The Secret of the Lost Tunnel Read online

  “We’ve found Pleasanton’s Bridge!” shouted Joe, running toward the ancient stonework. “Now for the bandoleer!”

  Was the clue to the lost gold somewhere within the massive piles of stone and mortar? the boys wondered eagerly. Or had someone already found it?

  “We’ll have to go over each stone individually,” Frank said. “I may as well start on this side of the water.” He began work on one part of the abutment.

  Chet and Joe decided to cross over to the other side. They stepped carefully on large rocks and made their way to the opposite bank. The shady coolness of the stream and overhanging trees was a welcome relief to the perspiring boys. They feverishly began to examine each rock and crack in the old structure.

  “Guess they built this thing to last a million years,” Chet called out as he climbed higher on the pile of stones.

  Frank was too busy to reply. His hands felt the rough surface of one stone after another. His knife probed every moss-covered crack between the ancient building blocks.

  Occasionally a piece of the abutment would fall into the stream with a loud splash. Frank found a loose section of mortar, and pried away at it. Like a thin wedge of pie, mortar slipped out, leaving just enough room for Frank to slide his hand into the crevice. His middle finger found a small opening in the stone.

  “Joe! Chet! Come here!”

  “Find something?”

  “I think this stone’ll come out!” Frank called excitedly. “Help me chip away the rest of the mortar.” The two quickly came to his aid.

  Using sharp rocks and their pocketknives, the three boys speedily cut away the crumbling cement that held the stones together. Frank tugged at the stone with the hole in it. The stone moved a fraction!

  “It’s coming!” he shouted.

  With a sliding, grinding sound the big stone was yanked from the spot where it had lain for decades. Quickly Frank peered into the gaping hole.

  “I see it!” he cried hoarsely. “The bandoleer!”

  CHAPTER XII

  The Cap Box

  FRANK reached into the hole and pulled out the bandoleer. Its leather strap was rotted with age, and worn away from the rusted buckle. But the silver cap box was still firmly attached by two rivets. While Joe and Chet looked on excitedly, Frank tried to open the box.

  “There doesn’t seem to be any way to unfasten the lid,” he said. “Must be a secret lock on it.”

  “Let me try it,” Joe said eagerly, reaching for the bandoleer.

  “Careful,” Frank warned. “Don’t break the leather. General Smith will certainly want to keep this.”

  Joe handled the bandoleer gingerly, turning the box over and over in a vain attempt to locate a hasp or tiny hinges.

  “I can’t find any opening, either,” he said finally. “We’ll have to put it under a magnifying glass.”

  “Let me see it.” Chet begged, extending an eager hand.

  As Joe gave the bandoleer to his friend, they heard a woman scream. The cry for help that followed came from the woods just ahead!

  “Someone’s in trouble!” Frank cried.

  The three boys raced in the direction from which the sound had come. The Hardys soon outdistanced Chet, who panted some distance behind them.

  Joe and Frank searched futilely for the woman who had screamed. “Hello! Hello!” Joe shouted, but got no reply.

  “That’s funny,” Frank said. “The voice sounded as if—Hey, did you hear Chet cry out?”

  The Hardys turned and rushed back. A hundred feet beyond, Chet was struggling up from the ground, rubbing his head. His hands were empty!

  “G-get him!” he cried hoarsely. “Someone hit me from behind and grabbed the bandoleer!”

  The Hardys waited for no further explanation than Chet’s pointing finger. The cry had clearly been a hoax to separate the trio while someone stole the secret to the missing gold. Probably the thief had called in a falsetto voice, then had circled back through the brush to waylay Chet.

  The boys could hear two persons crashing through the woodland, and raced after them at top speed.

  “They’re heading for the highway!” Frank exclaimed.

  The brothers saw two figures scramble up the embankment to the new bridge. A moment later they heard the roar of a motor.

  “Oh no!” Joe cried in dismay.

  The familiar black sedan, which apparently had been parked on the other side of the bridge, sped off in the direction of Centerville.

