The Mystery of the Spiral Bridge Read online

  Frank tried to sound cheerful. “I realize our deductions have been knocked out of orbit, but at least we know Matlack’s off our list.”

  “I feel like a goof,” Joe admitted. “Here we tackle a case for Dad, and we’ve come across nothing but dead ends.”

  “If we don’t get on the ball pretty soon,” Frank remarked, “we’ll be low sleuths on the totem pole!”

  The Hardys decided to walk for a while before returning to Manhattan. As they strode briskly along, they reviewed every aspect of the mystery. If Matlack was not their man, why was his record stolen from Radley? And why had Fenton Hardy taken Matlack’s files with him to Kentucky?

  “The answers probably are in Dad’s missing brief case,” Frank surmised. “Maybe his dossier on Matlack would help to solve the puzzle.”

  “You’re right. But that brief case could be any where in or out of Kentucky right now.”

  For the next ten minutes the brothers walked along in silence. Then Frank said, “One thing is certain. Dad’s enemies have a super-intelligence system. They didn’t waste a minute picking up our trail, and seem to know everything we’ve planned at home or in New York.”

  “Which means,” Joe said, “that monkey man is one of the gang.” He suggested that they return to Bayport. “If we can track down their spy network there,” Joe added, “it might put us on the right trail.”

  Frank hailed a passing taxi, and after a speedy ride, the driver let them out in front of their hotel. Frank paid the fare and turned to his brother.

  “Let’s case this block first!”

  “You’re right! That monkey man might still be spying on us.”

  The boys separated, each sauntering along opposite sides of the street. As inconspicuously as possible, they surveyed the rooftops, and carefully watched for any suspicious motion behind the dirt-streaked windows.

  Joe was passing the house where Matlack had lived, when the front door opened. Out stepped the slovenly landlady, still wearing the pink housecoat. She held a broom in her hands and began to sweep the steps. Joe bounded up to her and Frank followed.

  “Milo Matlack’s dead. Why didn’t you tell us?” Joe asked.

  Instead of replying, the woman scurried into the house and locked the door.

  “Boy, she’s really scared,” Frank declared. “Somebody has threatened her to keep quiet.”

  “But why—if Matlack is out of the picture?”

  “To keep us on the wrong track!”

  Frank and Joe walked across the street and posted themselves in the doorway of a vacant store in case any suspicious person showed up at No. 47. Nothing happened, however, and the landlady did not reappear. The boys also kept an eye out for the vagrant who had tricked them, but the grubby drifter was not to be seen among the passers-by.

  Finally they returned to the hotel. The desk clerk handed Frank the room key. “You two check ing out? Otherwise you’ll owe us for another day.”

  “We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”

  In their musty room the Hardys threw the few possessions they had brought into their overnight bags. Joe said to himself, “Shaving kit, toothpaste—” His mental check stopped suddenly when he picked up his red-handled toothbrush from the side of the wash basin. A white paper was wrapped around it, held securely by an elastic band.

  “Frank, look at this!” Joe slipped off the elastic and opened the paper. Printed on it in crude letters was “Warning—Bayport is for Brats.” It was signed with an odd-looking M with three spiral loops.

  Frank gritted his teeth. “If Matlack weren’t dead, I’d swear he left this warning.”

  “It’s a dirty insult! Bayport for Brats, eh?” Joe exploded. “We’ll show them.”

  The brothers quickly finished packing, hastened downstairs with their bags, and queried the desk clerk. He denied knowledge of the toothbrush warning. A silly grin came over his face. “Say, maybe some joker did it before you left home.”

  The Hardys made no comment. Handing over the door key, they left.

  “That was a bright theory!” Joe said sarcastically as the two walked away from the hotel.

  Frank stopped at the first public telephone booth and contacted Jack Wayne. The pilot told them the plane was in readiness and that he would take off immediately to meet them at La Guardia. Exactly on schedule Jack set down the Hardy plane at the airfield and the boys climbed into the cabin.

  The flight to Bayport was smooth and fast. From the airport, the young sleuths drove directly to the hospital. It was past visiting hours, but they were allowed to look in briefly on Mr. Hardy. Much to Frank and Joe’s relief, they found their father slightly improved, but as yet unable to talk clearly.

