Footprints Under the Window Read online

  Back at the house, the boys told Aunt Gertrude a mild version of how Frank had received his bump. She looked worried, however, and insisted Frank apply a cold compress to his head.

  Just after lunch they heard the loud squawk of a horn outside. A moment later Chet bounced jauntily into the house. “All aboard for Cobblewave Cove—in the Sleuth, I hope!”

  “Not today,” Joe protested. “We have a few spies to catch up with.”

  Chet was crestfallen. “Oh, come on, fellows. You prom—” He stopped and stared at Frank. “Wow, what collided with you?”

  “A large brick and a few thugs.”

  Chet’s eyes bulged as the brothers brought him up to date. “Whew! Sounds like a fistful of ugly customers! Say,” he added coaxingly, “some fresh salt air is just what you need!”

  “Well, all right,” Frank agreed finally. “We’ll take a run out to Cobblewave Cove.”

  Joe grinned. “What’s the weather outlook from the Morton Cloud Bureau?”

  Chet held his palm upward and eyed the ceiling intently. “Excellent! All clear!”

  Aunt Gertrude cautioned the boys, “Now don’t take chances climbing around that old shipwreck. It’s dangerous.”

  Chet drove the boys in his jalopy to the Hardy boathouse. They were greeted by dark-haired, good-looking Tony Prito. He hurried over from where his motorboat, the Napoli, was moored.

  “Hi, mates! You missed the excitement!”

  “What? Where?”

  Tony explained that police and plainclothesmen had been combing a deserted boathouse up the road. “Must have been some kind of trouble there,” Tony said.

  “We can vouch for that,” Frank said ruefully.

  Tony whistled at the Hardys’ account of their struggle. “Spy suspects!”

  The Hardys asked him if there had been any more vandalism at the Oak Hollow housing development. “No,” Tony replied, heaving a sigh. “But Dad is sick about it. Making repairs is costly.”

  He looked somber upon hearing of the suspected machete sabotage on Jack Wayne’s plane. “What does your dad think?”

  Frank explained that his father was working incommunicado for the present.

  “So you and Joe are prime targets, apparently,” Tony said.

  “Looks that way.” Joe scowled. “Those thugs must be hiding out around Bayport.”

  Chet impatiently urged that the boys start for the cove, and Tony gladly accepted an invitation to join his pals aboard the Sleuth.

  Twenty minutes later the sleek craft, with Frank as helmsman, was streaking into a brisk wind down the coast. Its bobbing bow cut blue waves into jewels of salt spray and left behind a foamy, meandering wake.

  While Frank, Joe, and Tony discussed the mysteries, Chet stretched out in the stern. “A perfect cumulus!” he announced, pointing to a white fluffy cloud as he munched a chocolate bar. “Yes, it’s fair weather ahead, my friends.”

  Frank throttled down for the turn into Cobblewave Cove. “Too bad Iola and Callie didn’t come along.” Iola, Chet’s sister, was Joe’s favorite date, while pretty Callie Shaw was Frank’s.

  Chet sat up and grinned. “You two detectives have competition—sea shells.”

  “What?” Joe pretended indignation.

  “The girls wanted to go combing for some old shells. Besides, they’re scared of the spooky legend about the shipwreck.”

  By now the Sleuth had entered the cove, and was approaching the hull of the foundered ship.

  “You don’t mean Iola and Callie are really scared by that ghost business,” Joe said.

  The chunky boy gestured dramatically. “Listen! Just yesterday Iola said she heard reports of horrible cries from deep inside!”

  “I thought you didn’t believe that hogwash, Chet,” Joe said, chuckling.

  “Of course I don’t!” Chet retorted, but he shifted uncomfortably.

  “Ship ahoy!” Frank sang out.

  He guided the Sleuth past glistening black rocks, banking around the bulky, weather-torn stern of the half-sunken freighter. Beneath thick rust the name Atlantis was faintly visible.

  The barnacled hull leaned to the north, shored up by a small sand bar beneath the gashed-in port bow. The foreship hung against a toothlike rock formation. Above, two toppled booms angled over a crushed deck rail. The wreck lay some hundred yards out from shore.

  “Old man North must have had a fit when this crate cracked up,” Tony remarked.

