The Mystery of the Chinese Junk Read online

  “You mean this is that thief’s hide-out?” Chet asked nervously. “Maybe he’s one of the smugglers?”

  Frank and Joe did not reply. Instead, they began a frantic search, thinking the two one-hundred-dollar bills might be cached away in the cave. They did not find them, but under a fallen stalactite Chet pounced on another scrap of paper.

  “Hey! Here’s something else, fellows!”

  It was part of a half-burned letter typed on business stationery. The torn-off fragment bore the following lines:would advise you to get in on the ground floor while the stock shares can still be purchased cheaply. The mining deposit is a rich one and the company is bound to realize tremendous profits during the next few

  “I’ll bet that thief uses his stolen money to buy stock,” Chet guessed.

  “Could be,” Frank commented. “Chet, this is a real find. It could be our best clue so far to that burglar.”

  Joe mused aloud, “Typewriters all have distinguishing characteristics. If we can trace the machine this was written on, it may give us a real lead!”

  “Do you think the burglar is part of some gang interested in the Hai Hau?” Chet asked.

  “I wonder,” Frank replied. “If so, they know this cave well. The sooner we get busy on this stock-letter clue the better. Let’s go.”

  “Let’s talk to Sam Radley about the case if he’s back,” Frank suggested as he started the convertible. “He’s an expert on typewriter clues.”

  Sam Radley was Fenton Hardy’s best operative. He had gone to Chicago recently to collect evidence needed in another case which Mr. Hardy was handling.

  “Neat idea,” Joe agreed.

  Frank dropped Chet off at the farm, then drove home. He telephoned Radley and learned that the detective had flown in to Bayport late the previous day. He promised to come over to the Hardy house at four o’clock that afternoon.

  In the meantime, the brothers made fingerprint tests on the two pieces of paper. Only their own prints were revealed!

  “That burglar is a slick article,” Joe remarked. “He must wear plastic finger tipsl”

  “It’s not hard for me to believe that he’s also the safecracker,” said Frank thoughtfully.

  When Sam Radley arrived, the boys briefed the wiry, sandy-haired detective on developments in their mystery to date. Then Frank showed him the torn scrap of letter.

  “You’re a typewriter expert, Sam. Can you tell us what kind of machine this was written on?”

  The operative studied the typewritten characters with a practiced eye, then nodded. “This was done on a German-make machine, called the Zeus. Should be easy to trace. This particular style of type was used only on the first model which was imported to this country three years ago.”

  Radley asked to use the hall telephone and placed a call to the New York distributors for the Zeus typewriter. Within minutes he had the information he sought.

  “They’re sold locally through the Bayport Office Supply,” Sam reported to the Hardys.

  “Okay, let’s go talk to them,” Joe said.

  Radley drove the boys downtown to the Bayport Office Supply Company. In answer to their questions, the proprietor consulted his records and informed them that he had sold only four typewriters of that make and model.

  “The Zeus is a fine machine,” he said, “but it wasn’t well known at that time—three years ago. I sold the four all in one batch to the Regent Hotel.”

  After thanking him, Radley and the two boys went to the hotel. Frank explained to the manager, Mr. Irwin, that they were working on a case and would like to see the four Zeus typewriters which the hotel had purchased three years before.

  “Certainly,” Mr. Irwin agreed. The manager led the three sleuths into the hotel’s business office. Several women clerks were at work, typing or running accounting machines.

  Radley, Frank, and Joe examined samples of typing from each of the three Zeus typewriters in the office, and compared them with the letter.

  “The ‘s’ and the ‘1’ are both out of line in the letter and the tail of the ‘e’ is worn away,” Sam observed. “None of these samples matches.”

  Frank turned to the manager. “We were told at the Bayport Office Supply Company that you bought four Zeus typewriters. May we see the other one?”

  “We had that one assigned for the use of our guests,” Irwin replied. “But I’m afraid you’re out of luck so far as checking it goes.”

  “Why?” Joe asked.

  “The typewriter,” Mr. Irwin explained, “was stolen a month ago.”

  “Stolen!” the Hardys chorused.

