Read The Mystery of the Spiral Bridge Online
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
The Mystery of the Spiral Bridge (6 page)
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Silently Frank opened the door to the attic stairway, and the boys tiptoed up. One window was opened halfway, and near it the Hardys spotted a small radio transmitter, inserted between two floorboards. Impulsively Joe reached down to yank it out, but Frank restrained him.
Retracing their steps, the boys hastened back to the kitchen.
“Well, what kind of beetle is it?” Aunt Gertrude asked.
“The big-eared type,” Joe replied. He quickly reached for the wall phone extension and called Mr. Kenfield. He asked the roofer to come over immediately.
In about ten minutes the roofer parked his truck in the front of the house. Mr. Kenfield, short and portly, was wearing his work clothes.
“Hello, Frank, Joe,” he said as the boys stepped outside to meet him. “I suppose it's the garage roof you want me to look over, right?”
“No,” Joe said. “We'd like to ask you some questions.”
“Shoot.”
The boys' first query was whether or not the roofer had gone into the attic. He said No; that he had examined the roof from the outside only. “But the electrical inspector,” Mr. Kenfield continued, “went into your attic.”
“Who?” asked Frank.
“An electrical inspector. He said you had some rewiring done, and he'd been called to look it over.”
The brothers exchanged glances. This was news to them!
“How did he get in?” Joe queried.
“Asked if he could use my ladder. It was okay with me. You know I'm willing to oblige.”
“Can you describe this fellow for us?” Frank asked.
“Why, sure. He was short, thin, kind of bandy-legged and agile. You should've seen him zip up that ladder! Like aâ”
“Like a monkey?” Joe put in.
“Yes, sure, that's it! I was going to say monkey myself, but I didn't want to insult him if he's a friend of yours.”
Joe could not help smiling. “He's not.”
Frank concluded that the roofer was not to blame. He had had no reason to suspect the “inspector” was a fraud.
“Thanks a lot, Mr. Kenfield,” Frank said. “That's all we wanted to know.”
“Glad to help, any time.”
As soon as the roofer had left, Frank exclaimed, “Joe, now we have a chance to turn the tables! We'll âconfer' in Dad's study and feed the bug false information.”
“Great!” Joe said with enthusiasm.
“That way we can tell if the mike's still in operation, and even lead the crooks on a wild-goose chase,” Frank added.
First the boys told their mother and Aunt Gertrude what they had learned. “So, if you see the monkey man anywhere around, call us right away,” Frank said. “And if we're not here, notify Chief Collig.”
Aunt Gertrude shuddered. “First bugs, now a monkey! Oh dear!”
Frank and Joe put their plan into operation. They walked up the stairs noisily and entered their father's study, chatting loudly.
“Well, we've got the dope on them,” Frank said. “Let's fly down to Kentucky.”
“Right away?” Joe asked. He looked up toward the microphone and winked at his brother.
“You bet. We can get ready in a jiffy.” Frank made the telephone clatter as he lifted it from its cradle. Then, pressing the button down, he dialed and feigned talking with their pilot.
“Jack Wayne? ... This is Frank Hardy. Get her fueled up. We're taking off for Kentucky this afternoon.”
Frank hung up with a noise that was sure to be picked up by the bug, then added, “Come on, Joe. We'll give those crooks a hard time.”
The boys confided in Mrs. Hardy what they had done and Frank told her, “We're going out to Chet's. If Jack should phone, please have him buzz us there.”
“All right. I hope your ruse works.”
The Mortons lived on a farm. The rambling homestead, surrounded by rolling countryside, was a favorite haunt of the Hardy boys. The foremost attraction was Iola Morton, Chet's dark-haired sister, whom Joe regarded as his best girl. Her friend Callie Shaw, a slender, blond, lithe-some girl, was often at the farm, which suited Frank fine since Callie was his favorite date.
Today, as they pulled up to the house, Frank beamed. “There's Callie's car.”
Joe's face lit up. “That means Iola's home. We're both in luck.”