  “We’ll catch them!” Frank dashed toward their own car, then let out a cry of despair. The left front tire of the vehicle was flat! “Bush’s men must have let the air out!”

  “What goofs we were not to leave Chet here on guard while you and I searched for the bandoleer,” Joe said bitterly.

  At that moment Chet lumbered up the bank and onto the bridge. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Why didn’t you chase those guys?”

  Joe told him as he opened the trunk and pulled out the spare tire.

  “Hey, a car’s coming!” Frank said, running onto the bridge. He raised his hand and a speedy little sports car squealed to a stop.

  “Give me a lift? We’ve got a flat.”

  “Hop in,” said a middle-aged man.

  Frank turned to his brother and Chet. “Meet me in Centerville. I’m going to find out where that car went!”

  Frank stepped into the car, and the driver continued in the direction which the black sedan had taken only a few minutes before. Without revealing the details, Frank told the driver the boys had been robbed. Upon hearing this, the man speeded up. When they came to the brow of a small hill, Frank saw the sedan crossing a bridge about a mile away.

  “There they go!”

  The excitement of the chase stimulated the sports car driver. He went even faster. But they could not overtake the sedan. At a crossroad, Frank’s keen eyes spotted the telltale marks of a swerving car.

  “They turned in here,” he said.

  The man braked, backed up, looked at the skid marks, and agreed with Frank.

  “But,” he added, “I must keep on this road to Hilton. Wish I could follow that car, but I have an urgent appointment.”

  “Then let me out here,” Frank said. “Many thanks for the lift!”

  The man sped off. Frank examined the marks of the thieves’ tires in the dirt road. After noting the design of the treads for further identification, he set off along the road at a trot. A half mile farther on, he paused again at another crossroad, picking out the tread along the right-hand fork, and hurried on.

  After following the tire tracks about a mile, Frank stopped short. The lines suddenly left the road and slewed off into a thicket.

  Entering the woods, he proceeded with caution, to avoid any possible danger of ambush. The tracks led into a thick copse, interspersed with scrubby trees. Except for a few birds and a scampering squirrel, there was not a sound. Ahead, under a low-hanging tree, Frank found the parked sedan. It was deserted.

  He scraped away the mud on the license plate and jotted down the number, then studied the footprints near the sedan. They were hard to follow, for the thieves seemed to have separated at this point. Frank chose to follow the deepest prints, which presently led back to the side of the road. From here they ran straight, skirting the old battlefield of Rocky Run. Then, strangely, they were gone completely.

  As Frank stood debating what to do next, he realized that the museum was located directly to the right. Had the thieves gone there to investigate?

  “I’ll see what’s going on, anyway,” Frank thought. “That professor and the guard sure are phonies.”

  As he walked along, he mulled over the events of the past few hours. Frank was convinced there might be a tie-in between the man who had grabbed the bandoleer and the professor. This time he would spy on the place, and perhaps learn something important.

  Frank jumped a ditch beside the road and hid behind a tree. After glancing around cautiously and seeing nobody, he pressed his way along a field
fence toward the old building.

  No one was in sight. The windows were closed and locked, as well as the cellar door. Deciding to risk a look inside the old headquarters, Frank went quietly around to the front door. It stood open, and the guard was not there. He listened—not a sound. He slipped inside.

  From somewhere in the building came an indistinct but angry voice. “You fool ... the secret ... you bungle everything, Smiley!”

  The voice was that of Junior, alias Jimmy of the shoot.

  “I tell you it ain’t safe to carry it!” Smiley cried out. “Nobody’d think of lookin’ for it among the souvenirs,” he declared.

  Excitedly Frank darted around the room. He glanced at all the tables and looked under the large exhibits for the stolen bandoleer. Suddenly his eyes spotted something unusual in the display case where he had picked up the old canteen. A Confederate cap was tilted at a peculiar angle. Frank lifted it. Underneath lay the silver cap box!

