Mystery of Smugglers Cove (2 page)

“That's what
you
say,” Wester retorted suspiciously. “Did anyone see you?”

“No,” Frank said. “I'm afraid we don't have that kind of alibi—we were alone!”

Wester was more suspicious than ever. “Why would Morphy name you if you weren't involved?”

“I guess he's trying to throw suspicion on us,” Joe declared.
“He
seems like the number one suspect to me.”

“But you might be in cahoots with him,” Wester argued. “Maybe he ducked out with the portrait and left you to be the fall guys.”

Frank and Joe stared at each other. It was the first time they had ever been accused of being crooks!

“Let's see if the real thief left a clue,” Joe suggested. “We'll need to know all about the robbery. Is there someone who can tell us how it happened?”

“Mrs. Summers can,” Wester said, “as if you don't know already.”

Wester summoned the housekeeper, who entered the study and stared at the Hardys curiously. Her employer asked her to tell them what she knew about the missing portrait.

“When Mr. Wester was in Europe,” she explained, “Mr. Morphy was in charge here. He told me he had orders to remove the painting and take it to Mr. Harrison Wester. He said he'd hire two couriers to drive to Key Blanco, and that he was leaving detailed information in the desk drawer.”

“That's us,” Joe put in. “Trouble is, Morphy never informed us of his scheme. Did he tell you anything else?”

“I had nothing to do with it!” the housekeeper snapped.

“Of course not,” Frank said soothingly. “But please, what happened next, Mrs. Summers?”

“The following day Mr. Morphy gave the staff the day off. When we got back, the painting was gone.”

“And Morphy was gone too?” Joe inquired.

“Yes,” the housekeeper replied. “And I haven't seen him since. ”

Wester looked sternly at Frank and Joe. “I still think you may be in on it. And if you're not you'll just have to prove it!”

Joe had an idea. “What if Morphy only pretended to send the painting to Key Blanco, but actually hid it here?”

“May we search the house?” Frank added, catching on.

“Go ahead,” the retired banker agreed. “Mrs. Summers will show you around. The portrait's about two by four feet. Should be easy to find if it's here. ”

The Hardys decided to search from the top down, and followed the housekeeper up to the attic. It was a dusty area covering the entire top floor. The only light in the dingy interior came from two small windows under the slanting roof.

A quick inspection convinced Frank and Joe that the missing portrait was not in the attic. Mrs. Summers led the way down to the next floor, where the servants' quarters were located. Nothing turned up, and they had no better luck on the two floors occupied by Wester.

“We've come up empty,” Frank said in disgust.

“The basement's our last chance,” Joe pointed out. “We'd better look—”

“Nothing's down there,” Mrs. Summers interrupted. “I've already seen for myself.”

“Our report has to be complete,” Frank said diplomatically. “Do you mind if we take a quick look?”

The housekeeper shrugged and opened the cellar door. Everyone descended a flight of rickety stairs.

The basement had cinderblock walls and a cement floor. In one corner stood the furnace and water heater, and nearby, a workbench ran the length of one wall.

“Mr. Wester uses the bench to repair his paintings,” the housekeeper explained.

In the darkest corner of the cellar, Joe spotted a heavy iron ring hanging from the wall. “What's this for?” he inquired.

“I don't know,” Mrs. Summers snapped. “Now, can we go back up?”

“Wait a minute,” Frank said. He was inspecting the iron ring. “It looks like a handle. Maybe there's a door in this wall.”

Twisting the ring, he pulled hard on it. A section of cinder blocks moved to one side.

“It's a secret room!” Frank exclaimed. “Maybe the picture's in here!”

The boys went through the doorway. They found themselves in a small room, its back wall illuminated dimly by the basement light.

“Wow!” Joe said. “Who could have built this, and why?”

Frank shrugged. “Whoever built the house, I suppose. Perhaps Mr. Wester knows what it was intended for.”

The Hardys began to examine the wall closely. They were so absorbed in their task that they did not hear the door creak behind them. Suddenly it became darker in the room, and when they turned around, they realized that their light source from the basement was being cut off by the closing door.

Click!
They heard the noise of the lock falling into place, then stood in complete darkness.

Frank leaped to the door and tried to open it. However, his palms flattened against unyielding cement blocks!

“Mrs. Summers!” he yelled. “Let us out!”

The housekeeper did not respond.

“She must hear us!” Joe said urgently. “The door isn't that thick!”

“Sh!” Frank said, trying to listen for Mrs. Summers's footsteps. There was nothing but silence!

Desperately, Frank felt around the door in the darkness to see if he could find a handle on their side. But his fingers touched only bare cinder blocks.

“Joe!” he exclaimed. “We're trapped!”

“Maybe there's another way out,” Joe said en couragingly. He moved along the wall in the pitch darkness feeling for an outlet. Suddenly he stepped into empty air! His feet slipped out from under him, and with a scream, he plunged into nothingness!

“Joe! Are you okay?” Frank called out, worried.

There was no reply. Frank stood stock-still, fighting a wave of panic that threatened to engulf him. Suddenly he remembered that he was carrying his pencil flashlight in the back pocket of his dungarees. He flicked it on and turned the beam in the direction of Joe's scream.

The light illuminated four wooden steps. Joe lay crumpled in a heap at the bottom!

Frank rushed to his brother's side and shook him gently. Joe opened his eyes, rubbed his head, then staggered to his feet.