The Hardys hopped out and looked around for their friends. Suddenly they heard a dull clunk from behind the barn, followed by several giggles. “Oh, Chet, that was marvelous!” came Callie's voice.
“Wonder what Chet's up to now,” Joe said.
He and Frank trotted around a henhouse and reached the rear of the barn in time to see Chet, in a bulky sweatshirt, bend down to pick up a heavy metal ball. The two girls sat in the grass, their backs propped against the barn wall. Seeing Frank and Joe, they immediately jumped up.
“Hi!” dark-eyed Iola called gaily. “You're just in time to see the exhibition of the year, by no less than my brother!”
“Aw, cut it out,” said Chet.
“No, really,” Callie insisted in mock seriousness. “Chet, you are destined to be a fabulous shot-putter.”
The Hardys stood grinning. From time to time their stout friend would plunge enthusiastically into a new sport or hobby. As a rule, the new interest was short-lived.
Frank and Joe flopped down beside the girls. “C'mon, muscles.” Joe urged. “Let's see you hurl.”
With deliberation, Chet walked back to a circle he had marked out on the grass. He picked up a book lying there and studied it intently. The title was
Proper Methods for Putting the Shot.
Proper Methods for Putting the Shot.
“I'm glad to see you concentrating so hard, Chet old boy,” Joe needled.
“Kid all you want,” retorted Chet, mopping a trickle of sweat from his brow. “Don't forget, the Olympics are coming up and Uncle Sam needs shot-putters!”
Iola finally spoke up in defense of her brother. “No fooling, boys, Chet's really getting good at this.”
The stout boy threw out his expansive chest, balanced the shot in his right hand, and began to move his shoulders rhythmically.
“Let her fly!” Frank called.
Chet spun around and released the sphere.
“Wow!” Joe cried out. The ball arced directly over the henhouse.
Crash! With the sound of splintering wood, mingled with the squawking of the fowl, the metal ball pierced the roof, leaving a jagged hole.
The noise brought Mrs. Morton to the back steps of the farmhouse. “Chester!” she called out. “What's all that racket?”
“Oh, nothing to worry about, Mom,” Chet replied hastily. “Say, Mom, would you like to have chicken for supper?” But Mrs. Morton had already gone inside. Fortunately, as the young people discovered, Chet's mighty missile had missed the chickens.
“Chet, you've got a great throw,” said Joe. “I mean it. What power!”
“Yeah, but what a long time it'll take me to fix the henhouse roof!” Chet groaned.
The young people's laughter was interrupted by Mrs. Morton's calling:
“Frank! Telephone!”
He rushed into the house, his face flushed with excitement. Joe ran after him.
“Hello.... Jack? ... I thought it might be you.”
Joe stood by tensely. Then Frank burst out, “Just as I figured!”
CHAPTER VIII
New Strategy
JACK WAYNE had reported to Frank that someone using a high-powered rifle had fired a bullet into the propeller of the Hardy plane. It would take several days to get a new prop.
“The gunman must have shot from a good distance,” Jack said. “He probably hid in foliage outside the field.”
“Our enemy really wants to stop us,” said Frank.
“But how did you know something like this might happen?” the pilot asked.
The young sleuth told him about their ruse and the events leading up to it. “Jack,” he added, “this shows we can turn that bug to our own advantage.”
“Right,” Wayne replied, “and perhaps lead the crooks into a trap. But next time tell me, eh?”
After Frank had apologized for the oversight, he relayed the entire conversation to Joe, Chet, and the girls.
“Ha!” Joe was gleeful. “They sure went for our bait.”
“Now it's time to plan new tactics,” Frank said. “We'll get the other fellows together for a meeting today.”
“And leave us out?” Callie gave a small pout.
“We were going to invite you boys to a dance,” Iola said, dimpling.
Joe brightened. “A dance? When?”
“Next Wednesday. It's the annual Fresh Air Camp Benefit Ball,” said Callie. “We were going to buy the tickets and surprise you.”
“That'd be neat, but we can't make it then,” Frank said regretfully. “We'll probably be far away from here.”
“Like Kentucky, maybe,” Joe put in. “Can we take a rain check?”
