Mystery of the Samurai Sword

Table of Contents

 

 

 

SHORTLY after his arrival in the United States, a Japanese business tycoon mysteriously disappears. Mr. Hardy, who had been entrusted with the man's security, is baffled and shocked. He feels even worse when the FBI takes him off the case.

However, his sons, Frank and Joe, are there to investigate. A valuable samurai sword, said to have belonged to the missing tycoon's family for generations, is stolen from an auction gallery in New York, and the boys suspect a connection. One clue leads to another, and danger confronts them constantly on their search for the solution to the puzzle.

Who are their enemies? Did the criminals kidnap the missing businessman, or did he hide of his own volition? What is the secret of the stolen samurai sword?

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

Copyright © 1979 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

All rights reserved. Published in 2005 by Grosset & Dunlap, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. S.A.

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-07669-9

Gusty sheets of rain swept the Bayport airfield. The moon had disappeared behind a heavy overcast sky, but the glare of floodlights lit the airport with almost daytime brilliance.

A little knot of people, huddling beneath umbrellas, watched eagerly as a small jet plane swooped out of the darkness and braked to a screaming halt between the twin rows of landing lights.

“Just a few seconds till ten o‘clock,” announced dark-haired, eighteen-year-old Frank Hardy with a glance at his wristwatch. “Mr. Satoya's right on the button!”

“Hey, what's going on over there?” muttered his blond brother, Joe, who was a year younger.

Through the rain-washed glass front of the airport terminal wing, a bearded man could be seen gesticulating wildly. He was waving a long, sheathed sword over his head.

“Looks like a Japanese samurai sword,” said Frank.

“Sure does! But what's wrong with the guy?” Joe wondered aloud. “Is he doing a war dance or just trying to attract our attention?”

Before Frank could reply, a policeman appeared and hustled the man away despite his protests.

Meanwhile, an unloading ramp had been wheeled up to the executive jet, which bore the famous red-and-white emblem of the Satoya Corporation—a samurai sword curving beneath the rising sun.

“Have you ever seen Mr. Satoya before, Dad?” Frank asked his father, who stood next to the boys.

Fenton Hardy shook his head. “No. Very few people have in recent years. He runs a worldwide business, but has become almost a hermit. In fact he has seldom been photographed.”

“Sounds like quite a mystery man!”

“You could call him that, I suppose. Actually that's what a good many reporters and magazine writers do call him—just because he's so hard to see or interview.”

“Who do you suppose leaked news of his trip to the press?” put in Joe.

“Good question,” his father replied grimly. “I intend to find out the answer. His company wanted this visit to America kept top secret, and we've done everything possible to maintain tight security at this end.”

The tall, distinguished-looking detective, formerly an ace investigator with the New York Police Department, had been hired to protect the Japanese tycoon from assassins or terrorists during his stay in the United States. But despite Mr. Hardy's efforts to ensure secrecy, a number of reporters had shown up at the airport to witness Satoya's arrival. Luckily the police were keeping them at a distance.

Two men were allowed through the barrier and joined Mr. Hardy and his sons. One was the detective's longtime operative, Sam Radley, the other a burly six-foot Japanese named Kawanishi. He was a Satoya executive, who had flown to the United States with a colleague a few days earlier to arrange details of the trip.

Just then an erect, gray-haired man with a wispy mustache emerged from the plane.

“Ah! That is my revered employer, Mr. Takashi Satoya,” Kawanishi said. After greeting the tycoon in Japanese, he introduced him to the Hardys and Sam Radley.

A younger man had followed Satoya down the ramp. He turned out to be another executive of the firm, but of lower rank than Kawanishi. His name was Ikeda. He was slim and strongly built, and his black hair was cut very short.

“I suggest we get underway as soon as your car is unloaded, sir,” Mr. Hardy said to Satoya.

The tycoon nodded courteously. “Whatever you say, Mr. Hardy. Our security is in your hands from this point on”.

A cargo hatch had already been opened in the executive jet, and a sleek black limousine was driven out of the plane's interior and down a ramp onto the airfield. It was bigger and longer than most Japanese cars. Joe whistled admiringly as a granite-faced chauffeur drove it smoothly toward the group. “Some job!”

“You can say that again,” Frank agreed. “Must have been specially built.”

Mr. Satoya and his junior aide, Ikeda, took their places in the back seat of the limousine. Sam Radley was allowed, rather grudgingly it seemed, to sit in front beside the chauffeur.

The burly senior aide, Kawanishi, was to ride in Mr. Hardy's car behind the limousine, while a state policeman of the highway patrol would clear the way on a motorcycle at the head of the procession.

Frank and Joe, also mounted on motorcycles, had been assigned to act as outriders.

“Keep a sharp eye open for trouble anywhere along the route into town,” the detective told his sons before taking the wheel of his car.

“Will do, Dad!” Joe replied.

“I'm glad we wore our raingear,” Frank murmured as the two boys started toward their road bikes.

“We'll probably get soaked anyhow,” said Joe. “One good thing, though—this rain should cut down the traffic quite a bit.”

At a radio signal from Fenton Hardy, the little motorcade got underway, tooling along the exit road that led out of the airport. Once on the open highway, the vehicles picked up speed. The motorcade rolled along smoothly for several miles. But as the expressway wound through a hilly stretch, the state policeman waved his hand in a sudden warning signal.

Frank and Joe heard his voice come over their CB radios: “Looks like a little tie-up!”

Two or three cars had slowed to a halt just ahead. The policeman steered his motorcycle past them to find the reason for the delay. Frank and Joe followed suit. They braked as they saw a tree lying across the road.

“The storm must have blown it down off the hillside,” Frank opined.

“What's the trouble, fellows?” Fenton Hardy's voice crackled on the radio.

“Tree down. Nothing serious, Dad,” Joe replied. “We'll be moving again soon.”

Dismounting, the Hardys lent the policeman a hand in clearing the obstruction. The windfallen tree was little more than a sapling, but somewhat awkward for one man to handle.

As soon as it was out of the way, the cars began to roll again. Frank and Joe were about to climb back on their motorcycles when a brilliant light flashed from the hillside on the right.

“What was that?” Joe exclaimed.

Two more dazzling flashes exploded in quick succession.

“Must be a photographer!” Frank guessed.

“You're right!” Joe blurted. “Snapping pictures of Mr. Satoya, I'll bet!”

As their vision recovered from the flashes, they saw a figure burst from cover and sprint up the muddy hillside in the darkness. The Hardys wanted to leave their bikes and take off in angry pursuit but horns began to honk impatiently as more and more cars lined up behind them.

“No law against taking pictures,” said the state policeman philosophically.

“Guess you're right,” Frank agreed with a disgusted look. “Too bad we can't prove he planted that roadblock.”

The Hardys and the policeman gunned their cycles into action again, and the motorcade resumed its swift journey into Bayport.

They passed through the outskirts and soon reached the downtown area. The rain had subsided, and the wet pavement glistened under the street lights.

As they neared the Bayport Chilton Hotel, Joe saw a short, thickset, broad-shouldered Japanese come out and stand beside the doorman to watch the approaching motorcade. He was Mr. Oyama, who had flown to the USA with Mr. Kawanishi to prepare for their employer's visit.