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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

The Short-Wave Mystery (6 page)

BOOK: The Short-Wave Mystery
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Frank parked the car at a drugstore and the two boys hurried to a telephone booth inside. Leafing through the Bayport directory, they soon found the attorney's residential listing.
Crowell was unexpectedly cool to the idea of the Hardys paying an unsupervised visit to the mansion. “I'm afraid I couldn't take responsibility for that,” he said. “Mrs. Batter would have to be consulted.”
“Perhaps I could call her,” Frank suggested. “Is she still living in Bayport?”
“Yes, in a small apartment. But right now she's out of town. Suppose I ask her as soon as she returns and then get in touch with you.”
Joe's face showed disappointment when he heard the news. “Did Crowell explain why some of the animals weren't sold?”
“He said they were all supposed to be included in the auction, but a few hadn't been brought out of the house yet when the theft occurred. Right after that, Mrs. Batter gave orders not to sell the rest of them.”
“Sounds as if she got the same idea we did.”
As the boys returned to their car, Joe said, “Hey, what's that on the windshield?”
A piece of paper had been slipped under the wiper. Frank pulled it out. The paper bore a penciled message:
BROWN STATION WAGON DITCHED OFF
HORTON RD. ¼ MI. E. OF ROCKCREST DRIVE
“Wow! A tip-off on the thieves' getaway car!” Joe exclaimed.
“Maybe and maybe not,” Frank said cautiously.
“Think it's phony?”
“Depends on where it came from.” Both boys glanced up and down the street. No pedestrians were in sight on the block. “Someone may have been trailing us before we went in the drugstore,” Frank conjectured.
“Well, there's one way to find out if this note's on the level,” said Joe, “and that is to ride to the spot and see. We can notify the police on the way.”
“Okay, let's go!”
As the convertible sped in the direction of Horton Drive, Joe radioed the Bayport police.
“Roger! I'll send a car to meet you there,” the police operator responded after taking down the location.
Horton Road ran through the hills west of Bayport. Sparsely traveled at night, it connected with several of the busier highways. As they passed Rockcrest Drive, Frank slowed so they could keep a lookout for the abandoned station wagon. The hillside rose steeply on their right, while to the left of the road the ground fell away in a brush-clad slope.
“There it is!” Frank said, slamming on the brakes.
In the moonlight they could see the getaway car clearly. It lay on a broad rocky shelf jutting out from the slope below them, its nose rammed against a tree.
The Hardys took flashlights, piled out of their convertible, and ran to the edge of the road. A swath had been battered through the high brush —evidently marking the course of the station wagon as it hurtled down the slope.
Joe plunged recklessly forward, then exclaimed, “Oops!” and almost went sprawling.
“Hey, watch it!” Frank cautioned, following more slowly. “Think you're a mountain goat?”
“I tripped on a vine or something,” Joe said.
The boys proceeded, shining their flashlights ahead. As they reached the shelf, the rays of their flashlights revealed a large metal drum in the back of the station wagon. A vague feeling of alarm prickled Frank's scalp. He clutched Joe's arm.
“What's the matter?”
“Don't know exactly, but I don't like the looks of that drum,” Frank said. “You sure that was a vine you tripped over?”
“How do I know? What difference does it make?” Joe returned impatiently.
“Plenty, maybe. That could've been a trip wire for a delayed-action fuse!” As he spoke, Frank's fear swelled to panic. “Come on! Let's get back up on the road and wait for the police!”
Yanking Joe's arm, he scrambled up the slope. They had taken only a few paces when a loud
whoomp
rent the air.
A huge pillar of fire shot up, engulfing the whole station wagon!
CHAPTER VII
Wolf's Trail
HEAT searing their backs, Frank and Joe clambered up to the road. Then they turned for a moment and peered below, shielding their eyes from the blaze. The station wagon was barely visible in the roaring orange column of flames.
“Jumpin' Jupiter!” Joe gasped. “We'd have been fried to a crisp if you hadn't stopped us!”
“Come on! Get back!” Frank warned curtly. “That brush is blazing!”
The fire was sweeping up the slope, reddening their faces in its glow. Frank backed their convertible out of range, deftly made a U-turn in the narrow roadway, and drove the car a safe distance away. Joe, meanwhile, radioed a fresh report to the police.
