A Figure in Hiding (2 page)

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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

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“Sure. No harm done,” said Frank. “Just soaked to the skin. Good thing it's such a hot day.”
Braxton started to apologize for the accident, but the man with him interrupted. “What in blazes is wrong with you punks?” he stormed at the Hardys. “Haven't you got brains enough to keep out of the way? This thing isn't a paddle boat, you know!”
Joe's quick temper flared. “A paddle boat's all you should handle, mister!” he retorted.
“Relax, Joe,” Frank cut in. “We probably did come closer than we should have. Got too interested in watching, I guess.”
“Let's all forget it,” Braxton said hastily. “We'd better do something about your boat.”
He maneuvered the
Sea
Spook close to the
Sleuth
and helped the brothers right it. But the motorboat had shipped too much water to be used again immediately, so a towline was attached and the hydrofoil started back to port.
“By the way,” Braxton told his passenger, “these two boys are Frank and Joe Hardy. Their dad's a famous detective. Maybe you've heard of him.... Boys, meet Mr. Lambert.”
The man gave a surly grunt. Frank and Joe nodded coolly. Lambert was about forty, with a gaunt, hard-looking face that seemed strangely pale. His long, thin nose was slightly crooked, as if it had once been broken.
On the way into the harbor, the Hardys asked Bill numerous questions about his interesting craft. He explained that as it got up speed, the water exerted an upward lift on the foils, just like air on the wings of a plane.
“Is this an ocean-going job?” Joe asked.
“Sure, except that it jolts a bit' in heavy seas,” Braxton replied. “Most designers use submerged foils for that type of service, but I've worked out ones that are pretty smooth.”
He added that Mr. Lambert was interested in buying the craft and that today's run had been a demonstration.
After they had pulled alongside the dock, Lambert said curtly, “I'll get in touch with you later, Braxton.” He picked up his sports jacket which had been flung on one of the seats, put it on, and scrambled up the dock ladder.
“Nice guy,” Joe muttered. “Not even a thank-you for the ride!”
Bill grinned wryly. “He's a possible customer, so I had to be nice to him. Actually, it was his fault your boat got swamped. He froze at the wheel.”
“I know—I saw you take over,” Frank said. As he spoke, Frank saw something glittering on the deck and stooped down to pick it up. “Say, is Lambert blind in one eye?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“Someone dropped a glass eye. It isn't yours, is it?”
Braxton shook his head. “Good grief, no. That thing doesn't even look wearable!”
He stared at the object in puzzlement. So did Joe. It seemed larger than a glass eye should be and had a queer-shaped pupil with reddish vein lines radiating outward.
Suddenly Joe gasped. “Jumpin' catfish, Frank!” he exclaimed. “That looks just like the eye on the blind man's card!”
CHAPTER II
Trouble on the Wire
 
 
 
