The Shore Road Mystery Page 6

  “How did it happen?” one of them asked.

  “We don’t know,” said Frank, and explained what they had seen.

  Scratch sat up, blinking, and thanked the boys for his rescue. The officer turned to him. “Scratch, have you been careless with one of your camp-fires?”

  “No, sir,” he said. “I heard a car in the woods hereabouts, and come to take a look. Next thing I knew, somebody put a funny-smellin’ rag in front o’ my face. After that, I don’t remember.”

  The officer looked skeptically at Scratch, but the Hardys were startled. Liquid gas again! “This fire could have been planned,” said Frank. “It was arranged in a perfect circle.”

  “I guess you’re right,” the officer conceded.

  After the fire was out and the police completed a fruitless search for clues to the arsonist, the officers and firemen left. Forest rangers continued inspecting the scene.

  Scratch drew the boys aside. “I owe you fellers my life.” He smiled. “Least I kin do is tell you about the tre-men-dous spider I seen.”

  “Spider?”

  “Yep, last night, leastwise, it looked like one.” The drifter shivered. “Big enough to be a man, but it sure didn’t move like onel”

  “Sounds weird!” Joe said.

  “Where did you see it, Scratch?” Frank asked.

  “On a rock ledge down the road a piece. I was strollin’ towards my camp when he crawled out o’ sight. I never seen a human spider in a web!”

  The Hardys, knowing that Scratch was apt to exaggerate, did not take his story seriously. They did not want to hurt his feelings, so they pretended to be impressed.

  “We’ve got to get going,” said Joe. “Take care, Scratch.”

  When the boys came out to the highway, Joe glanced at his watch. “Jeepers! We promised to meet Chet and the girls for a swim half an hour ago!”

  They whizzed off. At the dock where the Sleuth was berthed, they were met with reproving glances. Not only were they late, but disheveled.

  “Promises, promises,” purred Iola Morton, as Joe slunk down the ramp. Chet’s slim, brunette sister had small features and twinkling eyes, and looked very pretty in an aqua-colored swimsuit.

  “Frank Hardy, it’s about time!” sang out another voice. Callie Shaw, a slim blonde in a red suit, gasped at the boys’ sooty appearance.

  Chet sat comfortably in the back of the boat, finishing a piece of watermelon. “Wow! You look like boiled frankfurters. Wrap yourselves in rolls, with a little mustard, and I’ll break my diet!”

  The others laughed, then Frank explained their delay. “We’ll change and be right with you.”

  The brothers ran to a nearby bathhouse. Then they rejoined the others and started up the Sleuth’s motor. The sleek blue-and-white craft moved swiftly out into the bay, its bow chopping through glistening breakers. Frank steered around the tip of the bay and headed the Sleuth north. They cast anchor near a small cove.

  Chet had hit the water before the anchor. “Come on in!” he gurgled, surfacing with immense satisfaction.

  Amidst jokes about a “salt bath,” the sooty Hardys followed the girls overboard.

  The bracing water refreshed them. After a rest in the motorboat, the five swimmers decided to go in again. They waited for a black fishing boat to pass. It anchored a short distance away. Then Callie dived in. Several seconds went by. She did not reappear.

  “Something may have happened to Callie!” Iola said fearfully. The three boys dived in at once and plunged beneath the surface. Twenty feet down Frank’s blood chilled. Callie, her face blanched with fear, was struggling violently.

  She was enclosed in a small, tightly wound net!

  His lungs bursting, Frank reached her, grasped the net, and started upward. When they broke surface, Callie was choking and too weak to swim. Desperately, Frank bore her to the Sleuth. Joe cut the nylon net and Callie was lifted over the side. She gestured that she was all right, but it was several minutes before she could explain what had happened.

  “Some man—he was in a black skin-diving suit and mask—grabbed me and threw the net around...”

  The sound of a motor reached their ears. The fishing boat nearby was heading away.

  “He may have come from that boat!” said Frank. “Let’s find out! There was a black fishing boat around just before the accident to Jack’s boat!”

  They pulled anchor and Frank steered the Sleuth after the fishing boat. The boys signaled to the pilot several times. He cut his engine as they drew alongside.