A squad car soon arrived, followed by a fire crew. Fortunately the blaze was already burning itself out, checked by the wetness of the brush from the previous night's rain.
Chief Collig had come in the squad car. “Lucky you lads got away in time,” he observed.
“It sure was,” Joe said. “There must have been gasoline in that drum, and some sort of electrical sparking device to ignite it.”
“The setup was a cinch,” Frank added. “Anyone going down there was bound to follow the car's trail through the brush—and the trip wire would never be seen in the dark.”
Collig nodded grimly. “The timer was evidently set to allow just enough delay for you boys to get close to the station wagon after tripping the wire. Really a fiendish setup!”
“It gets rid of the car, too,” Frank pointed out, “with no risk of fingerprints or other clues being left behind.”
A twisted, blackened shell was all that remained after the flames died out. Any traces of the timing mechanism had been fused and obliterated by the intense heat. Somewhat shaken by the experience, Frank and Joe drove home.
Mr. Hardy frowned worriedly upon hearing of their narrow escape. “This proves you're up against highly dangerous criminals, sons.”
“More than petty thieves,” Frank agreed.
“Definitely—which points back to the industrial spy ring again. From now on, I want you both to be on your guard at all times.”
“We will, Dad,” Joe promised. He told of their hunch about Soapy Moran's visit.
“Soapy Moran, eh?” Mr. Hardy strode to his criminal file, leafed through a number of photographs, and finally pulled out a pair of mug shots. “Is that the man?”
Both boys recognized the swindler at once.
“He has a record as a small-time con man and pickpocket,” Mr. Hardy told them. “Offhand, I wouldn't think he's the type to be mixed up in anything bigger—but I'll ask the FBI to put out a dragnet for him, just in case.”
The evening was too far spent to allow much time for work on the code message. All three Hardys puzzled over it for a while, but finally went to bed with no glimmer of a solution.
The next day Mike and Tommy arrived promptly after school, eager for a taxidermy lesson. “Jimmy said he had a lot of work to do for his ma,” Mike explained.
Later, Frank and Joe found the two youngsters watching with close attention as Chet smoothed out a paper head form.
“It's made to the exact measurement of the deer's head,” Chet was saying. “When the skin comes back from the tanner's, we shall apply that over the form. Then Professor Morton will demonstrate how much better this is than the older stuffing methods. It's all a matter of expert judgment and know-how, of course.” Chet cleared his throat importantly.
The Hardys suppressed grins. “Don't let us interrupt, Professor,” Frank said.
“Matter of fact, I was about to break off for an errand,” the stout youth announced. “Have to pick up a couple of glass eyes in town.”
Joe glanced around the cluttered work space. Scrap lumber, cotton batting, galvanized wire, and an old oil-paint set lay strewn about the floor. Along with books and tools on the bench were a partly mounted duck and rabbit supplied by hunter friends, a pasty substance, and lumps of unfired clay. Various chemical bottles were lined up on a shelf in back of Chet.
“Boy, this looks like a warehouse for a mad scientist,” Joe remarked. “You
are
going to clean up in here some time, aren't you?”
“Natch. What do you think I have a staff for?” Wiping borax-covered hands on his apron, Chet added, “Mike, I hereby appoint you vice-president in charge of cleanup. Tommy, you finish sanding the wood base for this duck. And when you're done”—Chet pulled a sack of fudge out of a bench drawer and popped a piece into his mouth —“help yourselves to some of this yummy confection. Made it myself!”
As the youngsters set about their tasks eagerly, Joe shot an amused glance at Frank. “What an operator! Maybe we Hardys should get a cooking staff in case Aunt Gertrude goes visiting and doesn't leave any pie, cake, or cookies for Chet.” The stout boy grimaced.
Frank grinned and declined Chet's invitation to help pick out glass eyes for his deer, preferring to work on the code message. Joe, however, was willing to go. He and Chet strode out to the Queen and soon the yellow jalopy was clattering noisily toward downtown Bayport.
