The Shore Road Mystery (7 page)

Sidestepping grease puddles, the boys entered the silver hangar and found Larry in a small, makeshift office. He was just getting into a leather flight jacket and greeted them warmly.

“Sure, I'll be glad to take you fellows around for a buzz!” The tall, crisp-voiced pilot smiled. He slapped Chet heartily on the back and winked at Frank and Joe. “What do you think—shall we charge him for extra freight? Chet, you look as if you're dressed for a jungle adventure!”

Chet grinned. “My outfit is just for solving mysteries—and the cause of science!”

They followed Larry across the field to a handsome red, high-wing craft. Moments later, they were airborne.

“Any place in particular?” Larry asked above the din of the motors as he banked away from the sun.

“North Bayport would be fine,” Frank answered.

As they flew eastward, coastal breakers came into view far below. They looked like a white lace fringe in the gentle wind. While Chet held the map spread out on his lap, Frank and Joe gazed through binoculars.

“I'm sorry these windows don't give you a bigger view,” the pilot remarked. “At least we have good visibility today.”

“This beats feet any day,” Chet remarked languidly. “There's Bayport already!”

When they reached the city nestled around the sprawling, horseshoe-shaped inlet, Frank had Larry fly northward. They strained to pick up traces of small streams or ponds not on the map. Seeing none, they turned south, circling several times before reversing direction again.

“I guess the map is accurate,” Frank said, after they had failed to uncover anything not charted. “Have you seen a spot that could be a hideout. Joe?”

“No. Every building looks accounted for on the map.” Chet supported Joe's observation.

“Could we go down a little lower, Larry, or a couple of final spins?”

“Roger! Hold on!”

The plane nosed gracefully to a course nearer the ground. The black highway loomed larger, dotted with late-afternoon traffic. The shadow of their plane flickered on the surface of the blue sea.

They had just whined into a wide turn and started southward again, when they heard a ring of ripping steel to their rear. It was followed by a thudding flash of light inches away, and the shatter of glass in the instrument panel.

“We're being shot at!”
Frank cried out.

“Keep away from the windows!” Larry yelled. He climbed frantically to a higher altitude.

“Good night!” Joe said, stunned. “Are we hit badly, Larry?”

“The motor's choking—I'm taking her back!”

As they pulled westward from the Shore Road area, the boys peered from the windows again, trying to determine the source of the bullets. But the altitude was too great.

Larry landed the plane safely. When investigators from the Civil Aeronautics Board arrived, the Hardys were looking at one of the slugs in the fuselage.

“They're from a submachine gun of foreign manufacture,” one of the men reported.

Frank whispered to Joe, “That dud grenade was foreign made too! Makes me think of Dad's case.”

The Hardys apologized to Larry for the trouble they had caused. “Nonsense.” He smiled, wiping grease off his T-shirt. “I'll let you know if we get any leads to the sniper.”

The boys rode to the Hardy home. There was no news of the missing Dodds or of the recently stolen cars.

Chet stayed to supper but proudly partook only of Mrs. Hardy's cooked vegetables. Aunt Gertrude stared incredulously, but offered him no dessert.

Later, Chet borrowed an old shirt and dungarees from Frank for the night's watch on Shore Road. After reassembling their gear they drove out to Route 7, the turnoff four miles south of Springer Road. The boys stationed themselves on a pine slope some fifty yards down the turnoff.

“We'll have to be on our toes tonight, men,” Frank said. “There's more traffic on Route 7 than on Springer or Pembroke.”

As darkness fell, the three arranged their shifts for the night. Joe propped up a twig fork-support for the binoculars while his brother stationed their motorcycles. Chet, who was to have the third shift, settled down on his sleeping bag with a small flashlight, engrossed in a thick book on botany.

“You fellows are pretty lucky to have a botanist at your service,” he boasted, then yawned.

“Boy, are you going to itch tomorrow!” said Joe, and pointed to where Chet's bag rested in a patch of poison ivy.

“Oh, all right, maybe I don't know everything about botany,” Chet grumbled, dragging his gear to another spot.