  The Hardys were surprised. “The Atlantis was a North Lines ship?” Frank asked.

  Tony nodded. “My dad was talking about it the other day. He said the wreck happened shortly after Mr. North started in business.”

  Frank cut the engine as they inched between the rocks near the bow of the ship.

  “Let’s see if we can board her and have a look around,” Joe said eagerly.

  He and Tony clambered forward. Tony was first to spot a rusted ladder against the freighter’s prow. “We can go up there!”

  But Joe had seen something else. “Oh—oh!” He pointed to a warning sign which hung from the bow anchor:DANGER—DO NOT BOARD THIS VESSEL

  TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED

  ORDER OF U.S. COAST GUARD

  “Guess that’s official,” Frank observed, nudging the Sleuth near the ladder. The rung crumbled into flakes.

  “It’s pretty dangerous all right,” he admitted. The boys were disappointed.

  Chet shrugged. “There probably isn’t any valuable cargo. We’d better go back.”

  The other boys exchanged winks. “Let the ghosts have the treasure, eh?” Tony needled.

  Chet opened his mouth to retort. But instead his eyes widened in fear. “Listen!” Chet squeaked. “I—I heard a scream.”

  The four listened intently. But the only sound was the gentle lap of the waves. Chet sank back. “Guess it was only my imagination.”

  The Hardys and Tony laughed as Frank guided the Sleuth toward the cove entrance. A white yacht, churning northward, arced slowly to turn in. Frank steered out of its path. Suddenly the boys noticed the yacht swing about, and at increased speed head directly toward them!

  “The skipper must think this is a drag strip!” Frank said, and honked the Sleuth’s horn. Still the powerful boat bore down on them.

  “What does he think he’s doing!” Joe cried out.

  Frank signaled again, steering closer to the rocky shore of the cove mouth to make way for the yacht. But still it churned relentlessly toward them, the sleek jaw of its prow slicing out wings of froth. Forty yards! Twenty!

  Frank frantically swerved the Sleuth to the left, past jagged rocks. Joe, Chet, and Tony waved desperately to the heedless pilot.

  Then with horror Tony saw a swirling, shadowed eddy dead ahead of their bow. A massive ledge of rock! “Frank! Look out!”

  But the waves kicked up by the onrushing yacht rolled against the Sleuth, driving it straight for the submerged rock!

  CHAPTER IX

  Thief in the Crowd

  “THE rock!” Joe shouted. “We’re going to hit!”

  Grimly Frank swung the wheel hard right, and the Sleuth missed the deadly rock by inches. The yacht curved away at the last minute. Now it approached the Sleuth at slackened speed.

  The craft was handsomely trimmed in brass and about forty feet in length. The boys saw the name of the ship in red letters: Northerly.

  “Orrin North’s yacht!” Joe shouted.

  A man in blue uniform stepped out on the bridge as the craft drew parallel with the Sleuth.

  Frank cupped his hands. “What were you trying to do—run us into the rocks?”

  “No, I was trying to warn you about them.”

  “Warn us!” Frank yelled angrily.

  “Yes. Sorry if I shook you up. You ought to keep away from that old wreck. This isn’t a safe place to go boating.”

  “With you around it isn’t!” Chet piped up.

  There was no response from the Northerly. Instead, it swept around in a wide circle and p
lowed out of the cove southward. Frank revved up the engine and steered the Sleuth into the open sea.

  “Whew!” Chet breathed out. “I could just feel us scraping Davy Jones’s locker. You sure did some smart piloting, Frank.”

  Joe burst out, “Does Mr. North think he owns the whole ocean?”

  Tony’s eyes widened. “Maybe his crew has orders to keep anyone from getting hurt near the Atlantis.”

  “To keep him from getting sued you mean,” Joe said, still fuming. “‘Warn us’! I’d like to go back and ‘warn’ him!”

  “I didn’t notice North on deck,” Chet observed.

  Tony nodded. “But I’ve seen him at the helm sometimes, plowing around Barmet Bay as if he were a fleet commander!”

  The Hardys were perplexed. Why had the Northerly’s helmsman risked a collision in order to “warn” the boys? Why not signal?

  “There’s sure something fishy about North.” Joe scowled. “Especially his asking us to find that stowaway.”

