The Shore Road Mystery (6 page)

“The siren may have been the police pursuing one of the stolen cars!” Joe observed.

But they were puzzled by Scratch's story, particularly the mention of a “crash.” Unfortunately, the grizzled man could not remember where the incident had occurred.

Scratch did recall something else, however. “I saw a man drive out of these woods the other day, and another time walking along Shore Road.”

Frank asked what the man looked like.

“Big guy, bald, kinda mean-lookin'. Wasn't happy when I seen him pullin' out of the woods.”

Quickly Joe took out the picture of Slagel. “Is this the man?”

Scratch nodded. “He had a walkin' stick. Don't know why he was carryin' the cane—he didn't seem to limp.”

Encouraged by news that Slagel had been in the area recently, the boys thanked Scratch and returned to the motorcycles. Soon they were cruising homeward.

Chet felt weary from their trek and lack of food. “But I'm going to keep on with my vegetable juices,” he declared valiantly.

Joe grinned. “Here's luck!” He pretended to drink a toast.

Presently Frank remarked, “I have a hunch we'll be meeting Slagel soon.” At that moment he saw something on the beach that made him stare in astonishment. “Look! Two men are tied up down there!”

Flashing across the road, the Hardys stoppec' their motorcycles abruptly, then rushed down to the two men. They lay behind a dune, and had been visible from the road for only a moment. From their clothing, the boys believed they were fishermen. Both were distraught. One of them pointed to the north as Joe untied him and ripped the gag off his mouth. “We were jumped and our car stolen. Can you fellows catch that thief?”

“How long ago did it happen?” Frank asked as he freed the other man.

“Two—three minutes—a brown Condor with white wall tires.”

Frank groaned, realizing they had passed the car moments before! “We could never catch him now, unless—Joe! Let's try the old Pine Road shortcut!”

While the fishermen hurried toward a farmhouse to alert the police, the Hardys and Chet raced to the motorcycles.

“Will I slow you down?” Chet puffed anxiously.

“No.” Joe motioned for him to get on. “But hold tight—don't lean back!”

They sped along the highway for a quarter mile, then chugged up a dirt rise to the old overland route. This was stony and overgrown, but a shorter way to the north.

Through the clouds of dust, Joe and Chet could barely make out the crouched form of Frank ahead. Chet held on tautly.

“Heads!” Frank cried back, as Joe and Chet barely ducked under a broken oak limb.

Minutes later, they came out to the highway. He'd still have a lead on us, but we may be able to catch him now,” Frank murmured.

They proceeded north, passing several cars. Whizzing beside pastures, they approached a cloud of dust at the Pembroke Road intersection.

“Come on! Let's try the turnoff!”

The boys took the curve, squinting for a glimpse of the stolen brown car. Suddenly they heard a crashing sound!

“That came from the woods!” Joe exclaimed, staring to his right.

They proceeded slowly among the trees until they came to some tire tracks. Seeing no car or evidence of a collision, the boys followed the trail. At a turn in the tracks, Frank noticed something on the ground. “A clue!” Here and there were flecks of brown paint. He scooped them up and wrapped them in a handkerchief. The trio continued following the tracks, but they only led the boys back to the highway.

“Beats me,” Frank said. “Whoever drove in seems to have driven right out again. But why?”

On the way back, they dropped off the paint flecks at the police station for analysis.

At the Hardy garage Chet pulled a gnarled mass of broken leaves and stems from his dusty pocket. “My plant specimens!” he groaned. “Ah, what scientists must suffer—and all for nothing! Fellows, could we postpone our first night watch until tomorrow? I'm tired—and hungry.”

The Hardys agreed, feeling sorry for their chum. After Chet left, the brothers had supper and opened a special-delivery packet which had arrived that afternoon from their father. To their surprise, it contained data on Slagel.

“Dad is sure a wonder!” Joe declared.