Hours later Chet took his watch. He sat cross-legged before the field-glass tripod listening to the police calls and looking over the Hardys' log of the cars which had passed that night. Presently he heard a motor.

“Maybe this is it!” he thought as two headlight beams appeared. The next instant Chet saw the dark-colored sedan suddenly speed up and roar wildly toward him on Route 7. It swerved, caromed off a bush, and raced down the road.

The noise awakened Frank and Joe. “That may be our first bite!” Frank yelled. “Let's go!”

IN seconds Frank and Joe had started their motorcycles, the headlights cutting the darkness of the woods. Racing along, the boys could see the red taillights of the speeding sedan ahead.

“Anything come over the police band?” Joe shouted back to Chet.

“Nothing about a theft.”

The gap diminished, and the boys realized the car was slowing down.

“Maybe he thinks we're the police,” Frank called out.

But the sedan cut speed still more and began to make a U-turn. “He's coming back. Let's keep with him!” Frank urged.

The driver appeared to take no notice of their pursuit. The boys followed him back to the turnoff and then down Shore Road.

Joe called to Frank, “He's heading for Bayportl”

Dropping back, the boys trailed the car through the quiet city streets until it drew up before the Excelsior Hotel in the waterfront area. The Hardys swung behind a parked truck.

Frank motioned for the binoculars. When Chet handed them over, Frank focused on the sedan's driver, a bald thick-set man. He still did not seem to notice the boys as he crossed the street and entered the hotel.

Frank flashed an excited look at the others. “I think we've finally found our man!”

“Slagel?” Joe guessed hopefully.

“That's right.”

Chet spoke up. “No wonder no hotel day clerks recognized his picture—he works—or steals—at night!”

“I don't get it,” Joe said. “If Slagel stole that car, would he park it right in Bayport? And why the U-turn back on Route 7?”

“Or why speed up suddenly when he made the turn off Shore Road?” Chet interrupted.

“I don't know,” Frank said, “but I'm going in the hotel for a second. Joe, take down the license and description of the car.”

Frank came out of the hotel a few minutes later and rejoined the boys.

“The night clerk knows Slagel under the alias of James Wright,” he reported. “Apparently Slagel has kept these late hours since checking in two weeks ago.”

“That's about when the Shore Road thefts began!” Chet exclaimed.

The Hardys felt they should go to police headquarters and report the episode.

While Joe watched the motorcycles, Frank and Chet ran up the steps to headquarters. But when they reappeared, they looked disappointed.

“A car was stolen all right, but not the one driven by Slagel.”

“Crumb!” Joe muttered. “It looks as if we'll have to stick with the Route 7 turnoff. Still, do you think Slagel is connected with the theft in some way?”

Frank shrugged. “What gets me is the stolen car. The thief may have used Pembroke Road, but it's also possible we missed him in chasing Slagel.”

The three boys rode back to the turnoff for their gear before dropping Chet at home and returning to their own house. They spent a quiet Sunday, their only detective work being to call headquarters, but there was no news about the Dodds or the car thieves.

After breakfast Monday morning the Hardys phoned Chet and promised to meet him and the girls later in the day for a swim off the
Sleuth,
the Hardys' sleek motorboat.

Then they rode into town, parked, and posted themselves in sight of the Excelsior Hotel. They did not have long to wait. Slagel, dressed in Army surplus trousers, boots, and a summer jacket emerged. He was carrying a cane in his left hand.

“He doesn't limp,” Frank remarked. “Wonder why he carries a cane.”

Slagel jumped into the black sedan and pulled out. The Hardys followed on their motorcycles, and saw him come to a halt two blocks away before a paint store. He entered and soon emerged with cans of paint in either hand. After several trips, he had loaded some twenty gallons into the trunk. He had just slammed the trunk shut when he glanced back at the watching boys.

A chill went down Joe's back. “Think he knows we've been tailing him?”

“He sure doesn't act like it,” said Frank.