  Frank had steered the Sleuth into the mouth of Barmet Bay and cut speed. Now he said thoughtfully, “I have a hunch we should scout around Cobblewave Cove again.”

  Chet perked up. “Iola and Callie want to do some shell hunting near there tomorrow, at Barren Sands. Why don’t you fellows come along?”

  “It’s a date,” Frank agreed.

  Tony said he could not join his friends because he would be helping his father at Oak Hollow.

  “Call us if there’s any more trouble,” Frank urged.

  “Will do!”

  The Sleuth was soon docked, and Chet drove the Hardys home. “See you tomorrow.” The plump boy waved and the jalopy chugged away.

  Later, Frank phoned Jack Wayne at the airport. The pilot reported he had been in touch with Micro-Eye Industries about the plane sabotage. No clue to the culprits had yet been found, but his plane had been repaired satisfactorily. “And just in time. I’m due to fly to South America in about two days to investigate luggage thefts in Cayenne!”

  “Cayenne!” Frank echoed.

  “That’s right. The airline people here are concerned about the pilfering of baggage there. I know some French, was available, and—thanks to my detective training working with you Hardys—the investigators here think I can handle it.”

  “Need any help?” Frank asked hopefully.

  Jack laughed. “As a matter of fact, I have some extra space. Would you and Joe like to come along? Chet Morton, too.”

  “Count us in!”

  Frank at once spoke to Aunt Gertrude, who gave her consent for the trip. Next, Joe called Mr. Dykeman, then Chet, whose response was excited, although apprehensive.

  “Don’t we have enough danger around here?” he argued. But in a few minutes their friend reported he had obtained permission to go.

  “Swell. Lucky we all have up-to-date health certificates and passports.”

  “Passports to trouble!” Chet prophesied.

  During supper the brothers elatedly discussed the prospective trip. Aunt Gertrude said with a sigh, “I don’t know what your father will say about your flying recklessly into the wilds.”

  Joe grinned. “Dad wouldn’t stand in the way of our solving a mystery. Besides, Aunty, you were in Cayenne, and got home okay.”

  Aunt Gertrude looked at her nephews. “Never mind. I wasn’t trailing thieves—or spies.”

  The boys feigned surprise. “What makes you think we are?” Frank asked.

  “Humph. The trouble at Micro-Eye—the stowaway from South America—that man you think is Mr. Ricardo—” Her nephews laughed.

  After supper the boys tried to fathom what the Micro-Eye project could be.

  “It must be a camera of some kind—a real powerful one,” Joe surmised, “or else a telescope.”

  “Whatever it is, I wish we knew,” Frank said. “Everything we’ve run into points to this Footprints spy plot. Yet we don’t even know what it is they’re after!”

  Later the boys drove around the waterfront, hoping for a glimpse of the escapee, Gomez. But there was no sign of him. They returned home at ten o’clock and went to bed.

  The next morning Frank and Joe drove to the Morton farm to meet Chet and the girls for their shell-hunting date. As the Hardys pulled up the broad drive, Chet and pretty, blond Callie Shaw came to meet them.

  “Hi!” Callie smiled, her eyes sparkling. “I hear you boys are off for South America!”

  Joe looked around. “Where’s Iola?” he asked.

  Chet said his sister had driven into town earlier with Mr. Morton to do some errands. “We’ll meet her at the dry cleaner’s.”

  The Hardys noticed that Chet seemed downcast. “What’s up?” Joe asked him.

  “Trouble at the agency,” Chet explained. He referred to the Voyager Travel Bureau of which Mr. Morton was part owner. The office had been broken into during the night but nothing had been stolen. “It’s happened to other agencies, too,” Chet added.

  “Sounds queer,” Joe noted, intrigued. “Wonder what the intruder was after.”

  “That’s what we’d like to know,” said Chet as the four young people piled into the Hardys’ convertible.

  “Try not to worry,” Callie told Chet. “Just think of the luscious picnic your mother and I packed.”

  The plump boy brightened and everyone laughed. Later, Frank parked not far from the Corporated Laundries store. Joe spotted Iola hurrying up the street and went to meet the attractive, dark-haired girl. She carried a large shopping bag filled to capacity.

