The Secret Panel (10 page)

“I believe it's a clever idea of Fenton's. If he pretends to be injured, and those television thieves think he's in a hospital, they'll be less cautious when they strike again.”

“And Dad will trap them!” said Joe. “I'll bet you're right, Aunt Gertrude.”

Aunt Gertrude looked pleased. “So I guess we needn't worry any more about Fenton. You boys can get started looking for Martha.”

For a few seconds Frank and Joe had forgotten the work they had mapped out for themselves. Now, being reminded, they left the house. Their first stop was police headquarters to see Chief Collig.

To their first question, Collig replied that he had no word from the boys' father. But he verified the assumption that the story of the hospitalized detective was a phony.

“No, nothing on Miss Johnson,” he replied to Frank's next query. “We've got half a dozen of our best men out looking, though.”

Frank and Joe decided it was now imperative that they relate Mrs. Stryker's story of the secret panel. They told the chief their suspicions about the television thieves.

“Well, that would explain why Miss Johnson was kidnapped,” Collig remarked. “With you two, your father, and most of the police in this country tracking that gang, we should crack this case soon.”

“I sure hope so,” Joe replied.

Then, in answer to a query from Frank, the chief told the boys he had given orders for a constant surveillance of the house at 47 Parker Street.

“Not a soul has gone in or out since,” he reported.

“Would you mind if we go over there now and look around inside?” Frank asked. “I'm sure the Parker Street house is connected with the other mysteries.”

“It's all right with me. So far as I know, the place is vacant.”

“Where can we get a key?” Joe asked. “Or is it open?”

“One of my men is watching the house from across the street a couple of blocks away in a dark-green Ford sedan. He's got a key from the real-estate people, in case it's locked. Talk to him.”

“Okay, Chief. And thanks,” Frank said.

“One more thing,” Collig added. “That garage owner Bilks is an honest and upstanding citizen, as far as we can determine.”

“I thought so,” Frank replied, then the boys said good-by and hurried to Parker Street. They found the car the chief had described and got the key from the plainclothesman behind the wheel. He assured them again that no one had been near the place.

“Okay,” Frank said.

When they entered the house, Joe switched on the lights. “One thing's for sure,” he said. “Those footprints weren't made by ghosts!” He pointed to a number of plainly visible heelmarks on the dusty floors. They had a peculiar triangle in the middle.

“The police have been here,” Frank reminded him.

“What about these fingermarks on the window sill? They could belong to the man who had taken Chet'sdory!”

Certain that the strange symbol on the dory meant that there was a connection between him, John Mead, and the television burglars, Joe wanted to photograph the marks.

It seemed all the more important now, since the case records had been stolen from Mr. Hardy's files.

“I think those prints are worth checking out,” Frank agreed. “How about getting our kit?”

Joe drove home and grabbed the equipment. When he returned to 47 Parker Street, the boys set to work.

Taking out a special camera, Joe held it over the sill. He clicked on the lights in it and squinted into the focusing panel. The fingerprints showed up plainly.

“Won't need any powder on these, Frank,” he stated.

“Good. I found some marks on this wall but they're not very clear. Think I'll powder them.”

While Joe busied himself taking five-, ten-, and fifteen-second time exposures of the marks on the window sill, Frank opened a bottle of gray-colored powder and poured a little on a sheet of paper. Next, he picked up a small camel's-hair brush by the handle and twirled it back and forth between his palms to make it fluffy. Then, after dipping the tip of the brush into the powder, he passed it lightly over the indistinct fingermarks on the wall.

“Ready for the picture, Joe,” he announced.

His brother came across the room and made several photographs.

Before putting the camera back into the kit, Joe also took snaps of the various footprints on the floor, then said, “Guess we'd better leave now, Frank, and develop this film.”

After a quick but unsuccessful search of the house for other clues or possibly even the secret panel, they left and returned the key to the police officer and went home.

Later, when they had finished printing the pictures in their laboratory, their father walked in.

“Dad!” Joe greeted him, rushing up to his side. “Are you all right?”

“Of course.” Mr. Hardy grinned “Am I not supposed to be?”

His sons looked at him intently. There was a twinkle in his eye.

“You know you are allegedly in a hospital,” said Frank. “I'll bet you came home in a disguise.”

The detective nodded. “You guessed it.”

“Then who was hurt in the warehouse?”

“A dummy. You see, it was evident from the list you found at Bilks' garage, there were two places in this area liable to be hit next. This was one of them. We therefore put a dummy at the night watchman's desk. The guard positioned himself at the rear by the loading gate, and a patrolman watched the place from across the street.”

“And still the gang wasn't caught?”

“No. The night watchman was knocked out with gas. The thieves got in before he had a chance to sound the alarm. From the way the dummy looked, they did a good job of knocking him over the head, too.”

“And the patrolman?”

“They decoyed him. Set off a fire bomb down the street. When he got out of his car to investigate, one of the gang slipped behind the wheel, pinned the cop to the wall of a factory building, set the brake, and ran off to help the thieves.”

“Oh brother!” Joe shook his head.

“By the time a passer-by freed the patrolman, the gang had entered the place, knocked out the guard, and stolen a small truckload of television sets. They worked very efficiently. Couldn't have taken them more than twenty minutes.”

“And where were you?” Frank asked.

“Over in Harlington. There's a big appliance outfit which we thought was equally in danger. But nothing happened there.”

“And now the thieves think you're out of commission,” Frank said.

Mr. Hardy nodded. “This should make them sure enough of themselves so they won't quit now, and hopefully we'll catch them at their next attempt.

