild-goose chases! ‘Underworld code’—in sandwiches!”

  “Think what Oscar the Sleuth could make of a whole menu!” Frank said, chuckling.

  The brothers still chafed over the disruption of their chase.

  “If only we could have found out where that man was headed!” said Joe. “And if he actually is the Mr. Ricardo from Aunt Gertrude’s ship.”

  “He certainly wanted to get away from us,” Frank added. “It’s possible Ricardo planned to disappear from the ship. And I don’t like it that he quizzed Aunt Gertrude about Dad.”

  The brothers’ discussion ended abruptly as they approached their car and Frank said, “Flat tire!” He pointed to the scraps of rubber near the left-rear wheel. There was a gaping gash in the tire.

  “Somebody did this on purpose!” he exclaimed.

  Joe yanked open the front door and gasped with alarm. “Frank, look at this!”

  Rolls of gouged-out stuffing covered the entire seat. Driven deeply into the driver’s seat was the long blade of a black-handled machete!

  As Joe grimly whipped out a handkerchief and wrapped it around the handle, a piece of paper fluttered from the seat. Pasted on it were bits of newsprint forming the message:A warning: Mind your own business.

  Joe asked angrily, “Are you thinking the same thing I am?”

  “If you mean the vandals are responsible—Yes.” Frank opened the trunk and grabbed a jack. The boys rolled out the spare, changed the tire, then headed home.

  “Ricardo—or whoever that stranger is—saw us park here,” Joe pointed out. “Do you think he could have doubled back and done the damage?”

  Frank doubted this. “I’m sure the man wasn’t carrying a machete.” He looked at Joe. “It’s possible Ricardo and the vandals are in cahoots, though.”

  The Hardys reached home and hurried inside. Frank glanced into the living room and gave a cry of alarm.

  Aunt Gertrude lay motionless on the floor!

  CHAPTER VII

  Reward or Bribe?

  “AUNT Gertrude!”

  The boys rushed to her side. With a slight shriek Miss Hardy jumped to her feet.

  “Aunty, what happened?” Frank asked with relief. “Are you all right?” The tall spinster quickly removed a curtain rod stretched between two chairs.

  “Of course I’m all right!” she snapped, apparently flustered at the boys’ sudden entry. “Just—er—slipped and lost my balance. Knocked the wind out of me a moment.”

  “Whew, you gave us a scare!” said Frank.

  Aunt Gertrude walked quickly to the hi-fi set, snatched a disc from the turntable, and slipped it into an album. Frank peeked at the garish orange-and-purple cover.

  “‘Limbo for Hot-spirited Latins!’ Wow!”

  The boys glanced at the curtain rod in their aunt’s hands and grinned widely.

  “Aunt Gertrude! You weren’t trying to do the Limbo!” Joe exclaimed, referring to the “dance” in which one arched backward beneath a horizontal bar held lower and lower.

  “The what? Nonsense!” Miss Hardy picked up a dustcloth and began vigorously polishing a table. “Silly voodoo music! I was just playing that record out of curiosity.”

  Joe and Frank winked at each other as their aunt propped the curtain rod in a comer. “How about a Limbo lesson, Aunty?”

  “Never you mind, Joe Hardy,” she remarked, and changed the subject. “Why, look at that dirt all over your trousers! Where on earth have you two been?”

  The boys told of having seen the man they thought was Mr. Ricardo, and of their futile pursuit. Aunt Gertrude was astonished.

  “You mean he really didn’t disappear?”

  “It’s possible he just wanted it to seem that way,” Frank reasoned.

  “You boys have too much imagination,” Miss Hardy scolded. “I suppose you think Mr. Ricardo is a pirate in disguise or some other kind of villain.”

  The boys asked if there had been any word from Mr. Hardy.

  “No. Oh, I almost forgot,” she added. “There was a telephone call for you boys.”

  “Where from?” Frank asked.

  “Mr. North, the shipping magnate, of all people. He called three times, and was very brusque. I almost told him a thing or two about how inefficiently his ships are run!”

  “Did he leave a message?”

  Miss Hardy reported that North wanted the brothers to come to his office the next morning at ten o’clock to discuss some “important business.” The boys were puzzled.

  “Maybe he wants some information about the Dorado stowaway,” Jo
e said.

  After supper the boys checked the machete for fingerprints. There were none.

  “But look at this!” Joe exclaimed. “A Cayenne trademark on the blade! This is from South America! We must report our find to Mr. Dykeman!”

