The Disappearing Floor

Table of Contents

 

 

Once again Frank and Joe Hardy accept the challenge of a puzzling case when their famous detective father asks the boys to assist him in tracking down a notorious jewel thief and his accomplices. The trail leads to the outskirts of the Hardys' home town and to a weirdly guarded mansion on the old Perth estate.

With their chubby, ever-hungry friend Chet Morton, Frank and Joe tackle another mystery—one which has baffled the town of Bayport for many years: What caused the sudden death of Old Man Perth's nephew who inherited the mansion when his uncle died?

A disappearing floor, a huge, savage-looking hound, a galloping ghost, a college professor's startling invention are just a few of the strange elements that complicate the boys' efforts to solve both mysteries.

Before Frank and Joe finally discover the mysterious circumstances under which Perth's nephew died and also bring the jewel thieves to justice, the young detectives need all their sleuthing instincts to extricate themselves from one of the most harrowing situations they have ever faced.

“Frank! The room has no floor!”

Copyright © 1992, 1964, 1940 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset
Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.
THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07633-0

2008 Printing

CHAPTER I

“HEY, Frank! Isn't that the black car Dad told us to watch for?” exclaimed Joe Hardy.

A sleek foreign sports car with a dented trunk had just whizzed past the Hardy boys' convertible as they drove through the downtown section of Bayport.

“Sure looks like it!” Frank speeded up in pursuit.

Dark-haired Frank Hardy, eighteen, and his blond brother Joe, a year younger, had been cruising the streets on an errand for their detective father. The August evening was warm, and the boys had put down the top of their convertible.

A few blocks farther, the sports car stopped for a red light. The Hardys pulled up behind the trim vehicle. In the glow of a nearby street light they were able to scrutinize the automobile more closely.

“That must be the right car,” Frank muttered. “It's not likely there would be two of the same model in Bayport with dented trunks.”

The lone occupant of the sports car was the man at the wheel. He wore a dark hat. Frank and Joe could see only the back of his head.

“Did Dad give you any details on the case when he phoned?” Joe asked, as the sports car spurted forward on the green signal.

Frank toed the accelerator and shook his head. “No, he didn't have time—it was just a hurried call from New York.” Mr. Hardy had said that before leaving Bayport he had spotted a car like the one the boys had just seen. He thought he had recognized the driver as a notorious jewel thief named Noel Strang, and had told his sons to look up the criminal's photograph in Mr. Hardy's private criminal file.

The boys' father formerly was an ace detective in the New York Police Department. He had moved to the town of Bayport to open his own agency and soon had become known as the ablest private investigator in the country. Frank and Joe had inherited Fenton Hardy's detective abilities and often helped him on his cases.

The boys drove on, staying behind the sports car which now sped into a residential area. The streets here were less well lighted, but the boys were able to keep their quarry in view without tailing it too closely.

“Looks as though he's heading out of town,” Joe remarked.

“Did you get the license number?”

“Yes. I jotted it down at the traffic light.”

In a few moments the black sports car shot out of the Bayport area. Soon it disappeared from view around a bend in the road. Frank switched off his headlights, hoping to make the convertible less noticeable. But the driver of the other car seemed wary of pursuit. As the convertible rounded the bend, its driver increased his speed. The distance between the cars was widening.

“He must have spotted us!” Joe said.

“He's sure opening her up,” Frank agreed. “That baby looks powerful! Good thing we tuned up this engine last week.”

The convertible's speedometer needle rose as Frank gunned the engine. Slowly the gap began to close. They were approaching another bend in the road. Suddenly the sports car's exhaust belched out a thick purplish mass.

“It's a smoke screen!” Joe cried out. “He's using a fogger attached to the exhaust pipe!” A split second later the boys' eyes began to smart and water.

“Good night!” Frank exclaimed.

Hastily he switched on their headlights again, but the beams could not pierce the thick pall of acrid smoke that enveloped the road. The convertible was almost at the sharp bend!

Frank slammed on the brakes. Half blinded, he could only guess at the location of the white line. He spun the steering wheel and the car slewed wildly across the pavement. With a jarring thud it finally came to rest on the far shoulder of the road.

“Jumpin' jiminy!” Joe sat quivering with shock, trying to steady his nerves.

Frank, also shaken, drew a long breath. “Good thing there was no car coming the other way or we'd be junk by now!”

“Can we risk getting back on the road?”

“We'd better not,” Frank decided. “I can't see a foot away from us. If there's any traffic coming, we'd be asking for a crash.”

Joe agreed and added, “Let's make sure we're clear of the pavement.”

Clutching handkerchiefs over their noses and their tear-streaming eyes, the boys climbed out. In the smoke and darkness, it was impossible to determine their exact position, but Frank checked with his foot and found that they were well off the pavement. The convertible had landed against a hillside bordering the road.

Frank and Joe chafed at the delay, but there was nothing to do except wait for the smoke to clear. Meanwhile, they clambered up the hillside, coughing and choking, to reach clear air.

“Did you notice the smoke's color?” Joe gasped. “That was no ordinary smoke screen!”

“Right. Sort of a combination of smoke and tear gas.”

After a few minutes the murk had dissipated enough for the boys to return to their car and swing back onto the road.

“Not much chance of finding that man now,” Joe said glumly.

“Let's keep our eyes open, anyhow. There are houses along here and a few turnoffs. We might spot the car parked somewhere.”

The Hardys followed the road for several miles but did not see the sports car. Disappointed that they had lost their quarry, Frank and Joe turned around and headed for Bayport.

Halfway back to town, they saw a flashlight being waved frantically from the roadside. “Wonder if there's been an accident,” Frank said.

“I don't see any car,” Joe replied. “Must be a hitchhiker.”

Frank slowed to check. The person who was signaling immediately jumped into the glare of their headlights. He was a chunky, round-faced youth about their own age.

“Chet Morton!” Joe exclaimed in surprise.

The stout boy looked excited as he flagged them down. Frank braked to a halt and Joe flung open the car door. “What's wrong, Chet?”

“Joe! Frank! Boy, what a lucky break you two happened along!” Chet was puffing and trembling and looked pale. He was wearing hiking shorts and had a knapsack slung over his shoulders.

“Just see a ghost?” Frank asked as their friend climbed into the back seat.

“I d-d-didn't
see
a ghost—but I sure
heard
one! ”Chet replied.

Frank and Joe exchanged puzzled looks. “What do you mean, you ‘heard' a ghost?” Frank asked.

“Just what I said. It screamed at me.” Chet shuddered. “O-oh, it was horrible!”

“Are you kidding?” Joe put in.

“Do I look as if I'm kidding?”

“No,” Frank said. “You look as if you'd been scared out of your wits. How about telling us the whole story?”

Chet explained that he had been on a rock-collecting hike. Late in the afternoon he had stopped to eat a picnic snack and then had dozed off.

“Snack my eye!” Joe chuckled. “You probably stuffed yourself so full you couldn't move, and dreamed about this ghost.”

“All right, all right,” Chet retorted indignantly. “So I like to eat. Do you want to hear my story or don't you?”