  The identical thought raced through the brothers’ minds. Was the typewriter thief the same person who had stolen their two hundred dollars, Mr. Hardy’s file on the Chameleon, and perhaps owned the cuff link Iola had found?

  CHAPTER XII

  The Vanishing Visitor

  FRANK suddenly snapped his fingers. “Maybe the typewriter was stolen by someone staying here,” he said to the hotel manager. “May we look at the register?”

  “Of course.”

  Mr. Irwin led the Hardys and Sam Radley downstairs to the lobby and requested the clerk at the desk to show them the registration book. Frank and Joe flipped back the pages and began checking the names of guests who had registered at the motel a month previous.

  “Oh—oh!”

  Joe gave a surprised gasp and pointed to a signature written with a flourish—Dr. Hubert E. Montrose. Frank was equally intrigued.

  “Find something?” the manager asked.

  “An acquaintance of ours,” Frank replied cautiously. “We didn’t know he’d ever lived at this hotel.”

  “Let me see.” Mr. Irwin glanced at the name on the register. “Oh, yes. Dr. Montrose stayed here for a week or so when he first arrived in town.” He looked at the brothers curiously, but they did not voice their suspicions.

  Frank, instead, added nonchalantly, “Dr. Montrose found a house here in Bayport?”

  Mr. Irwin nodded. “Yes, he’s renting the old Varney mansion out on the Shore Road. Quite a show place in its day, but now it’s rather rundown.”

  The sleuths thanked the manager for his cooperation and left. As soon as the three were seated in the car, Sam asked, “Who’s this fellow Montrose?”

  “A doctor who just started practicing here in town,” Frank explained. “Most of his patients seem to be elderly widows. Dr. Montrose advises them on financial as well as medical matters, and refers them to a friend of his who deals in stocks.”

  The detective grinned as Joe told how Aunt Gertrude had vowed to prove the doctor a swindler but had gone to sleep instead.

  Sam pulled away from the curb and started for the Hardy house.

  “This stock business is why I was interested in finding out where Dr. Montrose lives,” Joe went on. “It’s just possible he can help us locate the person who wrote the stock-selling letter and even stole our money!”

  “I see,” said Sam. “And that man in turn might point out the thief.”

  “Exactly. Let’s call on the doctor at his house after supper.”

  Sam Radley said he would not be able to go, but Frank and Joe determined to make the call, anyway. Sam had supper with Aunt Gertrude and the boys. Later, as the operative was leaving, Tony Prito stopped at the Hardys’ to report on the day’s boat trip to Rocky Isle. He told Frank and Joe that the Hai Hau had carried six passengers on each round trip. It had been an enjoyable excursion, with smooth sailing both ways.

  “Swell,” Frank commented. “Joe and I were just going out to do a little sleuthing. Want to come along?”

  “Sure. What’s up?” After hearing the plan, he said, “Let’s go!”

  The three boys piled into the Hardys’ convertible. Frank drove through the outskirts of town, then took the Shore Road. Their headlights slashed through the gathering dust.

  By the time they reached the old Varney mansion it was nearly dark. The house stood on a wooded promontory overlooking Barmet Ba
y. Frank slowed the car as they neared their destination and stopped at the entrance to the grounds. A heavy chain barred the way.

  “We’ll have to hike in,” he murmured.

  The boys found a footpath, which wound amid trees and underbrush, fully screening their approach. On the boys’ right, the hillside sloped down steeply toward a sandy beach.

  Presently they came in sight of the mansion. Built many years before, the house was designed in ornate Victorian style with gabled roof and outjutting turrets. It was surrounded by large hemlock and cypress trees.

  “Sort of a spooky-looking place,” Joe remarked.

  “You said it!” Tony agreed.

  As if to confirm their words, an owl hooted mournfully from the trees.

  “I think he heard you,” Frank joked.

  Most of the mansion’s windows were hung with dilapidated shutters, but a single light gleamed through an unshuttered window on the first floor. Frank suggested that they knock on the rear door which was nearest. Apparently this part of the grounds had once been a formal garden, but it was now clogged with waist-high weeds and undergrowth.