  Frank took a world atlas from a bookshelf, flipped to the back index, and ran a finger down the list. “The Huella Islands,” he said, “are off the coast of Cayenne!”

  “The stowaway got aboard there,” Joe said. “He could be one of the higher-ups in the gang. Anyhow, we’d better get our car fixed.”

  The Hardys drove to an auto accessories place, and were told that repairs would be finished by morning.

  The next day the brothers picked up their car and drove to the grimy North Lines Building. They were ushered into Orrin North’s large, plushly furnished office on the top floor. The bulky magnate was relaxing behind a mahogany desk near a picture window overlooking Barmet Bay.

  “Glad you could come. Have a seat.” Without getting up, North waved the Hardys toward a small sofa. “Like my setup, boys?”

  “Very comfortable, Mr. North,” Frank commented. Both he and Joe were at once struck by the disparity between the lavishness of the office and the run-down exterior of the building. They recalled the reports of North’s failing business.

  “Like it myself,” the shipowner admitted proudly. “And it’s all mine—planned by me, earned by me, and preserved by me. Shows what incentive will do. Smart kids like you could do as well—if you play your cards right.”

  Frank and Joe made no comment. It was rumored in Bayport that North’s rise to wealth had not been entirely honest. Each boy wondered what he was leading up to.

  The husky tycoon leaned back in his chair. “I understand you boys ran into that thief who jumped ship from my Dorado.”

  “We did,” Joe affirmed.

  “That’s why I called you in. The hoodlum not only stowed away, but stole a good deal of money. The whole business could give my line a bad name! You two got a good look at him and I’ll make it worth your while if you can find him for me. By the way, did the fellow say anything?”

  Frank replied cautiously, “Not much. He was too weak to talk.”

  North seemed satisfied. “Too bad. We might have had more luck if you had gone straight to Captain Burne.” His voice showed irritation. “Let me hear first if you get any leads.”

  “Do you know the stowaway’s name—or background?” Joe countered.

  The burly magnate shrugged. “Not me. Burne thinks he sneaked on at Cayenne. Personally, I have a feeling he’s a spy!”

  “It’s possible,” Frank agreed, a bit startled. Had North a motive in saying this? Or was it merely an offhand remark?

  North escorted the brothers to the door, where Frank reservedly said they would “keep in touch.”

  “I guess you boys know the ropes, being sons of Fenton Hardy.” He smiled. “What’s your dad up to these days? Haven’t seen him around. Big case?”

  “He’s always busy,” Frank answered.

  Mr. North nodded. “Well, boys, don’t forget about that reward! By the way, I’d like to keep this thing out of the newspaper.”

  As the boys walked back to the car, they mulled over the meeting. “Something about Orrin North rings false,” Frank concluded. “He doesn’t seem to want the authorities to get to that stowaway before he does. Why?”

  “Good question,” Joe answered. “I’ll bet the stowaway stole something besides money, or maybe he’s got something on North!”

  “Like what?”

  “North himself might be part of the Footprints plot Mr. Dykeman told us about.”

  Frank looked doubtful. “He may be involved in some shady financial dealings, but North’s too prominent to risk being in a spy racket.”

  “Guess so,” said Joe. “Did you notice how he tried to fish something out of us about Dad?”

  “I sure did! Come on. We have some checking to do.”

  The Hardys drove to the freighter pier. Here they learned that the Dorado was on its way back to Cayenne and other South American ports. At the passenger office they found that the name Ricardo was not on the Capricorn’s manifest, nor on that of any other ship arriving recently.

  The boys returned to their car. “He must have registered under another name,” Joe said.

  Frank slipped behind the wheel. “We’ve got to find that stowaway! He’s the key to this whole thing.”

  “Fine, but we haven’t any kind of lead.” Joe hopped in beside his brother.

  Frank snapped his fingers. “Our boathouse! He learned about our owning the Sleuth and might have gone there to hide out—or to snoop!”

  “Roger!”

  Frank followed the road which wound around the bay to the dock area. Suddenly the boys noticed three men in black raincoats stealthily approaching a run-down boathouse. As Frank and Joe watched, two of the men disappeared around the far side of the building. When the third moved along the near wall, they recognized the short, bald man!

  “That phony immigration officer!” Frank jolted the car to a halt. “It looks as if they’re after someone!”