Roundtree's Taxidermy Shop was as dark as a cave and twice as mysterious. From the shadows of its dim interior, white fangs and sharp claws gleamed menacingly at the two boys. Near the door, a huge grizzly bear reared on its hind legs as if ready to pounce on any customer who caused its master displeasure.
Mr. Roundtree, a short, plump man, shuffled about in flapping slippers. As the boys entered, he was completing the sale of a mounted wolf's head to a man in a tan raincoat and slouch hat. Joe glanced curiously at the animal, then turned with Chet to a display case of glass eyes.
“Don't you want me to crate it?” Joe heard Mr. Roundtree ask the customer.
“Don't bother!” The man snatched the wolf's head off the counter and turned to leave.
“Er—you haven't paid me, sir.”
“What? ... Oh, sorry.” As the man stopped to fumble for his wallet, Joe glanced at him. In spite of the low slouch hat shadowing his face, Joe felt that the man looked familiar.
Their eyes met for a moment. Without another word he stuffed the wallet back into his pocket and darted toward the door!
“My money, sir!” Mr. Roundtree exclaimed. But the customer was already out of the shop—the door slamming shut behind him.
Suddenly Joe's memory clicked. No wonder he had not recognized the fellow with a hat on!
“Chet! That was the baldheaded thief at the auction!” he cried, dashing from the store.
Chet stared open-mouthed, then trotted after Joe as Roundtree gaped in helpless bewilderment. The thief was nowhere in sight, yet he could not have taken a car—there was a solid line of automobiles parked at the curb.
“Wh-which way did he go?” Chet demanded.
“Don't ask me!” Joe ran to a girl who was standing in front of a florist's window. “Did you see a man with a wolf's head just now?”
“A man with a
wolf's
head?” The girl looked at Joe suspiciously. “Are you kidding?”
Joe reddened and started to explain, then gave up. “Oh, never mind—thanks just the same!”
He ran up the street, then down, with Chet at his heels, looking in stores and questioning passersby. None had seen the man. Discouraged, the boys started back to the taxidermy shop.
“I can't understand it,” Joe said. “That man came out of the store only a few minutes ago. He couldn't vanish into thin air.”
Just then a woman's shrill scream brought the boys to a halt. Joe and Chet exchanged startled glances. Another scream split the air.
“In there!” Joe pointed to Zetter's Radio and TV Store, next to Roundtree's. The two youths dashed inside. There were no customers in sight, nor anyone at the counter.
From somewhere in back, they heard a door burst open and a loud, frightened sob. Guided by the sound, Joe and Chet darted into a narrow passageway leading to the rear of the shop.
A woman stumbled into view, pale with fright. “Th-there's a wild animal out there!” She pointed to the back door. “Something ferocious! I was taking a shortcut through the alley when I saw it! It scared the wits out of me!”
By this time a policeman and several other people were crowding into the store. Joe and Chet ran out the back door into the alley.
“She's nutty!” Chet declared, looking all around. “There's no animal out here!”
Then Joe caught a glimpse of baleful eyes and gleaming fangs. “Oh, yes, there is!”
With a chuckle, he pointed down the steps of a depressed cellar entrance to their right. Propped near the cellar door in the shadowy gloom was the mounted wolf's head, looking as if the whole animal were about to come bounding out of the darkness!
“Good grief!” said Chet. “So that's what scared her. I guess this explains how that crook got away, too.”
“Sure. He was afraid I might remember his face, so he ran through Zetter's right after he left Roundtree's—and dumped the wolf here so no one would spot him making his getaway.”
As Joe retrieved the wolf's head, Mr. Zetter, a tall, dark-featured man, came up the alley. He frowned at the noisy hubbub outside his shop.
“What's going on here?” he snapped. As the boys explained, Zetter snorted irritably. “A fine how-d'you-do! I leave the store for a few minutes to get a sandwich and find the place in an uproar when I get back!”
He strode inside, the boys following. The woman gave another gasp of alarm when she saw the wolf's head in Joe's arms. She soon calmed down, however, and smiled shamefacedly upon realizing her mistake. After Joe had reported the auction thief's getaway to the policeman, the two boys returned the head to Roundtree's and Chet purchased glass eyes for his deer.
BOOK: The Short-Wave Mystery
2.66Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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