Mystery of the Samurai Sword (13 page)

“Hold it, you two!”

Frank and Joe halted in surprise.

“What's wrong?” Frank inquired.

“Hand over that sword!” the policeman snapped.

Joe started to explain. “We're just taking it to police headquarters.”

But the officer cut him short. “Don't give me that! Just hand it over! You're both under arrest for possessing stolen goods!”

Frank guessed that the policeman was probably new to the force and had never heard of the Hardy boys or their famous father. Calmly he advised his brother, “Do as he says, Joe. We'll straighten things out at the station.”

The policeman summoned a patrol car by radio, and within a few minutes the Hardys found themselves at police headquarters. Here, after exchanging friendly remarks with the surprised desk sergeant, they were ushered into the office of Police Chief Ezra Collig. The sword was already lying on his desk.

“Sorry about this, fellows!” Looking slightly red-faced, Chief Collig rose to shake hands with the boys. “The whole thing's a mix-up!”

The chief explained that the police had received an anonymous phone call shortly after midnight. The unknown caller reported spotting two teenage youths in the Bayport area in possession of the valuable Japanese sword that had been stolen from the Palmer-Glade Galleries in New York.

“We put out a radio bulletin telling all officers to be on the lookout,” Collig continued, “and I came to the office on purpose to supervise the search, because the tipster knew what he was talking about. But I certainly never expected that you Hardys would be caught in the dragnet!”

“Neither did we,” Frank said wryly. “Matter of fact we were on our way here when we got nabbed.” He filled the chief in on the night's events and added, “We were hoping the lab might turn up some prints, either on the sword hilt or the sheath.”

“Good idea. I'll have them both dusted,” the chief promised. “But first, there's someone I want you to meet. He just walked into the station tonight, literally out of the blue sky!”

Collig picked up the phone and gave a brief order. A few moments later, a young Japanese man was escorted into his office. The newcomer, who had glasses and long, dark hair, was well dressed in a gray silk business suit and looked studious but athletic. The police chief introduced him as Toshiro Muramoto.

“Mr. Muramoto has flown over here from Japan, at his own expense, I might add,” Collig continued. “I think you fellows ought to hear what he has to say.”

Muramoto bowed politely to the Hardys, who returned his gesture. “I understand you two are attempting to solve the disappearance of the man who calls himself Takashi Satoya.”

“That's right.” Frank frowned. “But why do you say the man who
calls
himself Takashi Satoya?”

“Because that person who landed here in America three nights ago was an impostor!”

The Hardys stared in amazement at the Japanese.

“That's a pretty drastic statement,” Frank said, “especially if you're asking us to believe that he could fool Satoya's two top senior aides!”

“You raise a good point,” Muramoto acknowledged. “One would have to draw one's own conclusions as to whether the two gentlemen were truly deceived.”

The young detectives exchanged quick glances.

“Can you prove what you're saying,” Joe asked, “about the missing man being an impostor?”

Muramoto nodded firmly. “I can, indeed. What is more, I shall do so, using that sword on the police chief's desk as the main evidence.”

He declared he would give the man who called himself Satoya until ten o‘clock the next morning to come to police headquarters and answer his accusation. “If he fails to appear,” Muramoto added, “I shall then be forced to expose him to the press as a fraud!”

After leaving police headquarters, the Hardys sped back to the Bayport Chilton Hotel to report this startling development to Mr. Kawanishi and Mr. Oyama.

On the way, Joe muttered suspiciously, “Does the timing of all this strike you as a bit fishy, Frank?”

“I'll say it does! If Muramoto needed that samurai sword to prove his accusation, how did he know we'd get it back tonight?”

“Right! That's exactly what I'm wondering. What would he have used as proof without it? Did he just fly over here on the chance that the sword would turn up by the time he landed in Bayport?”

Frank puckered his forehead thoughtfully. “When you come right down to it, it almost sounds like a put-up job, doesn't it?”

“You think Muramoto could have been mixed up in the theft of the sword, and that ransom deal tonight?”

“You've got me, Joe. But I'd like to know the answer. To quote that word you used a minute ago, there must be something fishy somewhere!”

However, when the Hardys reached the hotel and expressed their suspicions to the two senior aides, neither Japanese agreed.

“It is most unlikely that Muramoto would take part in any criminal plot to have our employer branded as an impostor,” Kawanishi pointed out. “To do so would harm his own financial interest.”

“How come?” Frank inquired.

The aide explained that the value of a company's stock partly depended on how well the company was managed. If news came out that the Satoya Corporation was run by some fraudulent mystery man posing as the real Takashi Satoya, many investors would lose confidence in the company and would try to sell off whatever shares they owned. This would cause the value of the stock to fall sharply.

“It so happens that young Muramoto owns a large block of stock in the Satoya Corporation,” Mr. Kawanishi continued. “So he would suffer a heavy loss. His stock would be worth many millions of yen less than it is worth now, perhaps several hundred thousand dollars in your own money.”

“Wow!” Joe whistled softly. “That's a lot of money to lose, just for spilling some bad news!”

Mr. Oyama nodded, confirming what his associate had just told the boys. “You see, young Muramoto's uncle, Akira Muramoto, was an army general in the Second World War. He was also a good friend of our employer. After the war, he became head of a Tokyo bank and lent Mr. Satoya enough money to start his company. In return, he was given a large block of stock in the Satoya Corporation.”

The aide added that General Muramoto was now dead, but that his stock had been inherited by his nephew whom the Hardys had just met.

“Naturally,” Mr. Oyama concluded, “we find it hard to believe that young Muramoto would cause any scandal that might harm our company. In fact, he would be far more apt to try and cover up any bad news, if he could properly do so.”

“It is difficult to guess what has given him this wild idea that our employer is an impostor,” said the other aide. “But I think he must sincerely believe it is so.”

