Mystery of the Samurai Sword (5 page)

“I've been ordered off the Satoya case!”

“What!” both boys exclaimed incredulously.

“Who did the ordering?” Joe asked.

“The U.S. government,” Mr. Hardy replied. “Supposedly the FBI wants me to handle another investigation. But reading between the lines, the message is perfectly clear, namely,
get off the Satoya case!
”

“For crying out loud! They can't do that!” Frank exploded.

“They not only can, they've already done it. And I have no choice except to obey, or else risk getting my license lifted.” The famed detective resumed his pacing, grim and tight-lipped.

“But won't they give you a reason?” said Joe.

“Just a lot of nonsense about government policy and more urgent priorities.”

“Meaning what?”

“You figure it out. It beats me.” Mr. Hardy paused and punched his fist into his other palm. His face was a study in angry frustration. “Hang it all, Satoya's disappearance reflects directly on my worth as a security expert and a private investigator. Unless I can clear up the case, my reputation may be permanently damaged. It amounts to a matter of honor! But what can I do when my hands are tied?”

“Fenton dear, you must keep calm about this,” Mrs. Hardy urged soothingly. “I'm sure your reputation is well enough established to survive whatever may happen in this case. In any event, losing your cool won't help.”

“You're right, Laura, as usual. All the same, it's not easy to walk away and do nothing when it's clear that all our security measures were sabotaged by someone on the inside!”

“Don't worry, Dad,” Frank said. “Joe and I will do our best to solve this case.”

“You bet we will!” Joe chimed in. “That's a promise!”

“I'm sure of it, sons,” Mr. Hardy said proudly, putting an arm around each of the boys. “And no one could ask for a better backup team!”

Frank and Joe had little chance to discuss the case further with their father. A motorcycle meet was to be held that day as part of the Bayport Summer Festival, and Frank was scheduled to ride in an event called a Hare Scrambles. The Hardy boys had souped up a dirt bike for the race.

The brothers had a hasty lunch, then hitched up the bike trailer to their car and sped off to the scene of the meet, on the outskirts of town. Shouts of greeting went up from a group of their high school friends, who were on hand to watch the race. Among them were Chet Morton, Tony Prito, Phil Cohen, Biff Hooper and several others. The Hardys' eyes lit up when they noticed Chet's pretty sister Iola, who was Joe's favorite girl, and Callie Shaw, a brown-eyed blond whom Frank considered special.

“Looks like we've got our own cheering section,” Joe chuckled.

The five-mile course had been laid out through open country in the form of a three-leafed clover and was marked with lime. The starting and finishing points were at the stem of the clover, where the judges' stand was located and most of the spectators had gathered. Observers were stationed at checkpoints around the course.

The three cloverleaves were on rising ground, and the middle leaf extended on a fairly steep hillside. This way much of the race could be watched by viewers at the starting point.

More than a dozen participants would compete head to head. The one favored to win was riding an experimental model bike newly developed by the Road King Motorcycle Company with a revolutionary frame and suspension. But Frank and Joe had worked hard on their own bike, equipping it with a special magneto and tuned exhaust system, and they felt sure it would at least make a good showing.

One rider wore the special helmet and insignia of the Gung-Ho motorcycle gang. “Watch that guy,” Biff warned Frank. “He's Lenny Boggs, the head of the gang, and I'll bet he'll pull every dirty trick in the book!”

“Thanks for telling me,” Frank murmured. “I'll keep an eye open for him.”

Joe, as the one-man “pit crew,” gave the bike a final check. Then Frank took his place at the starting line.

A “rubberband” starting gate had been stretched across the track. At the drop of a green flag, a pin was pulled releasing the gate, and the riders took off with a roar!

Frank found himself bunched among four or five racers, which hampered his performance. As they rounded the first cloverleaf, he gradually moved up among the leaders. In doing so, he smoothly outma neuvered and passed Lenny Boggs.

The gang leader scowled furiously and gunned his machine to top power. Bit by bit he gained ground, then tried to crowd Frank off the course.

The Hardy boy, however, refused to be scared aside, even though they were riding neck and neck. Boggs kept kicking his bike and made threatening passes trying to nudge him over. Instead, Frank concentrated on all-out speed. Once again he began to outdistance the gang leader.

“Okay, wise guy! You're asking for it!” Boggs shouted.

At this point they were passing among scattered trees, and Frank saw a broken branch hanging down from one of them. A moment later he heard a sharp crack as the gang leader reached up and yanked off the branch.

Boggs gunned his engine to full throttle. From the corner of his eye Frank saw the young hoodlum drawing abreast on his right, trying to crowd him off course, but the Hardy boy refused to let himself be unnerved.

This time, however, Boggs had a new weapon, the broken tree branch. He reached out, trying to poke it in among the spokes of Frank's front wheel!

“Knock it off!” Frank cried, turning his head. “Are you crazy?”

Not only was Boggs's trick a flagrant violation of rules and good sportsmanship—it could cause a dangerous accident!

The only way to keep the stick out of contact with his wheel was to give ground and swerve off course to the left. As Frank glanced forward again and veered his handlebars, a gasp of alarm escaped his lips. He was heading straight for a huge oak tree!

There was no time to weigh the odds. Frank had a choice of either crashing into the tree or turning back on course, which would expose him to the original danger of a shattered wheel and a possible high-speed accident!

