The Mystery of the Spiral Bridge (14 page)

Suddenly Frank turned to his brother. “Joe, something's up!”

OBLIVIOUS of the fact that Frank and Joe were watching him, Chet Morton scrambled down the riverbank and peered under the partially completed bridge. The round, black object lying there intrigued him.

It appeared to be a kerosene flare, the kind which workmen use at night to warn passers-by of construction dangers. But the wick was not lighted. And wasn't it odd, Chet thought, that the bridge crew had not yet appeared?

Chet glanced at his watch. It was quarter past seven. Angan was always furious if work did not start at seven sharp. Chet looked up. There was the foreman himself, starting down the bank toward him.

“Maybe he knows about this flare,” Chet thought, and advanced to pick up the black object. He bent down and lifted it.

Like a bolt of lightning, the horrible truth struck Chet. This was no flare. It was a time bomb!

Chet was so paralyzed with fear that he could not even drop the menacing black ball. Instead, he ran toward Angan with it.

“Mr. Angan! Mr. Angan!”

“What you got there?”

“A b-b-bomb!”

Angan froze like a statue. “A bomb! Get rid of it!”

Chet wheeled about and assumed his best shot-putting stance. And, with the ticking loud in his ear, he let the object fly! It was a record-shattering heave, sailing high over the bridge and landing downstream some fifty feet. Before the swirling current carried the missile twenty more feet, the air was rent by a deafening explosion. Rocks and debris shot high into the air, falling back into the water like giant hailstones. But the bridge was not damaged.

Chet Morton quaked with the shock. Speechless, he faced the foreman.

Angan roared, “Where'd you get that bomb?”

“I—I found it under the bridge.”

“You're a liar! Same as Joe Jensen!” Angan lunged to grasp Chet, but the stout boy darted out of his way.

When necessary, Chet could move swiftly despite his weight and he sprinted up the riverbank toward the woods bordering the road construction.

“Stop!” the foreman cried out, in hot pursuit. “Stop, or I'll have you arrested!”

Chet paid no heed. The Hardys' faithful pal bulled through a thicket close to where Frank and Joe were hiding. Muttering dire threats, Angan charged after him. But his chase ended in a dull thud as he hit the ground with Joe Hardy's arm clamped around his legs.

The foreman tried to rise, only to be pinned by Frank. Chet had glanced over his shoulder to see what the commotion was about. He retraced his steps, a look of surprise and gratitude on his round, perspiring face.

“Where—where'd you guys come from?”

“Explain later!” Frank replied. “Chet, you saved the bridge!”

“And thousands of dollars for Mr. Prito,” Joe added.

“Let me up!” Angan sputtered. He strained and tried to kick, but the Hardys held him down firmly.

“Chet, grab that vine!” Frank commanded.

Chet pulled up a stout green tendril and handed it over. Frank and Joe deftly made loops and secured Angan's hands and feet.

“I'll get you for this!” he threatened.

“The gang's already tried that!” Joe retorted. “Are you in with them, too?”

Without waiting for an answer, they left their trussed-up captive and melted into the woods.

Frank and Joe were unstinting in their praise for Chet.

The stout boy beamed with pride. “That shot-putting stuff came in handy, eh?”

“Sure did,” Joe remarked. “I think you broke the world's record, Chet!”

The Hardys headed for the mountain trail, and as they pushed on through the woods, they briefed Chet on their adventures and what had happened to Phil, Biff, and Tony. In turn, Chet told the brothers what new information he had learned.

“Word got around,” he said, “that anybody who stepped out of line would be treated like you three guys. And they were sore when Tony disappeared.”

“Is the whole crew made up of ex-jailbirds?” asked Frank.

Chet replied that from what he had overheard, he judged only a handful of the men worked for the gang. “But they're enough to keep the job slowed down and scare the other workers.”

“If only we knew which ones are sabotaging the bridge,” Frank said.

Chet expressed the belief that despite Angan's bad temper, he was loyal to the Prito company.