 
FRANK was startled. “You're right, Joe. The eye has the same oval-shaped pupil.”
“And these veins are just like the spark lines penciled on the picture.”
Braxton was mystified. “I suppose you two know what you're talking about,” he said dryly, “but it makes no sense to me.”
The Hardys grinned. Frank explained briefly about the blind peddler's card. Then he asked if the young mechanic knew Lambert's address.
“No, and he doesn't live in Bayport,” Braxton replied. “He came here just to see the Spook. I believe he's staying at the Bayview Motel.”
“Joe and I will take the glass eye there and see if it's his,” Frank said.
The Hardys changed into swimming trunks, which they got from their car, then wrung out their drenched clothing and spread it to dry while they bailed out the
Sleuth.
By the time they were ready to start for home, the boys looked fairly presentable again.
“Good thing this wash-and-wear stuff dries so fast,” Joe said, “or we'd get a lecture from Aunt Gertrude.”
Frank chuckled. “She'd have us turning blue with pneumonia, and then bawl us out for going near such a crazy contraption as the
Sea Spook!”
The boys parked in the Hardy driveway and hurried into the house. Their pretty mother and tall, angular Aunt Gertrude Hardy had returned. Mrs. Hardy informed her sons that their father had sent a telegram saying he would not return home until the next morning.
Aunt Gertrude, though strict, was very fond of her nephews and always interested in the mysteries they were solving. “What's that card you boys left on the telephone stand?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing very important,” Frank said, his eyes twinkling. “It's just something a peddler gave us for Dad.”
“Humph.” Aunt Gertrude pursed her lips.
The boys smothered grins, knowing she had already gleaned as much from Joe's note and was curious to know more.
Mrs. Hardy laughed. “Now stop teasing, you two,” she admonished.
“Oh, it doesn't matter, Laura,” her sister-in-law said airily, and started for the kitchen.
Frank and Joe followed her and related the whole episode of the blind peddler.
“The fellow probably spotted a one-eyed murderer in town,” Miss Hardy said. “In fact, the killer may be after him and he wants your father to rescue him.”
The boys became serious. “Honestly, Aunty,” Joe said soothingly, “we did pick up a clue. It's sort of gruesome.”
Curiosity overcame Miss Hardy. “I don't scare easily. Show it to me.”
Joe took out a folded clean handkerchief and unwrapped it, disclosing the glass eye. Aunt Gertrude gasped, but quickly demanded, “Where did you get that?”
When Frank explained, Aunt Gertrude wagged her head. “This is a sinister omen. You two be careful.”
After supper the boys drove to the Bayview Motel. The manager, a fat, balding man, shook his head when they inquired for Lambert.
“Sorry, boys. You just missed him. He checked out not more'n fifteen minutes ago.” The manager frowned. “Certainly looked upset.”
“How come?” Joe asked.
“Search me. When he stopped in after dinner and told me to get his bill ready, he looked calm enough. Then about half an hour later when he came to check out, he was red in the face and acted sore at something. Kind o' worried, too.”
“Maybe he got a disturbing phone call,” Frank suggested.
Again the manager shook his head. “No—if he'd had a call, I'd know it because they all come through this switchboard here.”
Frank explained that he and Joe were the sons of Fenton Hardy, the private investigator, and asked if Lambert had left any forwarding address.
The manager leafed through the card file of registrations. “No. He left that space on his card blank.”
The boys thanked him and walked out. As they drove away, Frank said, “When Lambert went to pack, he may have discovered he'd lost the glass eye. That could be what upset him.”
“Maybe,” Joe agreed. “But so what?”
“He may go back to Braxton's boathouse to find out if he dropped it on the Sea
Spook.”
“Hey, that's an idea! Step on it, Frank!”
“There's an easier way.” Frank swung off the road toward a hamburger drive-in. “I'll give Bill a ring. He's probably still tinkering.”
Setting the brake, Frank jumped out of the convertible and hurried to the small building. He thumbed through a directory, then dialed the number on a pay telephone. Braxton answered.
“Bill, this is Frank Hardy. Has that fellow Lambert been back to your boathouse asking for the glass eye?”
“Lambert? No. I haven't seen him. Why?”
Frank hastily explained.
“You want me to stall him if he shows up, eh?” Bill said. “Okay, Frank, I'll—”
Braxton's voice broke off with a groan. There was a crashing noise as if the phone had fallen from his hand. A moment later came a click. Frank jiggled the hook frantically, but the line was dead.
He dashed out to the convertible and told Joe how the call had been cut short.
“What do you suppose happened?” Joe asked.
“I don't know—but someone hung up and I doubt if it was Bill!”
Frank sent the car roaring out of the lot. As it sped back into Bayport, the summer evening traffic seemed even worse than usual. Three red lights in a row left both boys fuming with impatience at the delay.
When they finally reached the waterfront, Frank parked and they ran to Braxton's boathouse. The shedlike structure extended over the water on piles. The dockside door was unlocked. The brothers burst in and gasped when they saw the young mechanic sprawled face down near his desk. Frank reached him first.
“Is he alive?” Joe murmured fearfully.
“Still breathing.” Frank fingered Braxton's scalp. “There's a big lump on the back of his head. Someone must have sneaked up and conked him while he was talking to me.”
The Hardys noticed signs of a hasty search. Desk drawers had been yanked open and ransacked. Blueprints lay scattered about.
“Bill's attacker wanted something pretty bad,” Joe remarked. “I wonder if it was that glass eye.”
Using a handkerchief so as not to smudge any fingerprints, Joe phoned the police and asked for an ambulance. Meanwhile, Frank was working on Braxton and soon revived him.
“You didn't see who hit you?” Frank asked.
Bill shook his head painfully. “It became stuffy in here so I opened the door. I suppose that's why I didn't hear the guy come in.”
Beyond the working platform, the
Sea
Spook lay rocking gently in its berth, enclosed by a wooden walkway on each side. The Hardys went aboard and saw that Braxton's storage lockers in the cabin also had been rifled.
A police car and an ambulance soon arrived. The intern insisted that Braxton be taken to the hospital for X-rays and observation. The police then took charge, and the boys went home. No report came during the evening and finally the brothers went to bed.
Next morning when Frank and Joe came down to breakfast, they found their father already at the table. Fenton Hardy, a tall, big-shouldered man, greeted his sons with a grin.
“When did you get back, Dad?” Joe asked eagerly.
“Flew in about an hour ago. I hear you fellows had some excitement yesterday.”
“It was pretty grim,” Frank said. He and Joe gave their father all the facts.
Mr. Hardy had the blind man's card on the table near his plate. “This must have come from Zatta,” he remarked. “Henry Zatta.”
“One of your regular informers?” Frank asked.
“Yes, he picks up a good many underworld tips for me. In fact, he's an ex-con himself.”
“He must have heard our names and spotted us as your sons,” Joe said. “That is, if his blindness is phony.”
Fenton Hardy nodded. “It's partly an act, although he is missing one eye.”
Frank and Joe exchanged glances, then Joe excused himself to hurry out to the boys' laboratory over the garage. He brought the glass eye back to the table. “Could this be Zatta's?”
Mr. Hardy studied it, then shook his head. “Too large and grotesque to be wearable.... Hmm. This eye business may have something to do with the Goggler gang. They wear spectacles with bulging eyes on all their—Say, wait! Did you say Lambert had a crooked nose?”
“That's right,” Frank answered. “Why?”
“Sounds like a hoodlum named Spotty Lemuel.”

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