Frank made a split-second decision. He avoided the tree, but instead of merely turning back on course, he swung hard right. He knew this meant risking a collision with Len Boggs. But by skidding his rear wheel to the left, it would also help keep the spokes out of reach of Boggs's threatening tree branch.

His move caught the gang leader utterly unprepared. Boggs yelled in fear, dropped the branch, and grabbed both handlebars in blind panic.

The next instant the two bikes collided with a loud crash! Both youths were jolted from their saddles and went sprawling on the ground!

The collision had taken place near the hairpin curve between the first and second cloverleaves, at a point where the course dipped back close to the starting point.

“That dirty rat!” gritted Joe, who had watched the incident. He started off at a run across the open field to help his brother, in case Frank had been injured. Several of the Hardys' friends followed close behind to offer whatever assistance they could.

Half a dozen members of the Gung-Ho gang also sprinted out from among the spectators and headed for the scene.

Meanwhile, other racers were veering around the two tumbled riders in order to avoid running them over. But Frank and Len Boggs were already scrambling to their feet bruised, scratched, and shaken up but otherwise uninjured.

Boggs glared with rage at the Hardy boy. “You smart punk! You're gonna pay for this!” he threatened and charged at Frank with his fists cocked.

Frank's lip curled in scorn. He did not bother to waste breath pointing out that Boggs had brought the accident on himself. Instead, his left fist swung in a whistling uppercut that connected hard with the gang leader's jaw!

Len Boggs reeled backward from the blow and landed flat on his back, too dazed to collect his wits for the next few seconds.

Without giving his foe another thought, Frank picked up his bike and hastily checked it over. The Gung-Ho‘s, who had seen him knock down their leader, yelled threats and abuse, and ran as fast as they could to stop him.

Frank ignored them. Swinging aboard his bike, which seemed to be in working condition, he toed the shift lever back to neutral. Then he kicked the starter, gunned his engine and roared off in pursuit of the pack!

In baffled fury, the motorcycle gang members turned to pick a fight with Joe and the Hardys' friends, who were only too willing to oblige. Phil Cohen, in fact, was already swapping punches with one of the leather-belted hoodlums.

Luckily, just then a checkpoint observer, two other race officials and a policeman reached the scene. They forced their way between the two belligerent groups, and managed to stop what might otherwise have turned into a nasty brawl.

Frank saw little of this. He was bending all his efforts toward making up for lost time. The accident with Len Boggs had been a costly interruption. Except for one lagging rider, he was now at the tail of the pack. But the second cloverleaf wound upward along the face of a steep hillside, and his souped-up dirt bike was a good climber.

Yard by yard, Frank closed the gap and regained lost ground. When he was halfway down the side of the cloverleaf, he had already nosed his way forward to the middle of the pack.

The third cloverleaf was the roughest part of the course. The terrain was not only wooded, but dotted with thick patches of brush that forced the marked-out course to zigzag crazily. The ground was bumpy and rutted and was traversed by a meandering, muddy creek which had to be crossed at two points.

Three riders had taken spills on the hillside, and two more went spinning or careening out of action on this third leg of the course.

As the first bikes in the pack came whizzing out from among the trees and into view of the spectators and judges, Joe saw that the leader was the Road King entry. But Frank was only a dozen yards behind and slowly gaining!

“He's got a chance!” Joe blurted out.

“He'll make it yet!” said Chet Morton, whose face glistened with sweat and excitement.

“Come on, Frank!
Come on!”
cheered Iola and Callie, while Tony Prito was literally gnawing his knuckles in breathless suspense.

The other riders were well back, and the race was now clearly between the Road King entry and Frank Hardy as they roared home along the final stretch of the course.

But the miracle was not to happen. As the winner's front wheel crossed the finish line, and the black-and-white checkered flag came sweeping down, Frank had not yet drawn abreast of his lone opponent!

“What a great ride!” said Joe, rushing forward to hug and congratulate his brother. “I'll bet you'd have won, if that meathead Boggs hadn't fouled you!”

“Never mind, I can't complain,” said Frank, grinning happily as he pulled off his helmet.

“Not after the way you decked him with one punch.” Biff chuckled. “That alone was worth a silver loving cup!”

As further consolation, Frank's girlfriend, Callie Shaw, awarded him a public kiss.

Later, after a lengthy consultation on the judges' stand, the meet referee stepped to the microphone and announced:

“Although Dave Stewart, riding the Road King entry, is the official winner, we feel that special recognition should be given to Frank Hardy. Despite a deliberate foul that slowed his time considerably, he refused to give up. As most of you saw, he plunged back into the race and, by a great display of heart and skill, he still managed to achieve a close second place!”

The announcement was greeted with cheers and thunderous applause. Frank was called to the judges' stand to be photographed with the winner and received a fresh ovation from the crowd.

Later, when the Hardys were strapping the dirt bike into the trailer, Biff joined them.

“Better keep an eye on that creep,” he muttered, nudging Frank.

The older Hardy boy followed Biff's glance and saw the Gung-Ho leader talking to a tall, hawk-faced, squint-eyed man. From the dirty looks they gave the two boys, it was not hard to guess the subject of their conversation.

Frank nodded thoughtfully. “You're right, Biff. Maybe I haven't heard the last of Len Boggs.”

As soon as they had showered and changed at home, Frank called the director of the Palmer-Glade Auction Galleries long distance in New York City.

“I was told by the dancer Warlord that you have an especially fine samurai sword that will soon be placed on auction,” Frank began.

There was a pause. Then the director cleared his throat and replied, “Yes, that was correct.”