The girls were disappointed, but they wished the young detectives well and offered to help in any way they could.
“Okay,” replid Frank. “Can you suggest a good place for us to hold a secret meeting?”
“How about Tony Prito's?” asked Callie. “They have a terrific basement rec room. Remember the party we had there last spring?”
“Perfect,” Joe replied. He immediately telephoned the Prito residence. Tony was not at home, but his mother answered.
When Joe made his request, Mrs. Prito said, “By all means, you boys come over. And save your appetitesâI'll make spaghetti and meatballs for all of you. You can hold your meeting after dinner. We'll eat at seven o'clock.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Prito, butâ”
“No trouble at all. I'll tell Tony as soon as he gets home.”
“That's real nice of you, Mrs. Prito,” said Joe. “Thank you.”
When Chet heard of the dinner plans, he was delighted. “Great!” he declared. “Spaghetti and meatballs! Just what I need for building shot-putting muscles!”
Telephone calls were quickly made to Biff and Phil, who said they would come. Shortly before seven that evening, Frank and Joe drove to the Prito home, located on the north side of town. Chet Morton, who was the last to arrive, explained that he had practiced shot-putting until an hour before, just so he would be certain to have an appetite!
This statement tickled Phil Cohen. “Chet, you could work up an appetite just twirling your thumbs!”
Tony explained that his father had gone to Kentucky the previous day. Mrs. Prito looked troubled. “More bad luck on the road project,” she said, shaking her head. “I don't know when it will end. Of course, the worst of it is your father's illness, Frank and Joel”
For a while, however, the mood of worry was dispelled by the sumptuous spread that Mrs. Prito had prepared. The meal started with antipasto, followed by thick minestrone soup. By the time the boys had eaten their first helping of spaghetti and meatballs, most of their hunger had been satisfied. As usual, Chet was the exception.
Mrs. Prito watched with a broad smile as Chet accepted a second generous portion.
“Building up my strength,” he said, spearing a succulent meatball. After dessert of fresh fruit, the boys thanked their hostess.
“Wow, that was some feast!” said Chet, patting his stomach. “I'll be a champion shot-putter yet!”
Biff grinned. “How about a little exercise before we start the meeting?” Everyone agreed, and the boys clattered down to the basement.
In the spacious recreation room the Hardys, Phil, and Tony decided on a billiard game, while Biff and Chet trotted to the Ping-Pong table at the far end.
“This'll get rid of that stuffed feeling, Biff,” assured the stout boy.
After a few minutes of warming up, the two engaged in a furious tilt. The sound of the bouncing balls mingled with the jolly banter of the billiard players.
As Frank lined up a shot to send the nine ball into the side pocket, a terrific crash filled the basement. This was followed by a loud “oof.”
Startled, the other boys' companions wheeled around to face the Ping-Pong table. It lay flat on the floor, with hapless Chet sprawled out across it. Red-faced, as the others roared with laughter, he picked himself up.
“What happened?” Tony asked.
“I fooled him with a spin shot,” Biff said. “Good old Chet leaned over too far and that did it.”
Frank found that except for one splintered leg, no damage had been done to the table.
Joe and Tony quickly got tools from a workbench and repaired the table leg.
“Okay, fellows,” Frank said finally. “Before Chet has any more accidents, let's get down to business.”
First, Tony took the precaution of posting his German shepherd dog outside the basement door.
“Axel will warn us if anybody comes snooping around,” he said.
The boys seated themselves in a partitioned-off den-study, and Frank opened the discussion.
“Joe and I will lay our cards on the table. We've met with nothing but setbacks ever since we took over Dad's case.
“You're not giving up?” Tony Prito put in quickly.
“Of course not!” Joe assured him. “There's no mystery that can't be solved, if it's worked on long and hard enough.”
“Right,” Chet Morton said sagely. “You two should know.”
Phil Cohen winked at Biff. “A hunch tells me you Hardys got us together to decide on a plan of action.”
Frank smiled. “You're right, Phil. You fellows have always stuck with us when the going got rough.”
Chet Morton nodded vigorously. “What else are pals for?”
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