Information on the man recent moves was scant, but the report said that Slagel had been dishonorably discharged from the Army and had served a prison term in Leavenworth. A list of several aliases was given, as well as an indication he had been born left-handed, but now used either hand.

Later, while the boys were studying a small map, the doorbell rang. Mrs. Hardy answered it. When she came back into the living room, their mother seemed perplexed.

“That's strange. A man was at the door. He wore a blue winter face muffler and didn't identify himself. When I told him that your father wasn't at home, he seemed hesitant. Finally, before leaving, he asked me to give this to you boys.” She handed Frank a small, white envelope.

On the front of it was the drawing of a bottle!

IMPATIENTLY, Frank tore open the envelope and removed a folded message. It was a photostat of an aged, incomplete message. He read it aloud:

“ ‘ when the ftorm broke ... alone
...
to give our pofition in the hope that
...'”

Frank glanced at Joe. “The Dodds' Pilgrim clue! Each small looks like an f, the way an was written centuries ago!”

He continued. “ ‘...
vegetation no protection
...
fhelter but crafh of countleff
...
breaking black illowf
...
high vein of gold...' ”

In the margin was a crude drawing of a leaf. Frank passed the paper to his brother. “That's all. Looks as if part of it has been cut off at the end.”

The brothers spent the rest of the evening trying vainly to interpret the message and speculating on the identity of the visitor.

“As I make it out,” Frank remarked, “the storm in this message is the hurricane in which Elias Dodd perished with his family.”

“And the question is, where?”

“Apparently they found some cover, for it mentions vegetation. If only we knew what kind. The leaf drawing must be a clue.”

Joe tapped his head with a pencil. “But if Elias Dodd's bottle washed up on the shore, wouldn't the family have been out at sea?”

His brother had second thoughts. “There's something about the words ‘vegetation' and ‛shelter' that suggests a location on land. Besides, wouldn't Elias Dodd have needed some kind of shelter in which to write the note?”

“That figures,” Joe replied. “What do you make of the last part?”

Frank reread the final fragments. “ ‘...
crafh of countleff breaking black illowf
...
high vein of gold...' ”

“I don't get it,” Joe muttered. “Were there ever veins of gold in this area?”

Frank offered to find out. He went into the hall, where Joe heard him talking on the phone with Chet. Presently Frank returned, excited.

“Joe! I think I may have it!”

“What?”

“The answer to at least most of the message.” Frank explained, “It figures that this fifth word from the end could be ‘willows,' referring, in other words, to black willow trees. A hurricane would certainly cause many branches to ‘break' and even whole trees to ‛crash.' ”

“Sure,” Joe said, puzzled. “But if there were ‘countless' black willows, they would be in an inland forest. I still don't see how any bottle could reach the sea from there.”

Frank grinned. “I had a hunch and asked Chet to check it. Have you ever noticed where most black willows seem to grow?”

Joe recalled some of their past camping trips. “Near rivers or other bodies of water. Shadow Lake, and of course Willow River.” Suddenly Joe caught the drift of Frank's reasoning. “Willow River, of course. That would account for Elias Dodd's message reaching the sea!”

Frank said thoughtfully, “And gold is often found in stream beds.”

Neither of the brothers recognized the crude drawing of the leaf. “Chet may be able to identify it,” Frank said.

Joe suggested that they check in town about past gold mines or claims to any in Bayport history.

“Good idea,” Frank agreed. “Now for the big question—is this message a copy of the
real
one?”

“Any ideas about who brought it?” Joe asked.

“One,” Frank answered. “Professor Martin Dodd, though I don't understand why he wouldn't identify himself.”

Joe remembered their last meeting with Jack and his father. “Mr. Dodd did suggest there was an urgency about solving the Pilgrim mystery. Let's start treasure sleuthing early tomorrow.”

Mrs. Hardy brought the morning mail to the breakfast table next day. The brothers received more letters of complaint from Bayport residents, but the last letter Joe opened had a Bridgewater postmark. He paled as he read it.

