Mystery of the Samurai Sword (2 page)

Oyama was wearing a radio headset and had a small transceiver tucked in his breast pocket. Joe guessed that Satoya's chauffeur must have transmitted word of their arrival.

The sleek black limousine drew up directly in front of the hotel entrance canopy. Mr. Hardy's car stopped behind it, while his two sons and the highway patrolman found parking places for their motorcycles along the curb.

The chauffeur was the first to leap out. Sam Radley, Fenton Hardy and Mr. Kawanishi followed suit, while a little knot of onlookers gathered to goggle at the VIP in the limousine. Waving the doorman away, the chauffeur moved swiftly to open the back door of the car. He stood stiffly at attention, waiting for his master to get out. But Satoya did not emerge from the limousine!

Fenton Hardy and Mr. Kawanishi reacted simultaneously, guessing that something was wrong. They almost bumped heads as they bent forward to peer into the car's rear passenger compartment.

“What's the matter, Dad?” Frank exclaimed, noticing his father's startled expression.

A moment later, as the Hardy boys pressed closer, they could see for themselves the reason for the men's dismay.

The young executive named Ikeda lay slumped unconscious in the back seat of the limousine, and Mr. Satoya had disappeared!

The news spread like wildfire among the bystanders. They pressed closer, exclaiming excitedly.

“What about Mr. Ikeda, Dad?” Joe asked.

“Looks like he's been drugged,” said Mr. Hardy after thumbing back the victim's eyelids to examine his pupils. “Go get the hotel doctor, Joe—this man may need attention.”

The medic quickly arrived on the scene. He confirmed Mr. Hardy's opinion, but stated that Ikeda would probably sleep off the anesthetic without any ill effects.

Seeing the unconscious Japanese being carried into the hotel stirred fresh excitement among the sidewalk crowd. Luckily the highway patrolman was able to hold them back.

“You've no idea what happened, Sam?” Fenton Hardy asked his operative.

“Not a clue,” Radley confessed, looking chagrined and mystified. “The dark partition between the front and back seats is a one-way glass pane. When you're sitting in front, you can't see into the rear passenger compartment at all.”

The driver, he explained, relied on a wide-angle roof periscope for his view of the road behind instead of a rearview mirror.

“Could Mr. Satoya have jumped out when we stopped on the highway to remove that tree?” Frank inquired.

Mr. Hardy frowned. “Seems to be the only possible answer, but my car was right behind the limousine. I can't believe he got out without either Mr. Kawanishi or myself spotting him.”

The burly Japanese agreed and added, “Unfortunately the chauffeur, Shigemi, doesn't speak much English. But I questioned him while the doctor was examining Ikeda, and he can shed no light on the mystery.”

Frank glanced at the stony-faced driver and wondered if he knew more than he was telling. But his impassive expression gave no hint of whatever thoughts might be passing through his head.

“Think you would have noticed if the back door had been opened on either side?” Joe asked Sam Radley.

The private eye hesitated before nodding unhappily. “Yes, I do. But it's hard to be sure.”

Mr. Oyama, the other senior aide, exchanged a few words in Japanese with the chauffeur and then turned back to the Americans.

“A red light on the dashboard flashes if either back door is opened, or even if one becomes unlatched,” he pointed out. “Shigemi is quite certain no such thing happened.”

“That's assuming the flasher works,” Mr. Hardy countered shrewdly. “Better have him check it to make sure.

Oyama transmitted the order in Japanese. The chauffeur touched his cap in a silent salute, then closed the car doors and climbed back behind the wheel. He drove the limousine past the hotel, then turned down a ramp which led to an underground parking garage.

By now reporters and television news crews, who had been unable to interview Mr. Satoya at the airport, were arriving at the hotel. They crowded around the detectives and the two Japanese aides, bombarding them with questions and adding to the noisy confusion.

“What do you make of it, Frank?” Joe asked.