“Deemer's a big wheel in the gang,” the chunky boy went on. “He was really burned up when you fellows let the bear eat the honey.”

“So he knows we did that,” Joe remarked. “Wonder if that trap was his idea.”

“Does Deemer know he didn't succeed in drowning us?” Frank asked.

Chet bobbed his head. “They picked up your tracks in the woods, and I heard last night you were in Boonton.”

“The baron has a regular spy network,” Frank observed. He and Joe were sure that the bellman had reported the Hardys' presence. Chet had not learned anything about the baron's identity, or the secret of Rosy.

“You did some swell detective work, though,” Joe said.

The stout boy grinned. “I just eat and listen.”

“Which reminds me—it's nearly lunchtime,” Frank said, “and our stock is nil.”

“Fear not,” said Chet. He reached into his bulging shirt pockets and produced three sandwiches. “I was saving these for coffee break, minus the coffee.”

The boys stopped near a brook, ate the sandwiches, and had a refreshing drink of cold, clear water. Afterward, the Hardys renewed their quest for Rosy. With Chet, they set forth up the mountain trail, giving the bear cave a wide berth. This time the boys did not cross the ridge, deciding instead to search the terrain south of the trail.

It was almost dusk when the trio paused to rest near a patch of wild blackberries, which they ate with zest.

“We'd better find a good place to camp for the night,” Frank said.

All three scouted about until Chet came upon a shaded glen. Alongside it was a waterfall, which dropped in a foaming arch some ten feet into a deep, gurgling stream.

The boys cut branches for a lean-to, had supper of more berries, then settled back to watch for the rosy light in the darkening sky. Because all were weary from the day's tramp, the young sleuths took turns standing watch. Joe's trick was ten until midnight. He sat with his back against a tree, desperately trying to keep his eyes open until the stroke of twelve. Once his chin bobbed against his chest, and he opened his eyes with a start. The night sky seemed brighter.

“Frank! Chet!” Suddenly the pink light mushroomed into the sky, with a brilliance which made the boys gasp. “Rosy!”

“Leapin' lizards!” Joe exclaimed. “It's close by!”

Excitedly the trio scrambled out of the glen in the direction of the light. They crossed the stream and climbed to the top of a small knoll. The Hardys and Chet looked down in amazement at the scene below.

Out of a depression in the ground issued a stream of fire. Around it moved the figures of several men, their forms silhouetted against the glow.

“Good night! What'll we do?” Chet whispered.

“Get out of sight!” Frank commanded. “The light's shining on us, too, you know.”

The boys ducked for cover, raising their heads now and again above the rise to take in the awesome sight.

Suddenly the flame diminished and disappeared.

“Let's go back,” Frank said. “If we're caught prowling around here now, we've had it!”

Despite their weariness, the Hardys slept little the rest of the night, wondering what the significance of their discovery was. Would it give them the solution to the mystery they had come to solve?

As soon as dawn tinged the horizon, the trio set off again. They advanced over the knoll and looked down to the spot where the great flame had been. There they saw a charred area, thirty feet in diameter. In the center of it, a black pipe protruded from the ground.

Chet Morton sniffed. “I smell gas!”

“Me, too,” said Joe.

The same thought dawned on all three boys at the same time.
A gas well!

“Jeepers! Why didn't we think of that!” Joe's exclamation was punctuated by the sound of rifle-shots. Bullets thudded into the trees near the boys.

“Run for it!” Frank yelled.

As he and the others turned to flee, Mike Shan non and another man raced up the knoll.

“Stop, or we'll shoot!” Shannon ordered. But the Hardys and Chet kept going.

They swerved sharply and plunged through a thicket. Their skin was scratched and their clothes torn by the brambles, but the barrier delayed their pursuers. More bullets ripped the twigs perilously close to the boys' heads.

“They'll pick up our trail again,” Joe muttered. “We'd better find a place to hide!”

