The Shore Road Mystery (8 page)

Frank, gazing ahead, suddenly cried out. Above the tips of a thick birch forest a couple of miles ahead, a circular formation of black smoke could be seen rising. “That looks like the start of a forest fire! We'd better find out and then report it!”

Swiftly the boys shot north toward the column of smoke. When they braked to a halt at the forest edge, a crackling sound reached their ears.

“It's a fire all right, and there may be a house and people in there!” Joe exclaimed.

The Hardys hopped off and ran into the woods.

Soon billows of choking smoke swirled their way. Tying handkerchiefs over their noses, the boys hurried forward. A minute later they reached a clearing, circled by flames.

“It's Scratch!” Joe cried out.

Instantly he and Frank leaped over singeing flames toward the helpless manl

BY the time Frank and Joe dived through the last patch of searing flame, licks of fire had almost reached Scratch's prone figure.

Joe tied his shirt over the drifter's face and pulled him up into a fireman's carry. With Frank holding the man's legs, the boys dashed back through the flames, not stopping until they were a hundred yards from the spreading conflagration.

To the Hardys' relief, fire fighters were arriving, and the woods echoed with heavy vehicles, sirens, and shouts.

The Hardys coughed violently for several minutes while slapping their smoking trousers. Scratch was just reviving as three state policemen approached.

“How did it happen?” one of them asked.

“We don't know,” said Frank, and explained what they had seen.

Scratch sat up, blinking, and thanked the boys for his rescue. The officer turned to him. “Scratch, have you been careless with one of your camp-fires?”

“No, sir,” he said. “I heard a car in the woods hereabouts, and come to take a look. Next thing I knew, somebody put a funny-smellin' rag in front o' my face. After that, I don't remember.”

The officer looked skeptically at Scratch, but the Hardys were startled. Liquid gas again! “This fire could have been planned,” said Frank. “It was arranged in a perfect circle.”

“I guess you're right,” the officer conceded.

After the fire was out and the police completed a fruitless search for clues to the arsonist, the officers and firemen left. Forest rangers continued inspecting the scene.

Scratch drew the boys aside. “I owe you fellers my life.” He smiled. “Least I kin do is tell you about the tre-
men
-dous spider I seen.”

“Spider?”

“Yep, last night, leastwise, it looked like one.” The drifter shivered. “Big enough to be a man, but it sure didn't move like onel”

“Sounds weird!” Joe said.

“Where did you see it, Scratch?” Frank asked.

“On a rock ledge down the road a piece. I was strollin' towards my camp when he crawled out o' sight. I never seen a human spider in a web!”

The Hardys, knowing that Scratch was apt to exaggerate, did not take his story seriously. They did not want to hurt his feelings, so they pretended to be impressed.

“We've got to get going,” said Joe. “Take care, Scratch.”

When the boys came out to the highway, Joe glanced at his watch. “Jeepers! We promised to meet Chet and the girls for a swim half an hour ago!”

They whizzed off. At the dock where the
Sleuth
was berthed, they were met with reproving glances. Not only were they late, but disheveled.

“Promises, promises,” purred Iola Morton, as Joe slunk down the ramp. Chet's slim, brunette sister had small features and twinkling eyes, and looked very pretty in an aqua-colored swimsuit.

“Frank Hardy, it's about time!” sang out another voice. Callie Shaw, a slim blonde in a red suit, gasped at the boys' sooty appearance.

Chet sat comfortably in the back of the boat, finishing a piece of watermelon. “Wow! You look like boiled frankfurters. Wrap yourselves in rolls, with a little mustard, and I'll break my diet!”

The others laughed, then Frank explained their delay. “We'll change and be right with you.”

The brothers ran to a nearby bathhouse. Then they rejoined the others and started up the
Sleuth's
motor. The sleek blue-and-white craft moved swiftly out into the bay, its bow chopping through glistening breakers. Frank steered around the tip of the bay and headed the Sleuth north. They cast anchor near a small cove.

Chet had hit the water before the anchor. “Come on in!” he gurgled, surfacing with immense satisfaction.

Amidst jokes about a “salt bath,” the sooty Hardys followed the girls overboard.

The bracing water refreshed them. After a rest in the motorboat, the five swimmers decided to go in again. They waited for a black fishing boat to pass. It anchored a short distance away. Then Callie dived in. Several seconds went by. She did not reappear.

“Something may have happened to Callie!” Iola said fearfully. The three boys dived in at once and plunged beneath the surface. Twenty feet down Frank's blood chilled. Callie, her face blanched with fear, was struggling violently.

His lungs bursting, Frank reached her, grasped the net, and started upward. When they broke surface, Callie was choking and too weak to swim. Desperately, Frank bore her to the
Sleuth.
Joe cut the nylon net and Callie was lifted over the side. She gestured that she was all right, but it was several minutes before she could explain what had happened.

“Some man—he was in a black skin-diving suit and mask—grabbed me and threw the net around...”

The sound of a motor reached their ears. The fishing boat nearby was heading away.

“He may have come from that boat!” said Frank. “Let's find out! There was a black fishing boat around just before the accident to Jack's boat!”

They pulled anchor and Frank steered the
Sleuth
after the fishing boat. The boys signaled to the pilot several times. He cut his engine as they drew alongside.

The fisherman, young and slim, wore a checkered sport shirt and a white yachting cap. He appeared annoyed at being disturbed.

“What do you want?” he asked curtly.

“Know anything about a skin diver around the cove back there?” Frank asked.

The young man started his motor. “Skin diver? No.” His craft roared away.