“I have no idea,” Frank said, “but this sure puts Dad on the spot!”

“I'll say it does,” Joe agreed as they made their way into the hotel lobby. “The Satoya Corporation hires him to protect the head of their company—and now Satoya disappears less than an hour after he lands ! Boy, that'll really look bad in the news stories wh—”

Frank flashed his brother a quizzical glance as the younger Hardy boy suddenly broke off. “What's the matter, Joe?”

“Over there by the reception desk, ” Joe pointed. “It's that nut we saw at the airport, waving a sword!”

“Hey, you're right! Now's our chance to find out what he wanted!”

The bearded man had just peeled off his tan raincoat. He was folding it and laying it on top of his suitcases while he waited to check in behind two other newly arrived guests. As he straightened up, he saw the Hardys striding toward him, and his face took on an embarrassed, furtive expression.

“We're Frank and Joe Hardy, two of Mr. Satoya's escorts,” the older boy said. “Would you mind telling us why you were waving that sword at the airport?”

The man's face reddened and his prominent nose seemed to twitch nervously like a rabbit's. He had a wild mop of curly hair, the same sandy color as his whiskers, which somehow added to his look of comic confusion.

“Well, uh, actually it was just a spur of the moment advertising tactic, you might say.” The man chuckled, then gulped. “I was hoping I might make a lucky sale.”

“A lucky
sale?”
Joe regarded him with a puzzled frown. “A sale of what?”

“The samurai sword you saw. It's a
katana,
or long sword, of excellent workmanship, dating from the early eighteenth century. I thought if I could catch Satoya's eye, he might be interested enough to buy it.”

The man bent down and opened the larger of his two suitcases so the boys could look inside. To their astonishment, they saw that it contained a number of sheathed swords and daggers. “That's my business—selling Oriental art objects—but as you see, I specialize in fine blades.”

Snapping his suitcase shut again, the man plucked a card from his wallet and handed it to the Hardys. It bore the name
Axel Gorky
with a phone number and cable address in Boston.

Joe said, “How did you know Mr. Satoya was coming to Bayport?”

“But I didn‘t,” Gorky replied, looking surprised at the question. “Had I known, I would have written beforehand to ask for a proper appointment! I myself just arrived in Bayport this evening, a short time before he did. When I saw the TV camera crews, I asked what was going on. Someone told me this famous Japanese industrialist was about to land—so I seized my chance.”

Gorky's face went pink again. “Perhaps I did make a fool of myself, waving the sword as I did—but then one has to catch the customer's attention in order to make a sale.”

“Any objection to telling us your business here in Bayport?” Frank asked stolidly.

“Of course not. I came to call on several customers—including the dancer Warlord. As you probably know, he uses various knives and swords in some of his dance numbers.”

Just then the two guests in front of him finished registering at the hotel desk. Gorky excused himself and moved up to sign for a room. He looked relieved at the chance to get away from the Hardys.

“Think he was leveling with us?” Joe muttered as the boys started back across the lobby.

Frank grinned dryly. “His story's so nutty I'm inclined to buy it. Anyhow, he's checking in at the Chilton, so we'll know where to find him if we want to ask him more questions.”

Just then they saw their father and Mr. Kawanishi come into the hotel, accompanied by Chief Collig, head of the Bayport police force. Newsmen swarmed in after them, trying to snap pictures and pick up additional morsels of information for the next morning's headline stories on the Japanese tycoon's sensational disappearance.

“No use trying to talk to Dad,” Frank said. “Let's see what's doing outside.”

“Okay.”

A bigger crowd than before was milling about the sidewalk, a couple of plainclothes detectives circulating among them. The Hardy boys saw Sam Radley conferring with the state policeman and trying to fend off other news hawks.

The boys shucked their raincoats, rolled them up and stuffed them into their motorcycle pouches.

“Oh, oh!” Frank suddenly murmured under his breath.