  Back home, Joe called Sam Radley and told of their experiences in New York. He was surprised to learn that Matlack was dead.

  “This mystery is a real puzzler,” Sam remarked. “At least you two found out somebody’s worried by your sleuthing.”

  Sam said no further clues had turned up locally to the prowler’s identity. Then the Hardys checked with their pals. None of the four had detected anyone suspicious lurking near the hospital or the Hardy house.

  The following morning Frank and Joe discussed what their next move should be. From the living room came assorted thumps and clicking noises. Aunt Gertrude was assembling the vacuum cleaner with her usual vigor.

  “Goodness gracious, Gertrude!” came Mrs. Hardy’s voice. “We cleaned thoroughly just a few days ago!”

  The boys grinned and went into the living room. Joe squinted his eyes, as if inspecting the room. “Aunty, relax, there’s not a cobweb in sight!”

  Aunt Gertrude pursed her lips. “Don’t be funny,” she said tartly. “There happens to be a spot on the ceiling in one corner of your father’s study.” With an accusing look at her nephews, she added, “You and your friends were the last to use it.”

  “Wow!” Joe said. “Aunty, I’ll bet you could spot a speck of dust ten miles away. Better be careful, though, it might be a beetle!”

  “Humph!” Aunt Gertrude gathered her equipment and carried it up the carpeted stairs.

  Suddenly an electrifying thought flashed through Frank’s brain. He ran upstairs. Aunt Gertrude was about to enter the detective’s study when Frank grabbed her. The startled woman gasped.

  “What—?” was all she could get out, because Frank clapped a hand over her mouth and dragged his flabbergasted aunt into the hall.

  CHAPTER VII

  Bug Bait

  GERTRUDE HARDY’S eyes bulged with fright as Frank kept a hand clapped over her mouth and half carried her down the stairway into the living room.

  “Good night!” exclaimed Joe. “What—”

  “Sh, sh!” Frank whispered frantically. “Don’t make a sound.” He released his aunt and led the trembling woman into the kitchen. The others followed.

  Mrs. Hardy spoke first. “What on earth are you up to, Frank?”

  “I know,” Aunt Gertrude said tartly as she smoothed her disheveled hair and set her spectacles straight. “Frank has gone stark raving mad, that’s what!” She glared at her elder nephew.

  “I’m sorry, Aunty,” Frank said soothingly. “You see—I think that dirt spot on the ceiling you’re talking about is a bug.”

  “Oh! It really is a beetle! Ugh!”

  “Not that kind of bug,” Frank went on with a smile. “ ‘Bug’ is slang for a hidden microphone.”

  “So that’s how the crooks knew all about our plans!” Joe whispered hoarsely.

  “But that seems impossible!” Mrs. Hardy said. “No outsider has been here recently!”

  “Except Mr. Kenfield,” Aunt Gertrude said. She had calmed down, but there was a look of deep concern on her face.

  “Hmm. You said you heard his ladder against the house,” Frank reflected. “Joe, let’s go take a look at that ceiling spot.”

  After cautioning the two women to keep their voices low, Frank and Joe kicked off their shoes and padded up the stairs. They went into
the study and looked at the speck. No larger in circumference than a pencil, it protruded an eighth of an inch from the ceiling, so close to the corner that it might not ordinarily have been seen.

  Frank put his finger to his lips and beckoned Joe out into the hall. There he whispered into his brother’s ear, “It’s a listening device all right. The transmitter must have been installed in our attic.”

  Silently Frank opened the door to the attic stairway, and the boys tiptoed up. One window was opened halfway, and near it the Hardys spotted a small radio transmitter, inserted between two floorboards. Impulsively Joe reached down to yank it out, but Frank restrained him.

  Retracing their steps, the boys hastened back to the kitchen.

  “Well, what kind of beetle is it?” Aunt Gertrude asked.

  “The big-eared type,” Joe replied. He quickly reached for the wall phone extension and called Mr. Kenfield. He asked the roofer to come over immediately.

  In about ten minutes the roofer parked his truck in the front of the house. Mr. Kenfield, short and portly, was wearing his work clothes.

