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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

The Short-Wave Mystery (2 page)

BOOK: The Short-Wave Mystery
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“Apeman calling the Hardys!” a grim, rasping
voice announced
In response came a series of deep-throated snorts and growls. Then the voice resumed:
“This is the only warning you'll get, Hardys! My agent is watching the house and I have ordered him to—”
More snorts and growls followed.
“His agent!” Joe gasped. “Does he mean that gorilla?”
Before Frank could reply, the menacing sounds from the speaker gave way to wild howls of laughter! The Hardys traded looks of chagrin as both recognized their “apeman” caller.
“Chet Morton!” Joe groaned.
Tubby, freckle-faced Chet—also a ham operator—was the Hardys' best pal. Though fonder of food than of action, he had been an invaluable help to them on several dangerous adventures.
“WB2XEJ from W2RBR,” Chet's voice came in with a sound of munching close to the microphone. “Howdy, Hardys! Thought you'd never pick me up. Was I snortin' loud and clear?”
In spite of themselves, Frank and Joe could not help laughing.
“Very funny, you big ape,” Frank said. “You really had us going there for a while. By the way, before you eat any more monkey food, you'd better adjust your frequency.”
“Oops, thanks for the tip! ... I guess you guys spotted King Kong, my secret agent.”
“That mildewed ape! We sure did.”
Chet explained that he had planted the gorilla in their evergreen and then had sped home in his jalopy to follow up the joke on short-wave.
“We thought that was you in the tree, at first,” Joe put in, taking the mike. “Boy, that's a real prize, Chet! Where'd you get him?”
“At the museum. Been tucked away on a storeroom shelf for umpteen years—in fact they were going to throw him out. You see, I've been studying taxidermy over there—”
“Taxidermy?” Joe echoed, grinning at Frank. The Hardys were familiar with Chet's constant mania for embarking on new hobbies.
“Sure. You know—stuffed animals. No kidding, it's real interesting!”
“I'll bet. At least it'll be a change from stuffing yourself.”
“Okay, gagster. I'm serious. Matter of fact, that's the main reason I called. How about you guys coming to an auction with me tomorrow?”
“What kind of an auction?” Joe asked.
“At the Elias Batter estate on Hill Road.” Chet gave the address and said that the late owner had been an accomplished taxidermist. “Seems a lot of his stuffed specimens are being sold off with the rest of the household effects. I figure I might pick up some bargains and start a collection. Will you and Frank join me?”
“Why us?”
“I'll explain later. Come on, be a sport,” Chet pleaded. “Meet you there at eleven.”
Joe conferred hastily with his brother, then agreed. “Okay. Frank says maybe this taxidermy kick will keep you out of trouble with the FCC for monkey business over the air.” Chuckling, Joe signed off, “So long for now, W2RBR from WB2XEJ ... and WB2XEJ is QRT.”
Next day, after their Saturday morning chores, the Hardys drove to the auction. Chet's gorilla was stowed in the back of their convertible.
The Batter estate proved to be a dark old Victorian mansion, set among wide grounds fringed with oak and beech trees. A number of people were wandering about the lawn, but most of the crowd was clustered near a large stable-garage where the auctioneer had set up his platform. As Frank and Joe found a parking place at one side of the gravel driveway, they could see him holding up an elaborate lamp.
“Eight dollars, ladies and gentlemen! Do I hear a bid for nine? ... Nine, anyone?”
“We should have brought Aunt Gertrude,” Frank said. “Bet she would have loved this!”
Just then the Hardys saw their stout chum plodding toward them, lugging a flat wooden box and a strange-looking stuffed animal. It had ears similar to a donkey's, powerfully clawed feet, and a long piggish snout.
“Hi, fellows!” Chet called. “Look what I got!”
“Wow! What is
that
?” Joe gasped.
“An aardvark—an African termite-eater.” Chet set down his prize proudly near the Hardys' convertible, then opened the box, displaying a set of surgical-looking instruments inside. “And get a load of this—Batter's old taxidermist's kit! Only eight bucks for both!”
Before either Frank or Joe could comment, they heard a sudden shout,
“Thief!
