The Pentagon Spy (9 page)

Morven had run behind the truck and was shouting excitedly. When he reached the group, Frank glared at him. “You aimed that pickup at us!”

“I forgot to put the brake on. It wasn't intentional, believe me!” the foreman insisted. But he grinned evilly as he spoke.

Chet waved a fist under his nose. “Next time, it'll be intentional. And I mean a collision of your nose and my fist!”

Hammerley watched the heated exchange with a worried frown. “Crow, I'm sure you didn't mean to hurt anybody, but you must be more careful in the future.”

“Sure, Mr. Hammerley,” Morven replied and walked away.

Joe parked the vehicle, then returned to his friends. They got into their car, said good-bye to the farmer, and drove off with Joe behind the wheel. About three miles down the road they saw a horse and carriage racing toward them. Afraid of an accident, Joe pulled to the right and stopped, letting the engine idle. The horse came to a halt in a cloud of dust as the driver tugged hard on its reins. It was the same wild-eyed woman with unkempt hair blowing in the wind, who had spoken to them previously!

“It's Mad Maggie!” Frank exclaimed.

“Ja,
Mad Maggie!” she shouted. “And my friend is with me, see?”

She lifted a birdcage from the seat beside her and held it up. A large horned owl stared at the boys from between the bars.

“Is that a witch's owl?” Joe wanted to know.

“Ja,
it is.”

“Does it talk?”

“Ja,
it talks. Listen.” Leaning over the cage, she urged the owl. “All right, my pretty one. What do you say to these boys from Bayport who have come to the Pennsylvania Dutch country?”

The owl fluttered its wings and hooted.

Chet felt an eerie sensation, as if a clammy hand gripped his shoulder. He gulped as the sound grated on his ears. “Wh-what did your friend say?” he asked.

“It said the hex is working. Ye should have gone home when Mad Maggie warned ye.”

Chet glanced at Joe. “I wish he'd start the car and get us out of here before she rides off on a broom-stick!” he thought to himself.

The owl gave another low hoot that choked off suddenly.

“Do ye know what that means?” Mad Maggie demanded. “It means—when the weather is stormy, your search is in vain!”

Joe was dumbfounded. Could the words weather and vain be a code referring to the weather vane mystery?

“The rider gallops, the arrow flashes!” Mad Maggie went on.

Frank stared at her. “Are you talking about the
Galloping Rider
and the
Flashing Arrow?”
he inquired.

“Ja,
that I do. They have flown away from here. My owl says so.”

“Where have they flown to? Can your owl tell us?”

Maggie leaned over and whispered something in the owl's ear, all the while keeping her eyes fixed on the boys. This time the bird made no sound. It closed its eyes and appeared to be asleep.

“The place is secret!” Mad Maggie hissed. With that, she pulled the reins of her horse and drove off.

Joe headed in the opposite direction. “You think she really knows something?” he asked.

Frank shrugged. “Apparently she's heard of the thefts. But so has everybody in the county.”

“She could be the squeaky voice you heard over the phone,” Chet suggested.

“It's possible,” Frank conceded. “The crooks might have hired her to scare us away.”

“She succeeded, as far as I'm concerned,” Chet declared. “I'm glad we're getting out of here!”

They came to the place where they had seen the auction. A couple of men were folding the tent and stacking the pegs. A third was loading unsold objects into a truck.

Joshua Korbo was showing his auctioneer's license to a county official who towered a good three inches over him.

“How was business?” Joe greeted Korbo after pulling up alongside the two men.

The auctioneer pushed his steel-rimmed glasses from his nose up onto his forehead. “Very good,” he snapped, “in spite of what your fat friend did to my tent!”

Insulted, Chet was about to snap back when Frank spoke up. “Have you found any sign of the weather vane, the
Galloping Rider?”

“None. I doubt it was ever here.”

“We saw it!” Chet insisted.

“That's what
you
say.” Korbo shrugged, then turned to talk to one of his assistants.