  “Hello, Frank, Joe,” he said as the boys stepped outside to meet him. “I suppose it’s the garage roof you want me to look over, right?”

  “No,” Joe said. “We’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “Shoot.”

  The boys’ first query was whether or not the roofer had gone into the attic. He said No; that he had examined the roof from the outside only. “But the electrical inspector,” Mr. Kenfield continued, “went into your attic.”

  “Who?” asked Frank.

  “An electrical inspector. He said you had some rewiring done, and he’d been called to look it over.”

  The brothers exchanged glances. This was news to them!

  “How did he get in?” Joe queried.

  “Asked if he could use my ladder. It was okay with me. You know I’m willing to oblige.”

  “Can you describe this fellow for us?” Frank asked.

  “Why, sure. He was short, thin, kind of bandy-legged and agile. You should’ve seen him zip up that ladder! Like a—”

  “Like a monkey?” Joe put in.

  “Yes, sure, that’s it! I was going to say monkey myself, but I didn’t want to insult him if he’s a friend of yours.”

  Joe could not help smiling. “He’s not.”

  Frank concluded that the roofer was not to blame. He had had no reason to suspect the “inspector” was a fraud.

  “Thanks a lot, Mr. Kenfield,” Frank said. “That’s all we wanted to know.”

  “Glad to help, any time.”

  As soon as the roofer had left, Frank exclaimed, “Joe, now we have a chance to turn the tables! We’ll ‘confer’ in Dad’s study and feed the bug false information.”

  “Great!” Joe said with enthusiasm.

  “That way we can tell if the mike’s still in operation, and even lead the crooks on a wild-goose chase,” Frank added.

  First the boys told their mother and Aunt Gertrude what they had learned. “So, if you see the monkey man anywhere around, call us right away,” Frank said. “And if we’re not here, notify Chief Collig.”

  Aunt Gertrude shuddered. “First bugs, now a monkey! Oh dear!”

  Frank and Joe put their plan into operation. They walked up the stairs noisily and entered their father’s study, chatting loudly.

  “Well, we’ve got the dope on them,” Frank said. “Let’s fly down to Kentucky.”

  “Right away?” Joe asked. He looked up toward the microphone and winked at his brother.

  “You bet. We can get ready in a jiffy.” Frank made the telephone clatter as he lifted it from its cradle. Then, pressing the button down, he dialed and feigned talking with their pilot.

  “Jack Wayne? ... This is Frank Hardy. Get her fueled up. We’re taking off for Kentucky this afternoon.”

  Frank hung up with a noise that was sure to be picked up by the bug, then added, “Come on, Joe. We’ll give those crooks a hard time.”

  The boys confided in Mrs. Hardy what they had done and Frank told her, “We’re going out to Chet’s. If Jack should phone, please have him buzz us there.”

  “All right. I hope your ruse works.”

  The Mortons lived on a farm. The rambling homestead, surrounded by rolling countryside, was a favorite haunt of the Hardy boys. The foremost attraction was Iola Morton, Chet’s dark-haired sister, whom Joe regarded as his best girl. Her friend Callie Shaw, a slender, blond, lithe-some girl, was often at the farm, which suited Frank fine since Callie was his favorite date.

  Today, as they pulled up to the house, Frank beamed. “There’s Callie’s car.”

  Joe’s face lit up. “That means Iola’s home. We’re both in luck.”

  The Hardys hopped out and looked around for their friends. Suddenly they heard a dull clunk from behind the barn, followed by several giggles. “Oh, Chet, that was marvelous!” came Callie’s voice.

  “Wonder what Chet’s up to now,” Joe said.

  He and Frank trotted around a henhouse and reached the rear of the barn in time to see Chet, in a bulky sweatshirt, bend down to pick up a heavy metal ball. The two girls sat in the grass, their backs propped against the barn wall. Seeing Frank and Joe, they immediately jumped up.

  “Hi!” dark-eyed Iola called gaily. “You’re just in time to see the exhibition of the year, by no less than my brother!”

  “Aw, cut it out,” said Chet.

  “No, really,” Callie insisted in mock seriousness. “Chet, you are destined to be a fabulous shot-putter.”