...
Stop, thief!”
A brown station wagon came roaring out from behind the garage and down the curving drive.
“Look out! He'll clip us!” Chet screeched. As the boys leaped aside, the Hardys glimpsed two men in the front seat—the driver was unshaven and double-chinned; the other man, thin and bald.
The station wagon was wheeling so fast it was nearly out of control. Skidding on the gravel, it sideswiped the rear bumper of the Hardys' convertible, rebounded across the drive to a tree on the other side, then zoomed out onto the roadway and sped off with a blast from the exhaust!
“Those crazy nuts!” Joe fumed.
Chet was staring wide-eyed after the station wagon. “Did you see that? It was loaded with stuffed animals!”
“Come on! After 'em!” Frank called to his brother.
Leaving Chet standing open-mouthed with his purchases, the Hardys leaped into their convertible. Frank gunned the engine to life and they roared off in pursuit of the thieves.
CHAPTER II
A Broken Antenna
THE station wagon was nearly out of sight, but Frank pressed hard on the accelerator and gradually narrowed the distance. Far ahead, at the end of Hill Road, they saw the car turn right.
“Must be heading out of town!” Joe muttered.
The Hardys followed at top speed. Fortunately, the blacktopped highway onto which their quarry had turned was almost empty of traffic. In a few moments they again had the station wagon in view.
Joe pulled binoculars from the glove compartment, focused on the thieves' license plate, and jotted down the number.
“They're turning again!” Frank said. The brown car shot off to the left into Barmet Woods.
As the Hardys reached the turnoff spot, Frank spun the wheel. With a screech of tires their convertible plunged across the road into a rutted dirt lane, winding among the trees.
“Yikes! Save the springs!” Joe exclaimed.
The jolting forced Frank to slow down. In the crisp autumn air, the trees were ablaze with color, but the Hardys were too preoccupied with the chase to enjoy the scenery. Suddenly they heard a sharp
thump
in the distance.
“What was that?” asked Joe.
“Maybe that driver hit something,” Frank said.
Rounding a bend farther ahead, the boys saw a large animal lying across the road.
“It's a deer!” Joe leaped out as his brother slammed on the brakes. The creature was lying on its side with no sign of life.
“Never had a chance,” Frank said grimly. Tire marks in the dirt showed that the station wagon had backed up and steered around its victim.
As the boys dragged the deer off the road, Joe noticed a gleam of metal in the underbrush. “Hey, look!” he said, picking up a slender rod with three branching extensions. “It's the thieves' short-wave antenna!”
“You're right—I remember seeing it mounted on their front fender. Must've snapped off when their wagon hit the deer.” Frank examined the find. “Never saw one like this before, did you?”
Joe shook his head. “Looks homemade to me.”
“Keep it. This might be a clue,” Frank advised.
The Hardys resumed the chase, but now with little hope of overtaking the culprits. A mile or more farther on, the woods ended and the dirt lane connected with a heavily traveled highway.
“Fat chance of catching them now,” Joe said. “We don't even know which way they went.”
Frank agreed. “The State Police should be notified,” he said.
Over the convertible's short-wave the boys transmitted an alarm to State Police headquarters. Then they stopped at the nearest gas station to phone a report of the deer accident to the local game warden, a friend of the Hardys.
By the time they returned to the Batter estate, the auction was over and most of the crowd had left. Chet was waiting patiently at the parking area, perched in his high-sprung yellow jalopy, the Queen, near a Bayport police car. In the Queen's back seat, with the aardvark and taxidermy kit, stood a black bear cub.
“What happened?” The chubby youth hopped out anxiously from behind the wheel. “Did you catch those thieves?”
Frank shook his head. “No, but we got their license number.”
“Don't tell us you added
another
prize to your collection!” Joe said, grinning at the bear cub.
“Sure, that was my first buy—before you two got here,” Chet said proudly. “It was a bigger bargain than the aardvark!”
“It's big enough, all right. Where do you plan to keep this stuffed zoo of yours?”
Chet gave a slight cough. “Well, er, as a matter of fact that's why I—”
“Hold it!” Frank said. “That squad-car officer just motioned to us, Joe.”