Upset by the near-fatal accident to Callie, the five young people headed back to the boathouse. The Hardys bade good-by to Chet, Callie, and Iola, who planned to report the incident to the maritime authorities.

As the brothers were locking up, they saw Tony docking his
Napoli.
They related their recent adventures.

Tony whistled. “You've been busy! I'm out in the
Napoli
nearly every day, so I'll keep an eye on that fishing launch. It's sure suspicious why the pilot pulled away so fast. Also, if I see anything of the Dodds' boat, I'll let you know.“

Frank swam frantically toward the trapped girl!

On the way home, Frank and Joe stopped at the Records Building to check on past gold claims in the vicinity. The clerk who was familiar with the older mineral files was there. They spoke with him in a small office adjoining musty rows of books.

“Gold?” the white-haired man repeated, smiling agreeably. “Are you fellows hoping to strike it rich before school resumes?”

“No.” Frank chuckled. “Our interest is historical. Have you any record of gold streaks at all—particularly north of Bayport?”

The old man shook his head. “No, son. To my knowledge, no gold has ever been found, or sought for that matter, within fifty miles of Bayport. But it's odd you should ask too. Another fellow was in here just a few hours ago looking for the same information. Didn't give his name.”

“What did he look like?” Frank cut in.

The clerk removed his spectacles. “Maybe forty, or fifty, dark hair, a beard. Sounded like an educated fellow.”

The boys thanked the clerk and drove home, wondering who the anonymous inquirer was. Someone who had knowledge of the Pilgrim clue? “The beard might have been a disguise,” Joe remarked. “I doubt that the man was Slagel, though. He'd never strike anyone as being an educated person.”

“The bearded man could be the missing professor—Martin Dodd!” Frank suggested.

Later, just before sunset, the boys were seated in Mr. Hardy's study reviewing their sleuthing plans for the evening. Suddenly Joe stood up. “Frank! Let's move our watch to Pembroke Road tonight!”

Frank knit his brows. “But we haven't eliminated Route 7 yet.”

“I think we can!” Joe said. “There seems to be a pattern shaping up: the stolen car U-turns, the warning notes from the same person, Jack's things being found at theft scenes—whoever master-minds this operation has made an effort to throw the police off track. Well, what better way than to send Slagel around a turn—leaving skid marks—while someone else whisks the stolen car away to another spot, like Pembroke Road?”

“Joe, you're right! Decoy maneuvers! That might also account for the tire tracks and paint we found in the woods!”

The Hardys agreed on a plan to watch both the Birnham farm and Pembroke Road. By now it was dark, so after contacting Biff Hooper and Chet, they met them midway out on Shore Road. There they split up, Biff and Joe going farther north with the motorcycles to watch the intersection. Chet and Frank went in Chet's jalopy to George Birnham's farm.

The moon had risen, but was occasionally obscured by clouds. Frank guided Chet to a secluded woods. The jalopy was parked at the edge and the boys set out, carrying packs. Silently they walked across the dark farm fields where silvery mist gave the air a chill.

When the lights of Birnham's farmhouse appeared on the west side of Shore Road, they stopped. There was no place to hide, but Frank pointed to deep furrows in a field.

“We can lie low between those and get a pretty good view of anything going on near the house.”

Chet followed Frank as he crawled under a wooden fence. The boys unrolled their sleeping bags between two rows of turned-up soil. Lying on their sides, they watched the house. Occasionally Frank glanced through his binoculars.

The hours passed slowly, uninterrupted except for the rhythmic chant of katydids and the boys' whispers, both of them having decided to keep awake until one became tired. Chet bit noisily into his last carrot.

“Shhh!”
Frank whispered. “Birnham will think somebody's turned on that tractor I see over there!” Chet muffled his bites and laughter.

An hour later the boys saw a black sedan pull up the dirt road to the house. Frank watched through the binoculars. “It's Slagel!” he whispered excitedly as Birnham came out on the porch. “So those two are in cahoots! Wish we could hear what they're saying.”

Presently Slagel returned to his car and drove out, heading south on the highway. Then the farmer left the porch and walked to the end of the dirt road. Frank and Chet saw the squat figure duck under the fence and cross the field some fifty feet to their rear. Fortunately, the moon had gone under again.

“Keep as low as you can!” Frank whispered.

He and Chet listened keenly. In a moment they heard a motor starting up. Frank stole a backward glance and saw Birnham seated atop the large tractor to which a cultivator was attached.

“What's he doing?” Chet asked, burrowing deeper into his sleeping bag.

Frank watched as the noisy vehicle began to move. The farmer did not turn on the headlights.

“He's heading in our direction!” Frank gasped.

He could feel Chet shaking violently alongside him. “Quick!” said Frank. “Keep low and roll to the right!”

Chet struggled to obey, but his eyes bulged with desperation. “I can't—the zipper on my sleeping bag is stuck!”

Frank yanked wildly at the zipper, but it was no use!

MUFFLING Chet's yell, Frank rolled him violently over and landed quickly on top of him. The tractor and its whirling blades missed them by inches!

The vehicle's sound grew fainter as Birnham continued ahead. As Frank looked up he noticed a large truck passing slowly on the road going in the direction of Bayport.

“It's okay, pal,” he said, patting Chet. “But let's get to the road before Birnham starts back on this row!”

Chet finally freed himself from the sleeping bag. Trailing it behind him, the heavy youth followed Frank across the field, running in a low crouch. Once beneath the fence, the boys paused to catch their breath, and saw Birnham turn.