  The impostor by now had scurried inside. At once the Hardys jumped out. Frank signaled Joe to head left. He went to the right of the boathouse. Cautiously they stole through the high weeds surrounding the building.

  A harsh voice was audible from within. “You won’t get away this time, Gomez! We’ll teach you to run out on us!”

  Joe was the first to reach the waterside of the boathouse. He inched along the narrow walkway and peered cautiously inside the entrance.

  Three men, spread out on the catwalk, were facing a solitary, slender figure crouching on the rear platform. One of his opponents slowly pulled a rope from his pocket. Together, the men converged on the cornered man.

  The Dorado stowaway!

  CHAPTER VIII

  Cobblewave Cove

  THE men’s steps echoed eerily in the shadowy boathouse as they advanced on the stowaway. Joe glanced over at Frank, who had posted himself at the other side of the entrance.

  The fat, bald man paused and rasped out, “Don’t give us trouble. Valdez, Walton, and I are going to take real good care of you!”

  The speaker’s two companions—one stocky, the other huge and bushy-haired—kept stalking their prey. The stowaway braced himself defensively. Frank nodded to Joe and shouted, “Hey!”

  Startled, the attacking men whirled. “Greber! It’s those Hardy kids! Get ’em!” snarled the stocky thug. The boys recognized him at once as the swarthy-faced Micro-Eye trespasser!

  His bushy-haired partner lunged at Joe. The youth dodged nimbly and tripped the man, who fell sprawling onto the rickety dock. But he grabbed Joe’s leg and pulled the boy down. The two grappled, rolling perilously close to the water.

  Frank, meanwhile, had charged inside the boathouse. He landed a blow in the midriff of the stocky man, who staggered, half-stunned. A second later the stowaway raced outside!

  “Wait!” Frank’s cry was choked off by a rope whipped around his throat from behind. Gasping, he tried to get his fingers inside the rope, but it was drawn tighter!

  Desperate, Frank jabbed his elbow full force into his assailant’s stomach. Taken off balance, the pudgy man teetered, let go the rope, and landed in the water with a splash.

  But the next instant something heavy crashed down on Frank’s head. He sank to the floor, unconscious.

  The young sleuth had no idea how much time passed before he revived and saw Joe’s worried face looking down. “Frank, are you all right?”

  “Guess so, except my head hurts.” Frank stood up and touched a swelling bruise.

  “No wonder! You got conked with this.” Joe picked up a brick.

  “Oh great!” Frank grimaced. “Hey—the stowaway and those other men—where are they?”

  “Gone,” Joe said glumly. “All three lit off after Gomez. I started to chase them, until I realized you weren’t following me.”

 
The Hardys hurried outside. There was no sign of Gomez or his pursuers.

  Frank said, “At least we know there’s some link between Gomez and the wire-cutter fellow. He must be the one called Valdez—and the big guy is Walton. The other’s Greber.”

  “But why the attack on Gomez by the others?” Frank asked.

  “My guess is he cut out from the gang and wants to blow the whistle on his pals. That could explain his stowing away and jumping ship. Also his warning about Footprints.”

  “But why would he have stolen Dad’s papers?”

  “Maybe somebody else did.”

  “Another puzzler. If Gomez does want help, why run away from us?”

  The brothers returned to the car and Joe took the wheel. “Better get you home to take care of that bump,” he advised his brother.

  “Okay. But we’ll make some reports on the way. What do we tell Mr. North?”

  “Just let him know we saw the stowaway. Maybe we can get some information out of him.”

  A few minutes later they stopped at a drugstore and hurried inside to the two phone booths. Joe dialed the secret number of Mr. Dykeman, and told him of their experience at the old boathouse. The agent was doubly alarmed when Joe mentioned the earlier machete warning.

  “At least we know the four men are in the vicinity,” said Dykeman. “We’ll redouble our efforts to track them down.”

  Frank, meanwhile, had phoned Orrin North.

  “Humph!” the magnate sounded displeased at the boy’s report. “Too bad you didn’t get Gomez—can’t pay you for no results.”

  “Joe and I aren’t worried about the money,” Frank said coolly. “We’d like to find out what’s at the bottom of all this.” Hoping to draw the man out, he described the trio pursuing the runaway. “Do you know any of them?”

  “Of course not!” North snapped. “If you get something new on that thief, post me at once.”

  Frank hung up thoughtfully. Did North have another reason for wanting the stowaway captured other than the thefts from the Dorado?