“Look at this!” he exclaimed, passing the typed letter to Frank. It said:

“It's signed ‘Jack'!” Frank cried out.

After the initial shock caused by the note, Frank became suspicious. “This doesn't sound like Jack. Did you save that grenade note? This typing looks the same.”

The boys went upstairs and Joe produced the paper. He followed his brother into Mr. Hardy's study, where Frank got out a file on typewriter clues.

“I'm convinced of it!” he said at last. “Certain information here points to one interesting fact—both were typed by the same person. Also, the letters typed by the left hand are much darker—”

“Which might mean,” Joe broke in, “that the person is—or was—left-handed. Slagel!”

After marking on the map the streams running into Willow River, Frank and Joe picked up Chet at the Bayport Museum. Still tired from yesterday's trek and overland chase, Chet was nevertheless proud about his part in the black-willow clue. He agreed to be their lookout for a plant like that in the drawing.

The boys' plan was to cover certain areas daily in their search for the treasure. Right now they would sleuth in a region north of Route 7, keeping a lookout for willow groves. The only stream in the region, shaded by old black willows, offered no clues to any gold or buried treasure and Chet saw no plants matching the leaf sketch.

“What's the next assignment?” Chet asked. He pulled a small, wrapped raw cauliflower from his pocket, took off the paper, and started to eat it. “Ever try this?” he asked. “Very nourishing.”

“It just so happens we have,” Frank replied. “What say we have our first stakeout tonight?”

“Here?” Chet asked, munching.

“No. Out at Springer Road.”

“Why don't we make it an overnight?” Joe proposed. “In the meantime, we'll finish fixing our motorcycle radio.”

The others liked the idea. After supper the three assembled packs and drove out to Springer Road. The boys set up a three-man shift among some trees. The night passed slowly as the Hardys and Chet each took a turn watching the night traffic for two hours, then sleeping during the next four.

No thefts were reported over the radio, and the cars using the turnoff, which they logged by hour and description, were few and not suspect. An hour after sunrise on Saturday morning Frank woke the others and, disappointed, they headed home.

“You think maybe they've stopped stealing cars?” Chet yawned.

“I doubt it,” Joe yelled back. “But there may have been a theft that hasn't been reported yet.”

Joe's guess proved to be correct. Presently an announcement came over the police band that a car had been stolen several hours earlier outside a Shore Road gas station.

“That proves one thing,” said Frank. “The thieves don't use Springer Road.”

“One down, two to go!” Joe exulted. “Tonight we move to Route 7. Maybe we'll get a nibble on Mr. Slagel or his cronies.”

Later that morning Joe called the Bayport Records Office for information about old gold claims.

“Any luck?” Frank asked as Joe hung up.

“Not yet. The only man who could tell us anything about mineral history in Bayport is out of town and won't be back until Monday.”

That afternoon the Hardys met Chet to comb another area in their search for the Pilgrim treasure. Chet, in khaki shorts and a pith helmet, looked like an overstuffed safari guide. They hunted through several thickets and a stream bed near a farm owned by John Apperson, but found no trace of gold.

“We've hardly seen a willow twig all day,” Chet moaned disconsolately as they sat on a rock to rest. He picked a burr out of his sneakers. “And I haven't spotted any plant with a leaf like in that drawing. Might as well look for a pine needle in a haystack.”

“Still,” said Frank, “with what we covered today, we can eliminate a lot of that shadowed area on our map.”

Suddenly Joe had an idea and hopped down.

“A bird's-eye view of this whole region might reveal some small streams not on any of our maps. Think we could get hold of Larry Dillon at the airfield?”

“He's usually free this late in the afternoon,” Frank said. “Let's try him!”

The airport lay not far from their present location, and it took them less than half an hour to reach the field. They skirted the modern terminal and soon reached a smaller hangar where several single-engine aircraft stood poised about the taxiing area.