Slagel went to a telephone booth on the curb, dialed, and spoke briefly. Presently he returned to his car and moved into the Bayport traffic.

“It looks like Shore Road again,” Frank noted, as Slagel rounded Barmet Bay a little later.

Farther north, where the road curved inland and had pastureland on both sides, the traffic thinned. Slagel increased speed, but the Hardys kept him in sight. Suddenly a moving mass of brown and white appeared just ahead of them.

“Cattle!” Frank exclaimed.

He and Joe were forced to slow down as the cows were driven across the road toward a wide meadow on their left.

“We're really blocked,” Joe shouted.

Fortunately, no fence separated the highway from the meadow, and the boys were able to steer off the road. But by the time the cattle had crossed, Slagel's car had disappeared around a curve.

Then Frank saw the farmer who had driven the cattle across the road. He was the same short, white-haired man who had caused their spill a week before with his stalled truck.

Parking their vehicles, the Hardys approached him, but he spoke first. “What do you kids think yer doin'? If yer gonna ride wild, jest keep off my land—you mighta killed one o' my prize critters!”

Frank's eyes blazed. “This isn't an authorized cattle crossing—you should know better than to drive your herd across a major road without giving some kind of warning!”

Seeing no point in futher heated words, Frank turned from the irate farmer and the boys rode off.

On the way home they discussed their unsuccessful pursuit of Slagel. “At least,” said Frank, “we know where he's staying. Maybe next time we'll have better luck.”

Back home for lunch, the boys spoke to their mother and Aunt Gertrude about the farmer.

“A farm just south of Pembroke Road?” their aunt asked. “Laura, wouldn't that be George Birnham?”

Yes,” said Mrs. Hardy. “He has lived here a number of years.”

“Do you know anything else about him?” Frank said.

“An odd man,” Aunt Gertrude replied. “I believe his grandfather was given the land by a member of the Dodd family, though Birnham has never done very well with it. I gave him an order over the phone once. He sold me some half-rotten tomatoes, and I told him a thing or two!”

Out of curiosity Joe consulted the new telephone directory. “Frank! Birnham's name is in here—which means he lied about having no phone! Why?” Joe's eyes narrowed. “He's blocked us off two times. What if it wasn't coincidence—that there's some tie-in between him and Slagel?”

“Let's pay a visit to his farm tonight,” Frank answered. “If Biff will team up with us, we can still watch Route 7 too. Have you the same hunch about Slagel's paint that I do?”

“If you mean it's for repainting stolen cars—yes,” Joe replied. “And that does make the hideout north of here.”

Suddenly Frank remembered the flecks of paint they had found near the car tracks in the woods. He phoned Chief Collig to learn the test results. The police were convinced they were from the stolen car and the tire prints also. “My men have rechecked the area where you boys found the paint chips but couldn't come up with anything more.”

“How about the collision noises, Chief?”

“The police have heard them too—once when a patrol was on the tail of a stolen car. But that's not all. Do you know who the first victim of the auto thefts was?”

Frank tried to recall the papers two weeks back. “Wasn't it a farmer somewhere out on Shore—”

“A farmer named George Birnham!”

“Birnham!” Frank exclaimed. In view of the boys' latest suspicions, this seemed a strange twist!

That afternoon Frank and Joe look the Pilgrim clue with them and combed another patch of woods in the vicinity of Willow River.

It was three o'clock when they came upon a granite rock formation near a wooded slope. Nearby were several black willow trees.

“It looks as if somebody else has been sleuthing around here,” Frank said. He pointed to traces of footprints and digging. “These were all made by one person.”

The stone looked as if it had been there a long time. But it was too small to have afforded shelter for a whole family even three hundred years ago. Joe looked without success for traces of a gold vein.

“Let's take a look at Birnham's farm by daylight,” Frank suggested, and they rode off.

After parking at some distance, the two cautiously made their way along the dirt road turning off to the farm. The road was just beyond the rise at which they had lost sight of Slagel's car that morning. At a distance they could see Birnham working in a field. But there was no sign of Slagel's car. The brothers returned to their motorcycles.