  “Hi, Iola! Here—I’ll take that.”

  “Thanks, Joe. It weighs a ton.”

  They headed back to the car. Chet’s brown-eyed sister chatted excitedly about the sea shells she and Callie had already collected.

  “You’ll probably find lots more at—Hey!” Joe suddenly felt a jolt from behind. The shopping bag was snatched from his grasp!

  Joe whipped around. A stocky man in a black raincoat was running down the street, the bag clutched in one hand. Iola screamed.

  “Stop, thief!” Joe yelled, and instantly took off after the fleeing figure, who darted in and out of the throng of pedestrians, and sprinted over a crowded crosswalk.

  Leaping ahead, Joe just made the yellow light. The fugitive had spun around the corner onto State Street. Dodging waves of shoppers, Joe ran full steam along the curb, skirted two parked cars, then made the turn. People kept surging into his way, but he squeezed through the startled crowd and broke into the open. By now the thief was out of sight.

  Joe stopped. The bag snatcher could have taken any direction. Disgusted, Joe ran back to Iola. The others were grouped around her.

  “Did you get a good look at him?” Frank asked his brother quickly.

  “Not his face. From his build, he could be the fellow we chased at Micro-Eye.”

  With a nervous look around, Chet muttered, “No matter where we go, those spies turn up.”

  At this, the girls were visibly upset. “Spies!” Iola gasped.

  The Hardys explained as much as they felt was politic. Then Frank asked, “Iola, what did you have in the bag?”

  “A box of clothes from Corporated Laundries—mostly Chet’s, some things for Mother, and a magnifying glass,” she murmured nervously. “I think that’s all.”

  “Too bad to lose them,” said Joe. “But why would anyone else want them?”

  Two policemen arrived on the scene and were given an account by Joe and Iola. The officers, whom the Hardys knew, were especially interested to learn that Joe thought he recognized the thief. “Let us know if you spot him again. We’ve been working on that boathouse investigation,” one policeman said.

  Callie put a comforting arm around Iola and the group returned to the car.

  Chet groaned. “He would have to filch my duds.”

  “And our magnifying glass,” Iola added, managing a smile. “Callie and I were going to use it to study sea shells. Joe, we’ll have to depend on your eagle eyes instead!”

  Joe
called Mr. Dykeman. Chet telephoned home. His mother was disturbed by the incident, but she insisted the group not cancel their plans.

  Soon they were driving south toward Barren Sands. They talked of the theft.

  “Why should he pick on me?” Iola complained. “Did he figure I had a treasure in the bag?”

  “Maybe he took the bag because Joe was carrying it,” Frank suggested. “He might have hoped to get some clue to what we’re doing.”

  Half an hour later Frank turned off Shore Road and parked in a little-used dirt lane. The boys and girls trekked through high, coarse grass and came out on the wide, deserted beach of Barren Sands. Just south of it they could see the mouth of Cobblewave Cove.

  Callie and Iola immediately kicked off their shoes and began prowling through the surf to find interesting shells. The boys, meanwhile, walked farther down the beach toward the cove. A brisk wind had come up, lashing the breakers. Thunder-heads reared up on the horizon.

  “Oh, oh,” said Chet. “Storm’s brewing. But it’ll blow over.”

  Presently Callie called, “Boys, help us search!”

  “Let’s eat first,” Chet insisted.

  After a hearty lunch the teen-agers spread out, meeting occasionally to inspect one another’s discoveries—ark shells, clam shells, channeled whelks, snail shells, and many more varieties.

  “This is probably a New England Nassa.” Iola excitedly held up a yellowish, spiraled shell.

  Joe grinned. “You sound like a professor.”

  “Look at this one, everybody!” Callie waved from atop a slope that led down to the water. The others ran up and admired an unusual, conelike shell she had plucked from the sand.

  “That’s a honey!” Chet said. “What kind is it?”

  Callie studied the whitish univalve, about two inches wide with a keyhole groove in its blue interior. Neither girl could identify it.

  Just then Frank looked down and noticed something that aroused his curiosity. A circular pattern of large, barefoot prints surrounded the spot where the shell had lain. Before he could comment, someone ran up behind them. They turned to face a swarthy stranger, unshaven and wearing patched clothing and sandals.