Footprints Under the Window (6 page)

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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

BOOK: Footprints Under the Window
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The Hardys drove to an auto accessories place, and were told that repairs would be finished by morning.
The next day the brothers picked up their car and drove to the grimy North Lines Building. They were ushered into Orrin North's large, plushly furnished office on the top floor. The bulky magnate was relaxing behind a mahogany desk near a picture window overlooking Barmet Bay.
“Glad you could come. Have a seat.” Without getting up, North waved the Hardys toward a small sofa. “Like my setup, boys?”
“Very comfortable, Mr. North,” Frank commented. Both he and Joe were at once struck by the disparity between the lavishness of the office and the run-down exterior of the building. They recalled the reports of North's failing business.
“Like it myself,” the shipowner admitted proudly. “And it's all mine—planned by me, earned by me, and preserved by me. Shows what incentive will do. Smart kids like you could do as well—if you play your cards right.”
Frank and Joe made no comment. It was rumored in Bayport that North's rise to wealth had not been entirely honest. Each boy wondered what he was leading up to.
The husky tycoon leaned back in his chair. “I understand you boys ran into that thief who jumped ship from my Dorado.”
“We did,” Joe affirmed.
“That's why I called you in. The hoodlum not only stowed away, but stole a good deal of money. The whole business could give my line a bad name! You two got a good look at him and I'll make it worth your while if you can find him for me. By the way, did the fellow say anything?”
Frank replied cautiously, “Not much. He was too weak to talk.”
North seemed satisfied. “Too bad. We might have had more luck if you had gone straight to Captain Burne.” His voice showed irritation. “Let me hear first if you get any leads.”
“Do you know the stowaway's name—or background?” Joe countered.
The burly magnate shrugged. “Not me. Burne thinks he sneaked on at Cayenne. Personally, I have a feeling he's a spy!”
“It's possible,” Frank agreed, a bit startled. Had North a motive in saying this? Or was it merely an offhand remark?
North escorted the brothers to the door, where Frank reservedly said they would “keep in touch.”
“I guess you boys know the ropes, being sons of Fenton Hardy.” He smiled. “What's your dad up to these days? Haven't seen him around. Big case?”
“He's always busy,” Frank answered.
Mr. North nodded. “Well, boys, don't forget about that reward! By the way, I'd like to keep this thing out of the newspaper.”
As the boys walked back to the car, they mulled over the meeting. “Something about Orrin North rings false,” Frank concluded. “He doesn't seem to want the authorities to get to that stowaway before he does. Why?”
“Good question,” Joe answered. “I'll bet the stowaway stole something besides money, or maybe he's got something on North!”
“Like what?”
“North himself might be part of the Footprints plot Mr. Dykeman told us about.”
Frank looked doubtful. “He may be involved in some shady financial dealings, but North's too prominent to risk being in a spy racket.”
“Guess so,” said Joe. “Did you notice how he tried to fish something out of us about Dad?”
“I sure did! Come on. We have some checking to do.”
The Hardys drove to the freighter pier. Here they learned that the Dorado was on its way back to Cayenne and other South American ports. At the passenger office they found that the name Ricardo was not on the
Capricorn's
manifest, nor on that of any other ship arriving recently.
The boys returned to their car. “He must have registered under another name,” Joe said.
Frank slipped behind the wheel. “We've got to find that stowaway! He's the key to this whole thing.”
“Fine, but we haven't any kind of lead.” Joe hopped in beside his brother.
Frank snapped his fingers. “Our boathouse! He learned about our owning the Sleuth and might have gone there to hide out—or to snoop!”
“Roger!”
Frank followed the road which wound around the bay to the dock area. Suddenly the boys noticed three men in black raincoats stealthily approaching a run-down boathouse. As Frank and Joe watched, two of the men disappeared around the far side of the building. When the third moved along the near wall, they recognized the short, bald man!
“That phony immigration officer!” Frank jolted the car to a halt. “It looks as if they're after someone!”
The impostor by now had scurried inside. At once the Hardys jumped out. Frank signaled Joe to head left. He went to the right of the boathouse. Cautiously they stole through the high weeds surrounding the building.
A harsh voice was audible from within. “You won't get away this time, Gomez! We'll teach you to run out on us!”
Joe was the first to reach the waterside of the boathouse. He inched along the narrow walkway and peered cautiously inside the entrance.
Three
men,
spread out on the catwalk, were facing a solitary, slender figure crouching on the rear platform. One of his opponents slowly pulled a rope from his pocket. Together, the men converged on the cornered man.
The Dorado stowaway!
CHAPTER VIII
Cobblewave Cove
 