“The waterfall!” Frank said. “We can hide behind it!”

Reaching the stream, the boys slashed into the water and made their way toward the churning falls. They burst through the curtain of water and stood chest-high in the swirling eddies.

“What'll we do if they look behind the falls?” Chet asked.

“Duck under,” Joe said, “and hold our breath.”

Just then two dark forms appeared on the other side of the opaque, watery screen.

“Down!” Frank commanded.

EACH boy sucked in a chestful of air and sank beneath the surface. How long could they hold out? All their athletic training came into play at this crucial moment. Thirty seconds. Forty-five. One minute! Their lungs ached for oxygen.

Frank swam underwater to the rocky wall behind the cascade. He had to surface! Coming up slowly, he scanned the watery chamber. Chet and Joe appeared at the same time.

“We fooled them!” Joe whispered.

“You think they'll look here for us?” Chet asked.

The Hardys could not answer with certainty, but at least the shadowy shapes could not be seen through the tumbling screen of water.

“Maybe we ought to wait here a while,” Chet suggested.

“Not too long,” Frank said. “If Mike Shannon and his pal think we've escaped, now's our chance to turn the table and trail them.”

“That's right,” Joe agreed. “They might lead us right to the baron's hideout.”

The three sleuths let a few more minutes elapse, then Joe volunteered to be first out of the waterfall hideaway. He swam underwater, surfaced, and quickly reported back to the others that Shannon and his crony were nowhere in sight. The boys swam out cautiously, climbed out of the stream, and wrung the water from their clothes.

“Lucky it's a hot day,” said Joe. “Won't take long to dry off.”

Their field glasses were soggy but not damaged, and the short-wave, which Joe carried, was protected by a waterproof pouch.

The boys' plan was to fan out in order to pick up the trail of their erstwhile pursuers. The Hardys' bird whistle would be the signal if anyone came across the trail. The trio proceeded, still bearing south.

It was Frank who found the tracks made by the two men. Broken twigs and trampled underbrush told him that their enemies apparently had made no effort to conceal their route. Frank gave the whistle. Joe and Chet joined him on the run.

“Remember,” Frank said, “these men are armed. They'll really let us have it if they spot us again. We'll trail them, but be careful!”

It took only a short time for the boys to catch sight of their quarry. Shannon and his partner were climbing over a jagged outcropping on a steep, rocky slope. The ground ahead was rough and uneven, and the Hardys recalled Lieutenant Murphy's statement about dangerous terrain.

The boys waited until the men had disappeared over the crest of the hill.

“Okay,” whispered Frank. “Let's go.”

Exercising utmost stealth, the boys advanced to the slope. Loose stones and shale underfoot made the ascent a difficult one. A misstep could mean a landslide, or painful fall. Finally the Hardys and Chet reached the top. Below was a long valley, creased by a placid stream. Spanning this was a natural bridge of great beauty, resembling a noble arch.

The men were just nearing the span. Suddenly they vanished!

“They didn't go under the bridge or around it!” Chet said.

Frank and Joe studied the formation through the binoculars. It was obviously composed of limestone, about fifteen feet thick. The left side of the bridge jutted out from high ground, then curved gracefully to the right, down amid a jumble of boulders at the level of the brook about seven yards from shore.

Crawling from bush to bush, the boys drew closer to the bridge. Frank stopped to study it again with the field glasses. Now he saw that in the center of the arch, on the underside, there was an opening the size of a manhole, through which water dripped into the stream below.

“Chet, you stand as a lookout,” Frank said, “while Joe and I scout around the bridge. These crooks must have a hideout nearby. If you see anyone coming, give the bird whistle.”

Chet concealed himself behind a thicket, while the Hardys darted from bush to tree as they moved toward the lower side of the natural bridge. There they examined the crevices among the boulders, but did not find an opening.

Since there was no warning from Chet, Frank and Joe boldly struck across the shallow water and climbed the slope to the top of the bridge. Carefully they walked onto the flat surface.