“I get the feeling he doesn't want to tell us anything,” Joe said and drove on.

Frank chuckled. “He's still mad at Chet for knocking over his tent.”

They continued in silence for a while. Then a big black car zoomed past them. The driver was a man in a black beard and dark glasses. He fitted the description of the individual who had hired the helicopter that snatched the
Flashing Arrow!

“This could be our suspect!” Frank cried out. “Don't lose him, Joe!”

His brother trod hard on the accelerator, and the speedometer rose to the legal limit as they sped after him. Seeing he was being followed, the black-bearded man suddenly turned onto a side road. Joe reacted just in time to make the turn himself. He had to grip the steering wheel firmly to keep it from being torn from his grasp as he jounced over rocks and potholes.

The wild pursuit led far out into the country, where the man ahead tried to shake the boys by driving down country lanes and across open fields. He kept glancing over his shoulder to see how close they were. At one point they got near enough to see sunlight glinting off his dark glasses.

“He's our man all right,” Chet said. “If he had nothing to hide, why would he try to get away from us?”

Joe stuck grimly to the trail, narrowing the gap whenever he could. But another turn by the fugitive made him lose ground on a cow path. Then he had to slow down because an Amish farmer in a buggy came between the two cars. The boys saw the black beard shoot along a bumpy dirt road into the woods and disappear among the trees. Joe followed as fast as he could, whipping past country lanes and down more cow paths.

“I hope this is the right road,” he grated. “If you see that big black car, tell me.”

“Will do,” Frank said, shading his eyes with his hand and gazing into the distance.

“I wish that guy would stick to the freeway,” Chet protested. Their rotund companion was sore from being bounced up and down in the back seat.

A moment later they rounded a curve at top speed. A large black car stood in the middle of the road, blocking their passage, and they were hurtling toward it!

Twisting the steering wheel violently to one side, Joe narrowly avoided a collision. His car flipped up on two wheels, as if it were going to turn over, righted itself at the last moment, and halted jolt ingly in a ditch.

The next moment the door on Joe's side was wrenched open and a harsh voice snarled, “Okay, you punks! The chase is over. This is the end of the road for you!”

“Get out!” the voice commanded. “Resistance will get you nowhere!”

Frank, Joe, and Chet emerged from the car and found themselves confronted by two state police officers.

“Is this your car?” the older one demanded in a stern tone.

“No, it isn‘t,” Joe replied.

“So you stole it!” the officer accused them. “We had a tip you guys were operating in this area. Figured you'd be coming down this road and set up our block in just the right place.”

“Where have you stashed the other stolen cars?” the policeman demanded. “Of course you don't have to answer. You have a right to remain silent.”

“That won't be necessary,” Frank said evenly. “You've got it all wrong.”

“No, we've got it dead right! You're the gang that's been stealing cars all over the county. We're taking you in. The charge is grand larceny.”

Interrupted by the radio in the unmarked patrol car, the policeman walked over and answered the call, while his partner kept the boys covered. When the officer returned to the group, he shook his head.

“The stolen-car gang was arrested a few minutes ago up the road,” he revealed.

“Then who are these guys?” his partner wanted to know.

The boys quickly identified themselves, and the officers were impressed to learn that Frank and Joe were the sons of Fenton Hardy, who was known to lawmen throughout the nation.

“We're sorry about mistaking you for the thieves,” the older officer said. “But you did come down the road lickety-split, as if you were trying to get away as fast as possible.”

“Actually, we were following a suspect,” Frank said. “That's why we were going at such speed.”

“Are you on a case?”

Frank mentioned the stolen weather vane mystery and inquired if the officers had seen a tall man in a black beard and dark glasses driving a big black car. But the policemen had not seen the suspect.