  The fisherman, young and slim, wore a checkered sport shirt and a white yachting cap. He appeared annoyed at being disturbed.

  “What do you want?” he asked curtly.

  “Know anything about a skin diver around the cove back there?” Frank asked.

  The young man started his motor. “Skin diver? No.” His craft roared away.

  Upset by the near-fatal accident to Callie, the five young people headed back to the boathouse. The Hardys bade good-by to Chet, Callie, and Iola, who planned to report the incident to the maritime authorities.

  As the brothers were locking up, they saw Tony docking his Napoli. They related their recent adventures.

  Tony whistled. “You’ve been busy! I’m out in the Napoli nearly every day, so I’ll keep an eye on that fishing launch. It’s sure suspicious why the pilot pulled away so fast. Also, if I see anything of the Dodds’ boat, I’ll let you know.“

  Frank swam frantically toward the trapped girl!

  On the way home, Frank and Joe stopped at the Records Building to check on past gold claims in the vicinity. The clerk who was familiar with the older mineral files was there. They spoke with him in a small office adjoining musty rows of books.

  “Gold?” the white-haired man repeated, smiling agreeably. “Are you fellows hoping to strike it rich before school resumes?”

  “No.” Frank chuckled. “Our interest is historical. Have you any record of gold streaks at all—particularly north of Bayport?”

  The old man shook his head. “No, son. To my knowledge, no gold has ever been found, or sought for that matter, within fifty miles of Bayport. But it’s odd you should ask too. Another fellow was in here just a few hours ago looking for the same information. Didn’t give his name.”

  “What did he look like?” Frank cut in.

  The clerk removed his spectacles. “Maybe forty, or fifty, dark hair, a beard. Sounded like an educated fellow.”

  The boys thanked the clerk and drove home, wondering who the anonymous inquirer was. Someone who had knowledge of the Pilgrim clue? “The beard might have been a disguise,” Joe remarked. “I doubt that the man was Slagel, though. He’d never strike anyone as being an educated person.”

  “The bearded man could be the missing professor—Martin Dodd!” Frank suggested.

  Later, just before sunset, the boys were seated in Mr. Hardy’s study reviewing their sleuthing plans for the evening. Suddenly Joe stood up. “Frank! Let’s move our watch to Pembroke Road tonight!”

  Frank knit his brows. “But we haven’t eliminated Route 7 yet.”

  “I think we can!” Joe said. “There seems to be a pattern shaping up: the stolen car U-turns, the warning notes from the same person, Jack’s things being found at theft scenes—whoever master-minds this operation has made an effort to throw the police off track. Well, what better way than to send Slagel around a turn—leaving skid marks—while someone else whisks the stolen car away to another spot, like Pembroke Road?”

  “Joe, you’re right! Decoy maneuvers! That might also account for the tire tracks and paint we found in the woods!”

  The Hardys agreed on a plan to watch both the Birnham farm and Pembroke Road. By now it was dark, so after contacting Biff Hooper and Chet, they met them midway out on Shore Road. There they split up, Biff and Joe going farther north with the motorcycles to watch the intersection. Chet and Frank went in Chet’s jalopy to George Birnham’s farm.

  The moon had risen, but was occ
asionally obscured by clouds. Frank guided Chet to a secluded woods. The jalopy was parked at the edge and the boys set out, carrying packs. Silently they walked across the dark farm fields where silvery mist gave the air a chill.

  When the lights of Birnham’s farmhouse appeared on the west side of Shore Road, they stopped. There was no place to hide, but Frank pointed to deep furrows in a field.

  “We can lie low between those and get a pretty good view of anything going on near the house.”

  Chet followed Frank as he crawled under a wooden fence. The boys unrolled their sleeping bags between two rows of turned-up soil. Lying on their sides, they watched the house. Occasionally Frank glanced through his binoculars.

  The hours passed slowly, uninterrupted except for the rhythmic chant of katydids and the boys’ whispers, both of them having decided to keep awake until one became tired. Chet bit noisily into his last carrot.

  “Shhh!” Frank whispered. “Birnham will think somebody’s turned on that tractor I see over there!” Chet muffled his bites and laughter.