  “Take it easy,” Frank advised.

  But Joe, impetuous as usual, pressed forward without watching his step. Tripping on a vine, he went sprawling. He gave a slight groan.

  “Hey! Hurt yourself?” Tony asked.

  “Wrenched my shoulder a bit, I guess. Gave me a twinge—it’ll ease up, though.”

  Joe got to his feet, and followed the others, this time with caution. A moment later all three froze as a figure ahead loomed out of the shadows at one side of the house. Apparently he had come from the front, which faced the bay.

  Tall and stooped, the figure glided away from the mansion, losing itself among the trees and shrubbery on the hillside. His rather furtive manner instantly aroused the boys’ suspicions.

  “Let’s go see what he’s doing,” Joe urged.

  Tony asked if the doctor lived alone.

  “He’s supposed to, according to what Mrs. Witherspoon told Aunt Gertrude,” Joe confided. “She says he has no relatives and no house-keeper.”

  “Maybe that man’s a patient,” Frank offered.

  “Or a guard,” Tony added.

  Joe was unconvinced. “If he is, he won’t mind talking to us. But if he’s a burglar, Dr. Montrose would thank us for nabbing him.”

  “You win,” said Tony.

  The trio moved forward quickly. Reaching the edge of the promontory, they could make out their quarry picking his way down the slope toward the bay.

  “Easy does it, Joe,” Frank warned, as his brother plowed ahead.

  Fortunately, the hillside was covered with tall grass and scrub, which afforded good footing. The boys managed to descend without turning their ankles or falling. As they reached the bottom, they could see the stooped man hurrying across the beach.

  “We’d better speed up or we’ll lose him,” Joe exclaimed, as the man went up a hillock of rock and sand.

  He looked back for a moment, then darted down the opposite side and was lost to view.

  “He may leave in a boat,” Joe remarked worriedly.

  The boys sprinted forward. But by the time they reached the top of the hillock, the man was nowhere in sight.

  “He’s disappeared!” Tony groaned. “But where?”

  “No! There he is!” Joe exclaimed, pointing off to the right.

  A stooped figure had appeared near the water’s edge, some yards away. Turning, he started back up the hillside toward the Shore Road.

  “Hey! Wait a minute!” Joe yelled, and the boys raced after him. Surprisingly, the man made no effort to flee.

  “Wal, what is it?” he demanded in a familiar harsh, cracked voice.

  “Clams Dagget!” Joe gasped as the boys caught up to him.

  “You pests botherin’ me again?” Clams showed no signs of discomposure at being detected. “Wal, what do you want now?”

  “We’d like to know why you were prowling around Dr. Montrose’s house,” Frank said forth-rightly.

  Clams snorted. “You’re plumb crazy! Haven’t been near that old mansion. Been down here on the beach all evenin’!”

  CHAPTER XIII

  A Cryptic Threat

  “DON’T give us that story!” Tony Prito said hotly to Clams Dagget. “We followed you all the way down the hill!”

  The beachcomber flew into a rage. “Oh, you did, did you? Wal, let me tell you young scamps a thing or two!”

  In salty language, he informed the boys that they were wrong. Besides, they had no business poking their noses into his affairs. If he ever caught them trying to shadow him, he would have the law on them so fast it would make their heads spin.

  “And while I’m at it, I’m going to give you Hardys some advice,” Clams ranted. “From now on, you’d better stay away from Rocky Isle! That place is dangerous!”

  “What’s dangerous about it?” said Joe, a note of doubt in his voice.

  Clams’ eyes narrowed. “Some mighty queer things been goin’ on there. I’ve seen lights blinkin’ at night, and they weren’t bein’ flashed by the park guard on the island. He’d ‘a’ been in bed, and nobody else is supposed to be on Rocky Isle after nine o’clock. It stands to reason, anybody tryin’ to snoop—” Clams paused significantly, “might find that place real unhealthy night or day!”

  Somewhat surprised by Clams’ revelation, the young sleuths tried to elicit further information from him. But the elderly pilot only muttered, “Told you all I know—don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He strode off in the dusk.