  The Hardys stood grinning. From time to time their stout friend would plunge enthusiastically into a new sport or hobby. As a rule, the new interest was short-lived.

  Frank and Joe flopped down beside the girls. “C’mon, muscles.” Joe urged. “Let’s see you hurl.”

  With deliberation, Chet walked back to a circle he had marked out on the grass. He picked up a book lying there and studied it intently. The title was Proper Methods for Putting the Shot.

  “I’m glad to see you concentrating so hard, Chet old boy,” Joe needled.

  “Kid all you want,” retorted Chet, mopping a trickle of sweat from his brow. “Don’t forget, the Olympics are coming up and Uncle Sam needs shot-putters!”

  Iola finally spoke up in defense of her brother. “No fooling, boys, Chet’s really getting good at this.”

  The stout boy threw out his expansive chest, balanced the shot in his right hand, and began to move his shoulders rhythmically.

  “Let her fly!” Frank called.

  Chet spun around and released the sphere.

  “Wow!” Joe cried out. The ball arced directly over the henhouse.

  Crash! With the sound of splintering wood, mingled with the squawking of the fowl, the metal ball pierced the roof, leaving a jagged hole.

  The noise brought Mrs. Morton to the back steps of the farmhouse. “Chester!” she called out. “What’s all that racket?”

  “Oh, nothing to worry about, Mom,” Chet replied hastily. “Say, Mom, would you like to have chicken for supper?” But Mrs. Morton had already gone inside. Fortunately, as the young people discovered, Chet’s mighty missile had missed the chickens.

  “Chet, you’ve got a great throw,” said Joe. “I mean it. What power!”

  “Yeah, but what a long time it’ll take me to fix the henhouse roof!” Chet groaned.

  The young people’s laughter was interrupted by Mrs. Morton’s calling:

  “Frank! Telephone!”

  He rushed into the house, his face flushed with excitement. Joe ran after him.

  “Hello.... Jack? ... I thought it might be you.”

  Joe stood by tensely. Then Frank burst out, “Just as I figured!”

  CHAPTER VIII

  New Strategy

  JACK WAYNE had reported to Frank that someone using a high-powered rifle had fired a bullet into the propeller of the Hardy plane. It would take several days to get a new prop.

  “Th
e gunman must have shot from a good distance,” Jack said. “He probably hid in foliage outside the field.”

  “Our enemy really wants to stop us,” said Frank.

  “But how did you know something like this might happen?” the pilot asked.

  The young sleuth told him about their ruse and the events leading up to it. “Jack,” he added, “this shows we can turn that bug to our own advantage.”

  “Right,” Wayne replied, “and perhaps lead the crooks into a trap. But next time tell me, eh?”

  After Frank had apologized for the oversight, he relayed the entire conversation to Joe, Chet, and the girls.

  “Ha!” Joe was gleeful. “They sure went for our bait.”

  “Now it’s time to plan new tactics,” Frank said. “We’ll get the other fellows together for a meeting today.”

  “And leave us out?” Callie gave a small pout.

  “We were going to invite you boys to a dance,” Iola said, dimpling.

  Joe brightened. “A dance? When?”

  “Next Wednesday. It’s the annual Fresh Air Camp Benefit Ball,” said Callie. “We were going to buy the tickets and surprise you.”

  “That’d be neat, but we can’t make it then,” Frank said regretfully. “We’ll probably be far away from here.”

  “Like Kentucky, maybe,” Joe put in. “Can we take a rain check?”

  The girls were disappointed, but they wished the young detectives well and offered to help in any way they could.

  “Okay,” replid Frank. “Can you suggest a good place for us to hold a secret meeting?”

  “How about Tony Prito’s?” asked Callie. “They have a terrific basement rec room. Remember the party we had there last spring?”

  “Perfect,” Joe replied. He immediately telephoned the Prito residence. Tony was not at home, but his mother answered.

  When Joe made his request, Mrs. Prito said, “By all means, you boys come over. And save your appetites—I’ll make spaghetti and meatballs for all of you. You can hold your meeting after dinner. We’ll eat at seven o’clock.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Prito, but—”

  “No trouble at all. I’ll tell Tony as soon as he gets home.”