The Hardys drove home from the hotel thoroughly mystified by this latest surprising twist in the Satoya case. Both were eager to find out what would happen the following day.

Shortly before ten o‘clock the next morning, they returned to police headquarters. Toshiro Muramoto was already waiting in Chief Collig's office, and Satoya's two senior aides, Mr. Kawanishi and Mr. Oyama, arrived soon afterward.

Presently Muramoto glanced at his wristwatch. “It is now almost one minute past ten o‘clock,” he announced. “The deadline has expired.”

Chief Collig looked at the two company aides, who merely shrugged. Then his gaze turned back to Muramoto. “We're all waiting to hear what you have to say, sir.”

“Very well. I had hoped to give the man who calls himself Takashi Satoya a chance to defend himself. Since he is not here, I can only assume that he is afraid to face me. This confirms my suspicion that he is an impostor.”

“You still haven't told us why you suspect him in the first place,” Frank Hardy put in.

“Is the reason not obvious?” Muramoto shot back. “Here is a man who heads one of the world's greatest corporations—yet he is afraid to be seen in public. For years now he has avoided reporters and cameras and hidden himself away from the outside world. Why else would he be so secretive, except that he fears being exposed as a fake!”

Joe spoke up. “Then what do you think happened to the
real
Mr. Satoya?”

Muramoto's eyes flashed at the two company aides, and he pointed his finger at them accusingly. “I think those two can answer your question better than I can.”

“Why, sir?”

“Because I believe they have done away with the real Takashi Satoya! They were his closest associates, so they are the only ones who could have pulled such a crime and still escaped detection. In his place, they have substituted an impostor who is completely under their control. Through him, they have been able to run the company for their own profit!”

There was a moment of startled silence as Muramoto finished speaking.

Then Frank said, “If you're right, why has this so-called impostor disappeared?”

“Probably because they knew he would soon be exposed as a fake. So long as they keep him out of sight and pretend he has ‘disappeared,' no one can prove they've committed any crime.”

All eyes swung toward the two aides. Both looked perfectly calm.

The tall, burly Mr. Kawanishi spoke first. “You ask why our revered employer became a hermit who prefers to keep out of the public eye. The reason is no mystery. Ten years ago, his wife and children were killed in an air crash.”

“Their deaths were a terrible blow,” said Mr. Oyama. “For a time he felt he had nothing more to live for. Ever since then he has shunned the outside world and lives mostly at his villa, where he devotes himself to gardening and studying the way of life called Zen.”

“It is true that he runs the company by issuing orders through us,” Kawanishi went on. “But that is his own wish, because it enables him to keep his privacy. However, he telephoned us last night, and we are happy to announce that he will reappear in Bayport this morning, to answer your charges in person.”

Mr. Kawanishi, who was seated near the office windows, had been glancing out at the street below, and now he spoke with a slight smile. “In fact, I believe our revered employer has just arrived.”

There was a stir of excitement. Moments later the telephone rang on Chief Collig's desk. Soon after he answered, an erect, gray-haired man with a wispy mustache was ushered into the office—the same man Frank and Joe had seen alight from the Satoya jet plane in the Bayport airfield!

Toshiro Muramoto stared keenly at the elderly newcomer, who responded with a polite bow.

“I understand you accuse me of being an impostor,” he said to Muramoto.

“I do, indeed! And I shall now prove my accusation!”

“Pray do so, by all means.”

It was Muramoto's turn to bow. “Very well. I shall do so by means of a test—using that beautiful samurai sword, which has belonged to the Satoya family for over four hundred years.”

As Muramoto moved to pick up the sword from the police chief's desk, Frank asked if the sword had been dusted for prints. Chief Collig reported that this had been done, but that no fingerprints had been found, indicating that sheath, hilt and blade had all been carefully wiped clean.

Muramoto then proceeded with his demonstration. “It is well known to many close friends and business associates of the
real
Takashi Satoya,” he went on, “that this sword has a secret compartment concealed in its hilt. It was designed centuries ago by the expert swordsmith who forged the blade.”

The gray-haired tycoon nodded. “That is so. The secret knowledge of how to open it was passed down only to male members of the family.”

His two aides murmured their agreement.

“Good!” said the bespectacled Muramoto. “If there is no argument on that score, it will give you a way to prove that you are, indeed, the real Takashi Satoya. I suggest you show us that you can open the secret compartment.”

He held out the sword.

“Of course! I am happy to accept your challenge,” said the tycoon, taking the weapon.

His face was calm as he began to finger certain points on the hilt. But his expression slowly changed—at first to a frown of surprise, then to bewilderment, and finally to outright dismay.

“Something is wrong!” he exclaimed.

“So it appears,” said Muramoto sarcastically.

Satoya's two aides appeared dumbfounded.

Their employer made one or two final desperate attempts to open the secret compartment before giving up. “This cannot be the real sword!” he declared. “Someone has substituted a forgery!”

“Indeed?” Muramoto sneered. “How strange that you did not notice the switch until it turned out that you were unable to discover the mechanism of the secret compartment!”

Glancing at the Hardy boys and Police Chief Collig, he added, “I believe these impartial witnesses will now agree that I have proved my accusation beyond any doubt.”

All three stared at the man who called himself Satoya. His only response was a helpless, tight-lipped shrug.

“In that case,” Muramoto continued, “I shall now issue an announcement to the press, telling how I have proved this man to be an impostor. I shall then cable the Japanese government in Tokyo, officially requesting that they take over control of the Satoya Corporation, until the police can find out what happened to the real Satoya.”

Kawanishi and Oyama both sprang to their feet, with looks of consternation on their faces.

“Wait! If you do that, it will play havoc with the operation of the company!” one cried.