 
 
THE men's steps echoed eerily in the shadowy boathouse as they advanced on the stowaway. Joe glanced over at Frank, who had posted himself at the other side of the entrance.
The fat, bald man paused and rasped out, “Don't give us trouble. Valdez, Walton, and I are going to take real good care of you!”
The speaker's two companions—one stocky, the other huge and bushy-haired—kept stalking their prey. The stowaway braced himself defensively. Frank nodded to Joe and shouted, “Hey!”
Startled, the attacking men whirled. “Greber! It's those Hardy kids! Get 'em!” snarled the stocky thug. The boys recognized him at once as the swarthy-faced Micro-Eye trespasser!
His bushy-haired partner lunged at Joe. The youth dodged nimbly and tripped the man, who fell sprawling onto the rickety dock. But he grabbed Joe's leg and pulled the boy down. The two grappled, rolling perilously close to the water.
Frank, meanwhile, had charged inside the boathouse. He landed a blow in the midriff of the stocky man, who staggered, half-stunned. A second later the stowaway raced outside!
“Wait!” Frank's cry was choked off by a rope whipped around his throat from behind. Gasping, he tried to get his fingers inside the rope, but it was drawn tighter!
Desperate, Frank jabbed his elbow full force into his assailant's stomach. Taken off balance, the pudgy man teetered, let go the rope, and landed in the water with a splash.
But the next instant something heavy crashed down on Frank's head. He sank to the floor, unconscious.
The young sleuth had no idea how much time passed before he revived and saw Joe's worried face looking down. “Frank, are you all right?”
“Guess so, except my head hurts.” Frank stood up and touched a swelling bruise.
“No wonder! You got conked with this.” Joe picked up a brick.
“Oh great!” Frank grimaced. “Hey—the stowaway and those other men—where are they?”
“Gone,” Joe said glumly. “All three lit off after Gomez. I started to chase them, until I realized you weren't following me.”
The Hardys hurried outside. There was no sign of Gomez or his pursuers.
Frank said, “At least we know there's some link between Gomez and the wire-cutter fellow. He must be the one called Valdez—and the big guy is Walton. The other's Greber.”
“But why the attack on Gomez by the others?” Frank asked.
“My guess is he cut out from the gang and wants to blow the whistle on his pals. That could explain his stowing away and jumping ship. Also his warning about Footprints.”
“But why would he have stolen Dad's papers?”
“Maybe somebody else did.”
“Another puzzler. If Gomez does want help, why run away from us?”
The brothers returned to the car and Joe took the wheel. “Better get you home to take care of that bump,” he advised his brother.
“Okay. But we'll make some reports on the way. What do we tell Mr. North?”
“Just let him know we saw the stowaway. Maybe we can get some information out of him.”
A few minutes later they stopped at a drugstore and hurried inside to the two phone booths. Joe dialed the secret number of Mr. Dykeman, and told him of their experience at the old boathouse. The agent was doubly alarmed when Joe mentioned the earlier machete warning.
“At least we know the four men are in the vicinity,” said Dykeman. “We'll redouble our efforts to track them down.”
Frank, meanwhile, had phoned Orrin North.
“Humph!” the magnate sounded displeased at the boy's report. “Too bad you didn't get Gomez—can't pay you for no results.”
“Joe and I aren't worried about the money,” Frank said coolly. “We'd like to find out what's at the bottom of all this.” Hoping to draw the man out, he described the trio pursuing the runaway. “Do you know any of them?”
“Of course not!” North snapped. “If you get something new on that thief, post me at once.”
Frank hung up thoughtfully. Did North have another reason for wanting the stowaway captured other than the thefts from the
Dorado
?
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.

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