“He must have turned off this road onto a side lane before he reached our roadblock,” the younger one said. “He could be in the next county by now.” He promised to let the Hardys know if they encountered the suspect, then the three boys continued their drive to Washington. They managed to pick up Route 222, which took them past Pennsylvania's Brandywine Battlefield Park and across the Susquehanna River to Route 95. When they crossed an arm of Chesapeake Bay near Baltimore, they were set on a direct course toward the Potomac River.

After driving through Maryland and down the long Baltimore-Washington Parkway, they reached their destination.

“I could use some chow,” Chet suggested.

“So could I,” Frank admitted.

“That makes it unanimous,” Joe said with a grin and wheeled into the parking lot of a diner.

The boys went inside and sat at a table by the window, where they could watch the flow of traffic outside. After a quick meal, Frank decided to call Joseph Wickerson's office. A secretary informed him that Wickerson could see them in about two hours. Then Chet telephoned the airport and made reservations on a flight from Washington to Bayport later in the afternoon.

The three agreed to kill time by doing some sight-seeing on their way to the Pentagon. They paid the cashier and were walking toward the exit with Chet in the lead, when a glint of dark glasses reflected momentarily in the plate-glass window and then vanished.

“That's the guy we're after!” Chet exclaimed. “I'm sure of it! Come on!” He wedged himself through the revolving door, helped by pressure from Frank and Joe who were behind him. They caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure turning the corner of the diner, then a car door slammed shut in the parking area.

“I'll stop him!” Chet declared and hurried to the strip of drive leading to the street. He raised his hand as a large black car approached. The Hardys ran up to him. They had not seen the person Chet was after but assumed that he knew what he was doing.

The black car stopped in front of Chet and the driver rolled down the window. She was a pretty brunette, who now pushed her sunglasses up on her head. “Why are you stopping me?” she asked curiously.

Chet turned beet red. “I'm sorry,” he stammered. “I mistook you for someone else.”

He stepped aside and let the car pass. “Don't kid me,” he begged the Hardys.

Frank suppressed a smile. “We won't kid you, Chet. A detective has to move fast sometimes, and mistakes do happen.”

Chet recovered from his embarrassment and they returned to their car. Soon they were driving up Capitol Hill to the juncture of Pennslyvania Avenue and Independence Avenue. They passed the Library of Congress and swung around the Capitol building.

“That's where Congress holds its meetings,” Chet pointed out. “I'll bet they're helping the Hardys in there right now.”

“They are?” Frank raised his eyebrows.

“Crime laws!” Chet explained. “Making it easier for you to nab the bad guys.”

“Thanks a lot for the compliment, Chet.” Frank laughed. “But I think Congress is more interested in helping the FBI than in helping us.”

“Well, there's the FBI,” Joe said and pointed toward the Justice Department. “Boy, what a crime lab they have!”

The Hardys had visited the FBI lab while working for their father. They had checked fingerprints in the FBI files, tested firearms in the ballistics department, and consulted the bureau's cryptographers on the best methods of breaking codes.

“Too bad we don't have time to drop in and say hello,” Frank commented. “Maybe we will on our next trip to Washington.”

“I'd like to drop in on the president,” Chet declared. “I'd tell him a thing or two on how to run the country.”

“Like bows and arrows for the infantry,” Joe joked. “Well, we'd better be getting to the Pentagon.” He swerved onto Seventeenth Street, swung around the Washington Monument, and drove down Fifteenth Street past the Tidal Basin and the Jefferson Memorial across the Potomac to the south parking area of the Pentagon.

He pulled into a public parking lot, and the boys could see the famous military building beyond hundreds of parked cars lined up in double rows. An open space with grass, trees, and driving lanes led up to the broad facade of the Pentagon on their side. They got out and the Hardys escorted Chet to a bus stop.

Their friend was downcast. “I wish I could go with you,” he lamented. “I'd like to stay on the case.

“You're still on the case,” Joe reassured him. “You're just taking time out to shoot some arrows in Bayport.”

“And if we haven't solved the mystery by the time the archery contest is over, we'll send you an SOS,” Frank added.