  An hour later the boys saw a black sedan pull up the dirt road to the house. Frank watched through the binoculars. “It’s Slagel!” he whispered excitedly as Birnham came out on the porch. “So those two are in cahoots! Wish we could hear what they’re saying.”

  Presently Slagel returned to his car and drove out, heading south on the highway. Then the farmer left the porch and walked to the end of the dirt road. Frank and Chet saw the squat figure duck under the fence and cross the field some fifty feet to their rear. Fortunately, the moon had gone under again.

  “Keep as low as you can!” Frank whispered.

  He and Chet listened keenly. In a moment they heard a motor starting up. Frank stole a backward glance and saw Birnham seated atop the large tractor to which a cultivator was attached.

  “What’s he doing?” Chet asked, burrowing deeper into his sleeping bag.

  Frank watched as the noisy vehicle began to move. The farmer did not turn on the headlights.

  “He’s heading in our direction!” Frank gasped.

  He could feel Chet shaking violently alongside him. “Quick!” said Frank. “Keep low and roll to the right!”

  Chet struggled to obey, but his eyes bulged with desperation. “I can’t—the zipper on my sleeping bag is stuck!”

  Frank yanked wildly at the zipper, but it was no use!

  CHAPTER X

  Strange Roadblock

  MUFFLING Chet’s yell, Frank rolled him violently over and landed quickly on top of him. The tractor and its whirling blades missed them by inches!

  The vehicle’s sound grew fainter as Birnham continued ahead. As Frank looked up he noticed a large truck passing slowly on the road going in the direction of Bayport.

  “It’s okay, pal,” he said, patting Chet. “But let’s get to the road before Birnham starts back on this row!”

  Chet finally freed himself from the sleeping bag. Trailing it behind him, the heavy youth followed Frank across the field, running in a low crouch. Once beneath the fence, the boys paused to catch their breath, and saw Birnham turn.

  “I’ve had it,” Chet moaned softly. “Let’s get out of here!”

  “Shhh!”

  Puzzled by the farmer’s strange activity, they watched his tractor, still without lights, churn earth at a rise near the highway. After twenty minutes, the vehicle stopped. Birnham cut the motor, jumped down, and returned to his house. In a few moments the building was dark.

  “What was that all about?” Chet asked. “Did Birnham know we were here and do that just to scare us?”

  “If not, why this night work without lights?” said Frank.

  Chet grimaced. “Nuttiest thing I’ve ever seen!”

  Exhausted, the two boys took shifts for the remainder of the night. When nothing more had transpired by sunrise, they drove north and rejoined Joe and Biff.

  They had had an uneventful night at Pembroke Road but were excited by Frank and Chet’s adventure, and agreed that Birnham’s actions were indeed suspicious.

  Frank asked, “Did you pick up anything on the radio?”

  “Nothing new,” Biff said.

  He climbed into Chet’s jalopy and they roared off. The brothers soon passed them on the motorcycles. The Hardys were just entering Bayport when report of a theft came over the police band.

  “... the car, reported missing at Lucas Street in Bridgewater was later recovered, abandoned on the other side of town. Owner, while sitting in his parked car, was gassed. No clues ...”

  “In Bridgewater!” Joe exclaimed. “That’s not only the first theft someplace besides Shore Road, but the first time the thieves have failed! Apparently they were frightened off before they could get out of town.”

  “So it was the car thieves who gassed Scratch and us,” said Frank. Another idea struck him. “Bridgewater’s at the end of Pembroke Road, Joe—also, remember it’s the postmark on that phony typed note from Jack!”

  “Come on! Let’s check on Slagel at the Excelsior!”

  The Hardys cycled to the waterfront hotel, and Joe went in to inquire. When he emerged from the run-down doorway, his expression was not happy. “Slagel—or ‘James Wright’—checked out early this morning!”

  The boys decided to sacrifice their treasure hunt for the day and check the hotels in Bridgewater for Slagel. First they stopped at a diner and had a quick breakfast. Afterward, they hurried to their motorcycles and started up. Just then a middle-aged man strode over to them.

  “You’re the Hardy boys, aren’t you?” he demanded.

