Mystery of Smugglers Cove (6 page)

“I injured my leg scuba diving,” he explained. “That's why I don't get around too well. My brother Raymond said the two Hardy boys would be coming down here. I see four of you.”

“Reinforcements, Mr. Wester,” Frank said. “Chet Morton and Biff Hooper. I hope you don't mind.”

“Of course not. I've got plenty of room,” Wester replied with a chuckle. “As long as you find my picture. When Raymond phoned from Bayport to say the Bolivar portrait would be on its way in the care of two couriers, I couldn't wait for it to arrive. But it never did, nor did the couriers. They must have stolen it.”

“Do you think the picture ever reached Key Blanco?” Joe asked.

Wester shrugged. “It's possible. This island is notorious for smuggling, and the best thing for the thieves to do would be to ship the portrait from here to a place where it could be sold. It has probably left Key Blanco already, if it was, indeed, brought here. Anyway, I hope you boys can find it again!”

“We have a good clue,” Joe revealed. “One thief left his fingerprint in Bayport when he took the picture from the wall. His name is Ignaz Nitron. Do you know him, by any chance?”

Wester shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

“There's another clue,” Frank put in. “We found your gun in Homestead.”

Wester looked startled. “What do you mean, my gun?”

Frank explained about Tom, the tall man who had been Nitron's accomplice in stealing the picture. He described how Tom and Fatso had been sent to Bayport to get the Hardys off the case, how they had jumped Raymond Wester at the Bayport Hotel, and how they had been shadowed by the boys from Miami to Homestead, where Tom had dropped the gun during their struggle in the alley.

“We took it to police headquarters, and they informed us that the weapon was registered in your name, sir,” the young detective concluded.

Wester, looking bewildered, checked the bottom drawer of his desk, which proved empty. “I don't know anything about these men,” he declared. “And I have no idea how they got my gun. I haven't missed it because I haven't done any target practice in the last few weeks, and that's all I use it for. Otherwise it stays here,” he said motioning to the drawer. “I can't imagine who could have stolen it!”

“What about Mark Morphy?” Chet spoke up.

“My brother's secretary? No way.”

“He's an accomplice of the thieves,” Biff pointed out. “Tom mentioned that fact to Fatso on the plane. ”

“And Morphy hasn't been seen since the disappearance of the picture,” Joe added.

Wester was flabbergasted. “This is all news to me!” he said, greatly disturbed. “I never would've believed it of Mark Morphy. My, you can't trust anybody these days!”

“This is Smugglers Cove,” Chet said. “Do you think the crooks are operating out of here?”

“Hardly, Chet,” Wester replied. “Smugglers Cove was known for that kind of thing in the days of piracy. Nowadays no one could get away with transferring contraband down there. They'd be spotted from this house.”

Chet seemed disappointed.

“The island, however, is still known for illegal activities,” Wester continued, noticing the look on Chet's face. “But the smuggling goes on in areas far away from where people live. ”

“We'll have to check those out,” Chet decided.

Wester nodded. “I hope you're successful,” he said. “Do you see that landscape over the fireplace? It's the same size as the Bolivar portrait. That's why I intend to hang them side by side. That is, if you find the Bolivar portrait for me. In fact, I can just see it hanging there right now,” Wester added, chuckling quietly.

“We'll find it,” Joe vowed.

Wester showed the four around the house, balancing himself on his cane, and assigned them rooms on the second floor. “Make yourselves at home,” he offered. “I'll see you at dinner. After that, I'll leave you to the mystery of the missing picture.”

He limped downstairs while his guests inspected their accommodations, then gathered in Frank's room to discuss a plan of action.

“Let's keep our moves secret,” Frank warned. “We'll go underground as smugglers without telling Mr. Wester, because he might spill the beans inadvertently. The less he's involved, the better.”

“That should be no problem,” Joe said. “All he wants us to do is find his picture. He doesn't care how we do it.”