  Frank let out a low whistle as he grasped the box, then tiptoed toward the door.

  Just before he reached the end of the room, a section of the floor in front of him raised up. Smiley popped out of a trap door!

  Frank side-stepped him neatly, but the man spotted the cap box in the boy’s hand.

  “You’re not getting away with that!” Smiley snarled, and lunged toward him.

  Smiley was almost upon Frank. But with head down and arms in front of him, the boy hit the man with the force of a fullback plowing through the line. Smiley grunted, reeled, and fell.

  Frank bolted through the door, ready for his next opponent. No one was in sight!

  His long legs fairly flew down the road. He looked back and saw someone following, but maintained his pace. His pursuer was finally lost from sight.

  Frank did not slacken his speed until he was half a mile away. Then he settled down to an easy lope, tightly clutching the cap box.

  Presently he came to the highway leading into Centerville. Frank had not gone far when he heard the sound of a car. Apprehension gripped him. Had the thieves caught up with him?

  Frank hid behind a hedge and waited, his heart pounding like a riveting machine. As the car approached, he gave a whoop of joy. It was the Hardys’ convertiblel

  “Hi there!” he called out, stepping into the road.

  Joe jammed on the brakes and Frank jumped in.

  “I’ve got it!” he panted, showing his prize. “Get to the general as fast as you can!”

  “Great work!” Joe cried, and sent the car speeding down the road.

  As they drove, Frank told his brother and Chet how he had trailed the thieves and seized the precious relic.

  “There’s no doubt now that Junior and Smiley —that’s the guard’s name—are mixed up in this thing. Probably the professor is in with them, too,” he said. “And we know Dr. Bush is an enemy.”

  The boys reached the house and ran in with the bandoleer’s ammunition box. The general was both elated and astonished at their find.

  When the officer heard the story, he lost no time informing the chief of police of the strange doings at the old museum and reporting the license number of the black sedan. “I think these men might belong to a gang headed by a Dr. Bush,” General Smith reported.

  Chet felt relieved and hoped the troublemakers would be arrested or leave when they saw the police checking on them. But Frank and Joe were of a different opinion.

  “The missing gold is a big prize,” Frank pointed out. “If that’s what they’re after, they won’t be frightened into running away.”

  “They’ll probably go into hiding at some new place around Centerville,” Joe reasoned.

  “I wasn’t much of a detective,” General Smith remarked about his own investigation of Professor Randolph. “The museum seemed to be running the same as ever when I visited it. The old Negro was there and everything was peaceful. I didn’t pick up a single clue.”

  Joe smiled ruefully. “Smiley wasn’t on guard because he and Junior were probably the two we chased after they attacked Chet and took the bandoleer.”

  Frank went to the kitchen and asked Claude for silver polish and a cloth. The others followed and watched as he went to work on the ammunition box. In a few minutes the old souvenir, blackened by its long concealment in the bridge abutment, shone brightly.

  “Why’d you do that?” Chet asked.

  “So we can examine it better,” Frank said. “Joe, will you get our magnifying glass?”

  His brother went to the trunk of the car and returned with a special kit the Hardys always carried. From it he took a powerful magnifier. Frank held the ammunition box under a bright light and went over it in minute detail.

  “I think I see where you open this,” he stated at last.

  “Where?” Chet questioned, looking over his shoulder.

  “Right here in the corner.” Frank pointed to a tiny circle cleverly worked into one edge of the box. “Now if the spring hasn’t rusted, this ought to do it!”

  He snapped out the can-opener blade of his knife and carefully pressed the point against the circle. With a sharp click that startled the onlookers, the top of the box sprang open.

  “Bravo!” the general shouted.

  Joe emitted a low whistle. “No wonder those crooks couldn’t open it.”

  Frank pried a piece of folded parchment from the bottom of the box. The paper was in perfect condition despite the many years it had lain secreted. Frank handed it to General Smith.

  “Just think,” Joe said, “the last man to see this was your great-grandfather!”