  They nodded. “My car was stolen a week ago!” he shouted. “You and your father had a nerve giving bail money to car thieves and allowing them to escape! What are you doing to help? If my car is not recovered, I’ll hold you personally responsible!” The man stormed away.

  Frank was depressed. “This feeling in town worries me, Joe—not because of the ridicule or threats, but because so many people seem to be convinced that the Dodds are guilty.”

  As the Hardys coasted to the corner, Joe groaned. Approaching them with a broad smirk was the dumpy figure of would-be detective Oscar Smuff.

  “What ho, it’s our two young sleuths!” he sang out flatly. “Any sign of your Dodd friends, the car thieves?”

  Frank was too accustomed to Smuff’s ways to be incensed. “We think the Dodds are innocent,” he responded.

  “If you boys were smart,” Smuff went on, “you’d memorize features of all the stolen cars, like I do. I’m watching the streets.”

  “For the Dodds too?” Joe asked.

  Smuff nodded smugly. “Or accomplices. I think a woman is involved in the racket somewhere, and if my deductions are correct, she’s got blond hair.”

  He whipped out a note pad and glanced at a scribbled list. Then the “detective” looked up at a sedan stopping for a red light. Suddenly his eyes widened. “There’s one of the stolen cars now!”

  Frank recognized the blond woman driver as Chief Collig’s wife and tried to restrain Smuff. But the self-appointed detective excitedly darted into the street and up to the sedan. Poking his head in the window, he started to accuse the woman loudly. She turned to face him indignantly.

  The next moment Smuff stepped back, open-mouthed and flaming with embarrassment as he realized his mistake. By this time the light had changed and horns were blasting impatiently. Stuttering apologies, Smuff retreated rapidly, wiping his forehead. Mrs. Collig drove off and the deflated detective hastily returned to the sidewalk. He passed the grinning Hardys with a sheepish look and disappeared around a corner.

  Still chuckling, Frank and Joe rode off. They passed the Birnham farm and turned down Pembroke Road on the way to Bridgewater.

  “Everything seems to narrow down to this road—and now to Bridgewater,” Frank remarked. “And according to the map—some of Birnham’s property touches Pembroke.”

  As the brothers passed an open field, they noticed a man ahead leaning comfortably on a fence. He
held a walking stick in one hand.

  “Slagel!” Joe exclaimed.

  “It’s time we had a word with him!” Frank declared.

  The Hardys rolled to a stop, hopped off, and hurried toward Slagel. He turned as if to walk away, but the boys confronted him.

  “Mr. Wright—?” Frank began.

  The broad-nosed, bald man wiped his sleeve across his face, drumming a cane on the fence. “What of it?” he drawled.

  “We understand you worked for a Mr. Dodd—that is, when your name was Slagel.”

  The man’s lips tightened. “It’s none of your business what I dol”

  “Maybe not,” Frank said. “We just thought you might be able to give us a clue to where the Dodds might be.” He noticed Slagel’s expression change to a supercilious smile.

  “’Fraid I can’t help you there,” said Slagel, leaning back. “Besides, why should I bother spendin’ my time here with car-thief bailers. Any way, I’m doin’ work for Birnham now.”

  “Like stealing cars?” Joe interjected.

  Slagel’s face flushed. He leaned down and swung the end off his cane. A long silver blade pointed at Joe’s face!

  “Beat it!” Slagel rasped viciously. “You’re trespassin’ on private propertyl”

  More surprised than awed by the lethal sword, Joe looked at Frank. At his brother’s signal, they walked back to their motorcycles. Slagel was still glaring lividly at them as they rode off in the direction of Bridgewater.

  “At least we shook him up a bit.” Frank smiled. “Even if we can’t find out where he’s staying, we know for sure he’s in league with Birnham—and not just for farm work. That sword cane didn’t look very innocent.”

  “But good for puncturing tires!” Joe added, remembering the flats reported on some cars near the stolen ones.

  In Bridgewater the brothers stopped at a drugstore, had lunch, then purchased a town map which also had a list of the hotels in the immediate area. They were fewer in number than those in Bayport. The Hardys checked all but two in an hour. At this point, they entered one at the east end of town. The desk clerk immediately recognized Slagel’s picture.