The others agreed. Just then the dinner bell rang, and the boys joined Mr. Wester in the dining room. Hungry after their long journey, they dug into the chicken and dumplings with gusto.

“I suggest you start your investigation in Blanco City,” Wester announced. “You might find a clue there.”

“Good idea,” Frank said.

“Well, you know more about detective work than I do,” Wester went on. “Make this house your headquarters. There are snacks in the refrigerator if you get hungry, and you can use the stereo in the living room if you want to. ”

He stood up from the table and limped into his study. The boys strolled into the living room and listened to country music until bedtime. Then they retired to their rooms and went to sleep.

In the middle of the night Frank suddenly woke up at the sound of footsteps in the hall. Floor-boards creaked as someone moved stealthily past his room. Frank got out of bed and quietly opened the door. He peered into the hall.

A figure was tiptoeing toward the stairs!

I'd better see what this guy's up to, Frank thought. Must be a burglar. Silently he followed as the figure descended and went into the living room.

“Maybe he's after the pictures on the walls,” Frank muttered to himself. But the figure continued on through the dining room into the kitchen. He's stolen what he came for and is about to escape through the back door! went through Frank's mind. I must head him off!

In a flash, the young detective raced to the rear door and turned the key in the lock. Then he snapped on the light. The stealthy figure was standing next to the refrigerator.

“Chet!” Frank exclaimed.

Chet grinned. “I'm after a snack, like Mr. Wester said. I guess that's why you followed me. You want one, too!”

“A snack!” Frank cried indignantly. “I thought you were a thief sneaking through the house in the dark like that!”

Chet laughed. “Do I look like a thief?”

“Why not? There are fat thieves, you know.”

“Come on! I'm not fat. Only well-nourished.”

“Chet,” Frank said in exasperation, “it's past three o‘clock in the morning. I'm not going to argue about your physique. I just wish I hadn't woken up!”

Chet had taken two slices of pie out of the refrigerator and put them on plates. “Here, have some. It'll make you feel better.”

Frank couldn't help but laugh. “Morton's remedy for all occasions. Thanks.”

When they were finished, the boys cleaned up and went back to bed. Some time later Frank was again woken by footsteps in the hall. I wonder if that's what Chet does at home, the Hardy boy thought grumpily, get up every couple of hours to eat! He did not feel like leaving his bed, but his detective instinct would not let him go back to sleep. Perhaps it was not Chet, after all. He rose and opened the door. The stealthy figure was already at the stairs.

Frank followed quietly so as not to wake anyone else. He was about to go directly to the kitchen to head Chet off at the refrigerator, when he saw the figure go to the front door and open it.

The sun had just risen and the morning light afforded Frank a clear view of the stranger. “Hey!” the boy called out. “Wait a minute!”

The intruder turned for a moment, then rushed out the door, slamming it behind him.

“Mark Morphy!” Frank gasped.

For a moment the closed door delayed Frank's pursuit. When he emerged from the house, Morphy was already heading toward the steps to the beach. Frank ran after him as fast as he could and chased the man down to Smugglers Cove, where Morphy dashed toward an outboard motor-boat drawn up on the sand. Being barefoot gave Frank an advantage. He quickly cut the distance between them, and finally grabbed Morphy near the water's edge.

The two fell down and rolled over and over in a wild wrestling match. Morphy broke free and bounded to his feet, only to be tripped by Frank, who pounced on him again. They fought desperately until suddenly Morphy scooped up a handful of sand and threw it into Frank's face!

Blinded, the young detective wiped his tearing eyes. He regained sight in time to see Morphy push the outboard into the water, jump aboard, and start the engine. The boat chugged away from shore, turned left around an outcropping of rock, and disappeared, its sound dying away in the distance.

Frank was furious. With burning eyes, he stared after the intruder, angry at himself for not catching the man. Then he went back to the house and washed the rest of the sand from his face in the shower. No one was up yet except for the household help. Frank dressed and went into the living room, trying to calm himself by looking at magazines.