“There's one interesting aspect to the whole thing,” he added. “The locks were not broken, even though they were quite complicated and so-called burglarproof.”

“That means either the thieves had a key, or at least one of them is an expert picklock,” Frank deduced.

“Looks that way.”

“Another lock was picked recently,” Joe put in. “The one to your file cabinet, Dad. The data on the television gang are missing.”

Mr. Hardy was very much upset when he heard this, and paced angrily back and forth in front of the window. “There were prints in there which I need and other valuable information!”

“Maybe the marks we photographed a little while ago at Parker Street will help,” Frank said.

“No doubt there is a connection between the gang I'm after and the man who sold Chet the dory,” Mr. Hardy said. “They might even have used his place as a hideout—or a meeting place.”

“Right. But I'm sure this is not where the secret panel is,” Frank said. “And that's where they are holding Lenny Stryker.”

“And most likely Martha Johnson,” Joe added grimly.

“No answer to that one, yet,” Mr. Hardy said. “What's your next move?”

“I think we'll try to track Mike Batton,” Frank replied. “After lunch we'll see Ben Whittaker and find out which of his customers were robbed. Batton, no doubt, is connected with the gang, and perhaps some of these people can give us a lead.”

“Good thought. Let me know what develops.”

The boys left the house a half-hour later and drove to Whittaker's shop. The elderly locksmith was in the rear and greeted them solemnly. He had heard nothing of his former employee.

The police, he told them, had found no trace of the stolen articles. Worse than that, Mrs. Eccles was making matters very unpleasant for him.

“She still threatens legal action if I don't return her money,” Whittaker said. “My reputation will be ruined!”

“Oh, no,” Frank spoke up quickly. “You've been in business here too many years for something like that to make any difference, Mr. Whittaker.”

“But it's not just something!” the man cried out. “There's Mr. Howard, and Mrs. Sommers, and—”

“You mean all those people have been robbed and are making trouble?” Joe asked.

The locksmith nodded. “In each case, Batton went to the house when no one was there but a maid. He used the same story he told you. Oh, what'll I do?”

“Let's go see these people, Frank,” Joe said. “Would you give us their addresses, Mr. Whittaker ?”

“Sure. The Petersons aren't home, but the others might be able to give you a clue.” The man handed them a sheet of paper with the names and addresses on it. “Thanks a lot for your help,” he said as they walked out the door.

First they went to see Mr. Howard. He lived alone in a small English Tudor house which he had designed himself.

“That locksmith fellow came when I was out,” he told them. “My housekeeper let him in after he claimed I had ordered the lock changed. Well, I hadn't ordered anything of the kind and—”

“We know,” Frank interrupted. “We thought you or your housekeeper might remember something Batton said that would give us a clue as to where we can find him.”

“Well, let me call Mrs. Curry.” Howard left the room and soon returned with an elderly, gray-haired woman. She described Batton, but said she had not spoken to him after she let him in.

“He didn't come into any of the rooms,” she explained, “just stayed in the front hall until he changed the lock.”

“And that's where the statue was!” Mr. Howard put in. “A rare, hand-carved Oriental piece I paid a lot of money for. He took it, that scoundrel, and I want it back!”

“We understand how you feel,” Frank said. “But we'd appreciate it if you could just give us a little time to track down the thief. Chances are your property will be found, once we locate his hideout.”

“Well, it all depends how long it will take. Let me know when you find him.”

“We certainly will, sir. And thanks for the information.”

Next, they called on Mrs. Sommers. The woman appeared upset about the loss of a ring which had been taken from a bureau.

“It was very valuable to me,” she told the boys, “for sentimental reasons. A family heirloom. The insurance company will pay for it, but money can never replace it.”

Frank asked her about Batton. She could not help them, either. He had changed the lock in her absence. A woman who lived next door had talked to him and told Mrs. Sommers that he had been there.

“Could we speak to your neighbor?” Frank asked.

“She went to visit her son in Missouri two days ago.”

Frank and Joe thanked her and left, disappointed. They went to call on Mrs. Eccles, but were equally unsuccessful.

“One thing is clear,” Frank told Joe on the way home. “Batton must be in with the television gang, but had his own thing going on the side.”

“But why?” Joe asked. “I would think belonging to that outfit would be profitable enough.”

“Who knows? Maybe he needed the money now and couldn't wait for the equipment to be sold and the booty divided.”

“You suppose he tried to get into our house just to see if there was any dough lying around?”

“No,” Frank said thoughtfully. “I have a hunch that he only took the job with Whittaker to get a duplicate key for our place.”

“For the gang?”

“Right. You know what we should have done?”

“What?”

“Photographed the fingerprints on Dad's filing cabinet. Ours and his will be there, of course, but there may be strange ones, too!”

“Like Batton's for instance?”

“Could be.”

“How are you going to make sure they're his?”

“We'll go back to Mr. Whittaker's shop and check out things Mike Batton has handled, take prints, and compare them!”

“Good thinking!” Joe praised. “Let's do that right away.”

The net result of this work was a surprise and added a new complication to the mystery. The man who had rifled Mr. Hardy's files was not Mike Batton!

 

 

 

 

“MORE trouble.” Frank sighed. “However, we've proved one thing. We probably have the fingerprints of the person who kidnapped Miss Johnson.”

“Right you are,” Joe agreed. “Let's take them over to Chief Collig right away.”

Frank quickly wrote a note to his father, telling him about their new discovery, then they delivered the prints to police headquarters.

When they were in their car again, Frank said, “Now for our next job. We'll drive out to the Mead house and see if Chet's dory's there.”

“Good idea. But let's stop and get Chet.”