  The general did not reply. The boys were silent as they observed the solemn expression on his handsome, tanned face. Then he spoke.

  “This is strange, very strange indeed. I suddenly had the feeling that I was standing in my great-grandfather’s place, there in the old headquarters, when he put this paper into the ammunition box and made ready for battle.”

  Chet cleared his throat and fidgeted. He wanted to know what was on the paper.

  “This is a great moment for me,” the man went on. “I wonder what the message says.”

  The boys turned their eyes from the officer to a table on which he spread the paper.

  “Look at that!” Joe exclaimed. “It’s in code!”

  CHAPTER XIII

  Digging for Gold

  SCRAWLED on the parchment were four sets of numbers, written in a row: 42236, 12223, 223, 222123.

  Across the face of the message, written diagonally, were the large letters, C S A. As if that were not cryptic enough, two odd designs decorated the bottom of the page at either side. On the left were three muskets, stacked together like a sheaf of wheat. On the right was a strange-looking tree, at the base of which rested a round object.

  “What a puzzler!” Chet cried. “It’ll take all year to figure this out.”

  Frank thrust his fingers back through his dark hair. Joe knew his brother was concocting a plan.

  “I’d suggest,” Frank said, “that we all sit down separately and work on this. When we have some ideas, we’ll get together.”

  “Very good,” the general declared. “Let’s make four rough sketches so we can each work on one.”

  When this was done, the four sat in deep thought, each pondering over the secret message. The room was so quiet that the ticking of the clock sounded like a noisy metronome.

  Suddenly Chet chuckled and burst out, “I’ve got it!”

  “Let’s hear it,” Joe urged, grinning. “Probably another one of your brainstorms.”

  “It’s this way,” Chet began, winking at the officer. “The C S A stands for ‘Can’t Stand the Army.’ The guns stacked up means they’re going to stop fighting and sit down under that tree and eat breakfast. That big round thing’s an egg.”

  The general and the Hardys burst into laughter.

  “I knew plenty of privates who couldn’t stand the army,” General Smith said with a smile.

  Then Joe asked, “What about the numbers?”
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  With a wave of his hand, Chet replied, “That’s just to confuse us!”

  When they had composed themselves, Frank said:

  “Chet, I can’t agree with all of your deductions, but the one about the tree—maybe you’ve got something there!”

  “Right,” Joe added. “The tree probably is a landmark for something.”

  Some time later a sudden smile crossed Frank’s face. He reached for a pencil, and began to write down figures on a piece of scratch paper. He had barely finished working out a series of letters and numbers when he shouted:

  “This is it!”

  With the others crowding around, Frank showed what he had done with the coded message.

  “I took the C S A to mean Confederate States America,” he announced.

  “I figured that far, too,” General Smith remarked.

  “Where does that get you?” Chet asked skeptically.

  Frank followed his procedure with the point of his pencil. He pointed to the four sets of numbers: 42236, 12223, 228, and 222123.

  “The first figure, four, stands for the fourth letter in Confederate States America,” Frank explained, “That’s F. The twenty-second letter is I, the third letter is N, and the sixth is D.”

  “That spells ‘Find,’ ” Joe said eagerly.

  “The rest is easy,” Frank continued.

  Frank reeled off the other numbers in the sequence; some, one digit at a time, others in pairs. Spelling out the letters as he went, and with the eyes of his onlookers widening with amazement, the boy read the message:Find coin in iron.

  “That’s a grand piece of code breaking!” General Smith complimented. “Army Intelligence could use you!”

  “But we have to fathom these other symbols, too,” Frank reminded the others. “What do you make of the muskets, the tree, and that round thing?”

  “My guess would be,” his brother replied, “that those symbols tell us where the iron is.”

  “Near some old Civil War muskets,” Chet suggested.

  “Or under a tree,” General Smith said. Then he added with a puzzled expression, “That’s a queer-looking tree. Don’t believe I ever saw one like it.”