When Wester and his friends came down for breakfast, Frank briefed them about what had happened. Wester looked shocked. “Morphy's never been here before! I've only seen him in Raymond's home in Bayport. Are you positive it was him?”

“Your brother showed us a picture. There is no doubt in my mind that he was the man I chased out of this house this morning.”

“But why would he come here?”

“He knows you have a number of valuable paintings,” Joe put in. “Perhaps he came to steal another one.”

“But what was he doing upstairs?” Chet asked.

“He may have been looking for my Degas!” Wester said excitedly. “It's the most valuable painting I own! For the longest time I had it in the dining room, then I moved it to my bedroom because I like to look at it before I go to sleep. ”

“Did Morphy know about this picture?” Frank asked.

“It's quite possible Raymond mentioned it when he talked about our interest in art,” Wester replied. “Well! I'll leave it to you boys to investigate—Chet, I hear you had some difficulty walking along the beach from Blanco City. You'll be pleased to know there's an easier path along the top of the cliff.”

“Aren't you going to call the police about the Morphy incident?” Frank inquired.

Wester hesitated for a moment. “I don't see what they can do unless something's missing. I'll check. Meanwhile, I'm counting on you to find out exactly what's going on.” With that, he limped back into his study.

The boys finished their breakfast, then set out for Blanco City. On the way, they talked about going underground and getting in touch with the smugglers.

“Let's disguise ourselves as sailors,” Frank suggested.

“Good idea,” Joe said. “That way we can snoop around the waterfront where smugglers hang out without being suspected.”

“What about our faces?” Chet asked. “Tom and Fatso'll recognize us if we run into them!”

“That occurred to me,” Frank replied. “While I was in the living room alone this morning, I checked the telephone book. There's a place on Market Street that sells theatrical props and make-up.”

Chet grinned. “Good thinking!”

“We can fix your face so your own mother wouldn't recognize you,” Frank added. “It's just too bad we can't change your shape!”

Chet shot his friend a sideways glance. “So? There're fat sailors, you know!”

Frank laughed. “I thought the word was well-nourished!”

At an Army-Navy store the boys bought seamen's work clothes and duffel bags in which they stuffed their regular pants, shirts, and shoes. Then they went to the shop on Market Street and picked out some instant hair color, beards, and a mus tache for Chet. They completed their disguise in a deserted section of a park, then turned down toward the waterfront, making sure they were not being followed.

Ships at the docks were being loaded and unloaded by longshoremen, while businessmen were listing cargoes. Sailors were strolling ashore on leave, and visitors walked around, watching the picturesque scene.

“Act natural,” Frank warned his companions. “Our story is, we've got a valuable cargo and are looking for a buyer, okay?”

“We'll talk about it,” Joe added, “and just hope someone'll hear us and want to make a deal.”

“When we get a bite,” Biff suggested, “let's say we have electronic calculators to sell. I hear that's the hottest thing going right now.”

The four coordinated their strategy and then mingled with the buzz of activity on the waterfront. They strolled along talking loudly about the valuable cargo they had to sell. A number of sailors, longshoremen, and businessmen turned to listen, but no one said anything.

Finally the boys halted at the end of the harbor. They found a bench, dropped their duffel bags, and sat down to discuss their next move.

“Let's try the coffee shops and restaurants,” Frank proposed. “Places where sailors hang out when they're ashore.”

The others agreed, but as they were about to move, Joe heard a rustling in the bushes behind them. Whirling around, he saw a man staring at them through the branches.

The stranger realized he had been seen and let the twigs snap back into place. Joe leaped up and rushed through the bushes, followed by the others.

The fugitive hurried across a footpath beyond the dock area. Reaching the nearest building, a restaurant, he ran through the back door. Joe followed, brushing between the stoves and carving blocks, scaring the chef and his cooks who were preparing meals.