Joe glanced up at his brother. “What's the matter?”

“Take a look at that photographer.”

“Where?”

“Over there. The one snapping a picture of the motorcycle cop.”

“What about him?”

Frank drew his brother closer to the man in question. The photographer was using an expensive Japanese-made 35-millimeter camera and a “potato-masher” flash unit powerful enough for long-range shots at night.

Joe looked at Frank, puzzled. “I don't get it. What am I supposed to see?”

“Those mud stains on his pants,” Frank whispered.

The man's trouser legs were splashed up to the knees. Even his raincoat bore a few muddy traces.

“Wow!” Joe hissed. “He could've been that guy on the hillside who snapped pictures when we were coming in from the airport!”

Joe's muted exclamation carried farther than he expected. The photographer whirled around and stared at the boys suspiciously. The next instant he dashed off across the street!

“After him!” Frank cried.

The Hardys took off in hot pursuit. Their quarry was already disappearing down the block. He was a healthy-looking young man in his early twenties, and now he was whizzing away from them with long-legged trip-hammer strides. Frank and Joe could hardly keep him in sight!

He rounded the next corner into a dark side street. The Hardys made a skidding turn and continued the chase, though for the moment neither could see the fugitive ahead.

Their pursuit might have ended in failure had Joe not glimpsed a movement out of the corner of his eye. Glancing toward the building on his left, he saw a figure huddled in a darkened doorway.

“Hold it, Frank!” Joe shouted, braking hard with shoe leather. “I think I've found him!”

A moment later, as Joe lunged toward the doorway, he caught a fist square in the face!

The blow was too hasty to have much force, but it landed hard enough to knock Joe off balance. He grabbed the photographer's raincoat to steady himself, and by hanging on like a bulldog, kept the man from getting away.

By this time Frank had reached the scene. For a few moments fists flew in all directions. But their quarry soon realized he was cornered and gave up.

“Okay, okay, cool it, you two!” the photographer panted.

“You're the one who started swinging!” Frank retorted angrily.

“What did you expect me to do when two guys start chasing me down a dark street? Just stand still and get mugged?”

“Nobody's mugging you. We just wanted to ask you some questions.”

“How did I know that?”

“If you had nothing to hide,” put in Joe, “why did you run away from us?”

“Why should I have anything to hide? I've never even seen you before!”

“Oh no? How about on the highway tonight, when we were escorting Mr. Satoya's limousine in from the airport?”

The young photographer glared sullenly. “I don't know what you're talking about!”

“Can the innocent act!” Frank growled. “The film in your camera will prove whether or not you're the guy who snapped those flash photos on the hillside.”

“So what if I did? There's no law against taking pictures.”

“There is against blocking traffic—especially when you deliberately plant an obstruction on the open highway, like that tree you dragged across the road!”

“You can't prove that!”

“Look! We're not going to waste any more breath,” Frank declared. “If you'd rather have us call the police, we will—and you can explain to them how it all happened. On the other hand, if you'd rather talk to us, we're willing to listen—and if you're not mixed up in anything crooked, we'll promise not to turn you in.”

The photographer hesitated uncertainly, his glance wavering back and forth between the two Hardy boys. Finally he made up his mind. “Okay, I'll talk... Not that I have much to tell you.”

“We'll decide that,” said Joe. “You know who we are?”

“Sure, you're the Hardy boys. From what I gather, your dad was hired to protect Satoya.”

Frank's eyes narrowed. “Who told you that?”

The photographer shrugged. “Nobody in particular. It was just common gossip among the newsmen around here. Actually I heard a couple of reporters talking about it at the airport restaurant earlier this evening.”

“Any idea where
they
picked it up?”

“I got the impression someone phoned a tip to one of the papers. He revealed the whole story about Satoya's visit to this country—including the fact that Fenton Hardy was supposed to keep him under wraps.”

“You work for the
Bayport Herald?”
Joe asked.