“Next time I take a swan dive I'll make sure there's water in the pool,” he said ruefully. “No harm done, though, except for a bump on my head.”

Frank shone his flashlight up ahead and saw they were in a low, narrow passage only a few feet long. The floor slanted sharply upward.

“Maybe there's a door over there,” he suggested. “Let's see.”

He led the way forward, crouching down as the height of the passage decreased. But a quick inspection revealed that they were facing a blank wall at the end.

“That was our last chance,” Frank lamented. “We're in a secret tunnel without an exit!”

Joe, exploring the low ceiling of the passage with his hands, came upon a large bolt fastened into a hasp.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “This may be a way out!” Forcing the bolt back from its hasp, he pushed up. A small, square section of the ceiling opened outward, admitting daylight that caused the Hardys to blink and cover their eyes after their spell in the darkness. Clambering through the opening, they found themselves in a thick clump of bushes at the side of the house near the driveway.

Joe allowed the door to fall back into place. It became indistinguishable in a tangle of ivy.

“That's a neat way of hiding a secret passage,” Frank noted. “Hey! What's this?” His foot had dislodged something in the ivy. He bent over and picked up a jackknife with a flat yellow plate on either side. One of them bore the letters
I.N.

“The owner's initials!” Frank said excitedly, showing the knife to his brother. “Let's see if they fit anybody in the house.”

Circling around to the front door, they rang the bell. Mrs. Summers answered and looked surprised to see them.

“That door in the basement fell shut all by itself,” she explained. “I couldn't get it open, so I went looking for help. I was going to ask Mr. Wester to let you out, but he's on the phone.”

“We found another exit,” Frank informed her, then looked at her sharply. “Do the initials
I.N.
mean anything to you, Mrs. Summers?”

The housekeeper seemed startled, but shook her head. “No one here has those initials,” she insisted.

“May we see Mr. Wester now?” Joe asked.

“Certainly.” Mrs. Summers let them in, and the young detectives joined the art collector in his study. Wester hung up the phone as they walked through the door. He was taken aback when he heard about the secret passage in the basement. “I never knew it was there!” he declared. “But then, the house was built over a hundred years ago.”

Frank had an idea. “Mr. Wester, if your secretary had anything to do with the theft of the painting, perhaps he stole other things, too. Have you noticed anything else missing?”

Wester shook his head but told Mrs. Summers to check. She came back shortly afterward, looking upset. “I didn't notice before,” she said, “but the big silver pitchers have been taken out of the sideboard. Also the tall golden candlesticks.”

“Someone, perhaps Morphy, has been robbing you blind,” Joe commented.

“I just wonder why he didn't take more of the valuable paintings,” Frank mused.

“He probably figured it would be too obvious,” Joe reasoned.

Mrs. Summers nodded. “The pitchers and candlesticks were not openly displayed,” she said. “I wouldn't have discovered that they were gone unless I'd checked.”

“Did you find a clue while you were looking through the house?” Wester asked the boys.

“Just this,” Frank said, showing him the jackknife.

The art collector did not recognize it, nor did he know the initials
I.N.
The Hardys then inspected the area above the fireplace where the Bolívar portrait had hung. A spot on the wall caught Frank's eye. He scrutinized it closely. “This is a pretty clear fingerprint,” he declared. “Joe, do you want to get our kit from the trunk of the car?”

“I'll be right back,” Joe said. He returned with a small box and sprinkled some powder over the spot. Then he photographed it with a small camera before lifting the print with a piece of special tape.

He turned to Wester. “If it's okay with you, I'll take another print from Morphy's room and we'll see if they match.”

Wester told him to go ahead, and Joe left the study. Frank looked thoughtfully at the empty wall over the fireplace. “I wonder why whoever mon keyed with the picture didn't wear gloves.”

Wester glowered at him. “Maybe you know as well as I do that the picture wire was twisted around the hook. The thief had to use his fingers to loosen it.”

They discussed the mystery until Joe returned.

“I took a perfect print from the mirror Morphy used for shaving,” the younger Hardy boy revealed. “Now we can have Chief Collig check both of them at police headquarters. Mr. Wester, we'll get back to you when we find out if they match. If they don‘t, the police might be able to figure out whose they are from their records.”

Wester nodded. “While you're there, tell him my house has been robbed.”

“We'll be glad to make the report for you,” Frank assured him.

The art collector glared at him. “And don't forget to mention to the chief that it seems the main suspects are Frank and Joe Hardy!”

Frank and Joe stared at the art collector. Apparently he still believed they were guilty!

“We'll have to find Mark Morphy to clear ourselves,” Frank said slowly. “What does he look like, Mr. Wester?”

Wester took another photograph out of his desk and handed it to Frank. “Here he is.”

“Can you tell us anything else about him?” Frank went on. “Does he have a family and friends? Where did he live before he worked for you? Who recommended him to you?”

Wester shrugged. “He's been with me for a year. I hired him after his boss, an acquaintance of mine, passed away. I know nothing about his family or where he came from. He never mentioned it and I never asked.”

The art collector could provide no further information about his secretary, so the boys left. On the way to police headquarters, they discussed the strange case.

“How do you like being called a crook?” Joe grumbled. “Wester is definitely suspicious of us. And why would he want to see us—alone—before telling the police?”

Frank nodded in disgust. “I don't trust that housekeeper of his. I bet she knew about the secret passage and locked us into that room on purpose. ”