The policeman who had beckoned was conferring with the tall, dapperly dressed auctioneer and a smaller, gray-haired man near the garage-stable while another officer took notes.
The Hardys hurried over, bringing the broken antenna, and reported their fruitless chase. “Here's the license number,” Joe added, handing over the scrap of paper. “We've already alerted the highway patrol.”
“Good work, boys,” the policeman said. “This antenna may help us get a line on the thieves.”
“We suspect it's a handmade job,” Frank said. “By the way, what did they take?”
“Not much, luckily,” the auctioneer replied. “Just nine stuffed animals.”
“That's the queerest haul I ever heard of,” Joe put in. “Why in the world would the thieves want them?”
The auctioneer gave a puzzled laugh. “Good question. They certainly weren't worth a lot. The bids on all nine didn't amount to more than a hundred dollars.”
He explained that after being auctioned off, each item had been taken to the garage, to be claimed later by the high bidder. It was there that the gray-haired clerk had been held up.
Apparently the two thieves had arrived at the auction late, when the nine animals had already been sold but not yet picked up. The men had first offered to pay the clerk more than the amounts bid. When he refused, they had seized the animals at gunpoint and fled.
“Too bad. I hope they're caught,” Joe said.
As the Hardys walked back to Chet, Frank said thoughtfully, “You know, Joe, this robbery has the makings of a real mystery. There must be
some
reason for pulling such a crazy holdup.”
Joe nodded. “Unless we were chasing a couple of nuts!”
Chet was struck with a sudden idea when he heard about the deer. “Gee, good study specimens are hard for us taxidermists to come by,” he said. “I wonder if the game warden would let me have the head for mounting.”
“Probably.” Frank climbed into the Hardys' convertible. “We'll call him when we get home.”
“Great! But—er—what's the hurry? Wouldn't you guys like some lunch?”
“That's where we're going—home to eat.”
“Come on to the Hot Rocket,” Chet said, “and I'll stand treat for hamburgers and malts.”
Joe looked at his brother in surprise and burst out laughing. “Wow! We don't get an offer like that every day! It's a deal, pal!”
Later, as they were finishing lunch at their high school crowd's favorite eating spot, Chet cleared his throat nervously. “Say, fellows, how are you fixed for lab space at your house?”
“Lab space?” Frank raised his eyebrows.
“Uh-huh. You see, Mom's not too happy about me doing this taxidermy at home, and—well, I thought...” Chet's voice trailed off and he looked at his pals beseechingly.
The Hardys joined in peals of laughter.
“Now it comes out!” Joe exclaimed. “I knew there was a catch to this free lunch!”
“Not to mention inviting us to that auction!”
“I wouldn't take up much room—honest!” Chet looked so wistful that the Hardys relented.
“Well, okay, if Aunt Gertrude doesn't object,” Frank said. “I guess she won't mind as long as you're working up in our garage lab.”
“On second thought,” Joe said with a grin, “maybe we'd better call the game warden from here, where she can't listen in. Somehow I don't think she'd care much for a deer's head.”
Mr. Dorsey, the warden, readily promised that Chet could pick up the head and pelt at the game preserve later that day. After Joe emerged from the phone booth, the Hardys drove home to Elm Street in their convertible, followed by Chet's backfiring jalopy.
Aunt Gertrude peered suspiciously out a back window as the stuffed animals were being unloaded and soon emerged to give advice to the boys.
“Humph! Taxidermy, eh?” she commented. “Very well. I daresay it has some educational value. But don't let me see any messy stuffing being tracked into the house, or I'll have three scalps mounted over the door! Understand?”
“Yes, ma'am!” Chet gulped.
Frank and Joe had fitted up the entire second story of the garage as a detective laboratory and clubhouse. Leaving Chet to arrange a working space, the Hardys hurried into the house to their father's study and checked his criminal files for pictures of the auction thieves.
“No luck,” Frank said at last. “But let's keep in touch with Chief Collig on this case, Joe. I have a hunch there may be some interesting angle we don't know about yet.”
BOOK: The Short-Wave Mystery
11.11Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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