  The boys trudged back up the hill and again approached the mansion. They rapped on first the front door, then the rear. There was no answer.

  “I guess the doctor’s out,” Frank said resignedly.

  During the drive home, Frank remained thoughtful, mulling the evening’s events over in his mind. Who was the tall, stooped man the boys had followed from Dr. Montrose’s house? And, if the old beachcomber’s claims were true, could the mysterious lights be connected with the junk and the cave hide-out on the hillside?

  The next morning when the Hardys arrived at the pier, they found their shipmates already on board the Hai Hau, preparing for the day’s voyage. Tony was tuning up the outboard, while Biff and Jim were busy polishing woodwork. Chet was talking to prospective passengers.

  “Hi, slowpokes!” the chunky lad greeted the Hardys. “You fellows just get out of bed?”

  The Hardys laughed and climbed aboard. Tony looked up from the motor and wiped an oil smear off his cheek. “Hey, Biff!” he called. “See if you can find my feeler gauges so I can check these breaker points. I think I left ’em in the cabin.”

  “Okay.”

  Biff disappeared into the junk’s cabin. A moment later he reappeared, then the boys heard a cry of amazement. Frank saw Biff reach down and pick up a piece of paper.

  “Hey, look at this! Another threat!”

  Frank, Joe, and the others gathered around tensely to examine his find. The note was badly typed on cheap pad paper, with two words misspelled. It said:Keep youre nose out of my busines or else!

  “Where’d you find this, Biff?” asked Tony, who had not seen him pick it up.

  “It was lying on the deck wrapped around a stone. Someone must have thrown it up here last night!”

  “Clams Dagget probably!” Tony growled. “This sounds just like him!”

  “Have you found out who sent the threat?”

  Sam Radley asked

  “You may be right,” Frank said. “We’d better compare this with the mining-stock letter and see how the typing checks out.”

  After a hurried conference, the Hardys decided to take the note back to their crime laboratory for immediate study. The other four boys would man the Hai Hau on its daily cruise to Rocky Isle.

  Frank and Joe sped home. While Frank set up the magnifying camera and lights in their basement laboratory, Joe telephoned Sam Radley to report the latest find. The operative promised
to come over at once and assist in analyzing the typed specimens.

  When he arrived ten minutes later, Radley asked, “Found out yet who sent the threat?”

  “We’ve just started photographing it,” Joe reported. “We think they were both written on the same typewriter.”

  The detective examined the threatening note for a few moments. “Offhand, I’d say you’re right. The three key letters check out at first glance, but we’ll need precise measurements to prove it.”

  With Radley’s help, the boys shot a number of magnified close-ups of the typing. Then Frank took the films into the darkroom which the Hardys had rigged in one corner of the basement.

  While he was busy with the developing, the radio crackled.

  “Hai Hau calling Hardysl” Chet’s voice came over the loud-speaker.

  Joe hastily flicked on the transmitter. “Hardys to Hai Hau! Come in, please! ... What’s up?” he added.

  “We just left the pier!” Chet reported excitedly. “And guess who’s on board?”

  “Skip the games!” Joe said. “Who?”

  “Ti-Ming! He’s one of our passengers!”

  Joe was startled. Had the Chinese decided to make their next move out in the open? And if so, did this forebode trouble aboard the junk?

  “Does he know you’re calling?” Joe asked.

  “I doubt it,” Chet replied. “He’s up in the bow, acting like a sight-seer.”

  “Okay. Keep a watch on him. And remember, we have the safety of the passengers to think about—so don’t let him pull any fast ones!”

  “Roger!” the plump lad’s voice acknowledged. “Over and out.”

  Frank and Joe worked closely with Sam Radley in analyzing and comparing the threatening note and the mining-stock letter. Microscopic details and measurements proved that the typed characters were identical in both.

  “No doubt about it. These were written on the same machine,” Radley concluded. “However, they must have been typed by different people, judging from the way the keys were struck—not to mention these two misspelled words.”

  “That might’ve been intentional to throw us off the track,” Frank pointed out.