A Figure in Hiding (3 page)

As soon as the Hardys finished breakfast, the boys accompanied their father to his study. He leafed quickly through his criminal file and soon produced a photograph.

“That's Lambert, all right!” Joe exclaimed. “No wonder he's called Spotty. His face here is covered with freckles.”

Mr. Hardy nodded. “He probably had them bleached off by a dermatologist.” The detective suggested that the boys try to locate Zatta, since he himself would be busy on a new case. Joe asked hopefully if this had anything to do with the theft of the Jeweled Siva. Mr. Hardy said No, saying he had been engaged to run down a swindler named Pampton.

Soon afterward, as Mr. Hardy left the house, Frank called the hospital and learned that Bill Braxton was better. A moment later the doorbell rang loud and long.

“Sufferin' cats! Who's that?” said Joe.

The boys went to answer it. A startling sight greeted them. Their visitor was a thin old man with a hearing aid. Bare from the waist up, he wore Bermuda shorts and a floppy straw hat and carried a Malacca cane.

“Out of my way, boy!” Nudging Frank aside with his cane, he rushed in and rasped, “Quick! Shut the door! They're after me!”

Frank looked out in astonishment. “There's no one after you-just a station wagon cruising along the street.”

With a moan, the old man fainted.

 

 

 

 

FRANK and Joe carried the old man to the living-room sofa.

“Who in the world is he?” said Joe.

“And who was after him?” Frank added.

Hearing the commotion, Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude came from the kitchen. Both women gasped in alarm at sight of the old man, who was breathing heavily.

Mrs. Hardy felt his pulse and Aunt Gertrude said, “Get some water.”

As Frank hastily brought a glass, the man began to revive. With one of his bony hands he fumbled in a pocket of his shorts and plucked out a bottle of pills.

“Sh-sh-shake me out t-two, son.”

Frank obeyed and the old man gulped them down. Presently his color returned and he struggled to sit up. Aunt Gertrude attempted to make him comfortable, but the old man yanked the sofa cushion from her hand.

“Leave me alone, woman!” He added in a mutter, “Confounded females! Just like my daughter! I wouldn't be in this fix if she hadn't shanghaied me to that blasted farm!”

“You're very independent,” Laura Hardy said with a smile.

The elderly man glared at her. Then, as she continued to smile, a twinkle came into his watery blue eyes and he cackled, “Yes, I am. But I can see that doesn't impress
you.”

Glancing out the window, Frank saw the station wagon cruise past again. The gold lettering on it read: DOC GRAFTON'S HEALTH FARM. He remembered hearing of the place—a luxurious resort overlooking Barmet Bay where older men of means came to regain their health.

“Say, is that where you're staying?” Frank asked. “Doc Grafton's Health Farm?”

The man's face darkened with wrath. “Doc Grafton's Vegetable Farm they should call it—or loony bin! Figured I'd go loony myself if I had to sit around there listening to my arteries harden. So I sneaked off.”

The man snorted and fished a large cigar from his pocket. He unwrapped it, bit off the tip, and lit the cigar with a gold lighter.

“You say you sneaked away from the health farm?” Joe asked.

“Uh-huh. Had my chauffeur meet me outside. Then some fellow down at the harbor told me to get in touch with the Hardy boys.... You two
are
the Hardy boys, I presume?”

“Yes, sir.” Frank introduced everyone, and the old man explained that he was Zachary Mudge, a financier and businessman from New York.

“My daughter and her husband claimed I needed a rest,” Mudge went on, “so like a fool I let 'em ship me down here to this vegetable farm. Claimed I'd have a heart attack if I didn't stay away from that stock-market ticker tape.” The elderly man's bushy gray eyebrows shot up. “Which reminds me! Have to call my broker! You, boy”—waving to Joe—“help me to the phone!”

Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude retired to the kitchen while Frank and Joe waited for their eccentric visitor to make the call. Finally he returned to the living room, contentedly trailing clouds of smoke.

As he sat down, Aunt Gertrude marched into the hall. She flung open the front door and stood vigorously fanning the hall air. Mudge grinned merrily and took another deep puff.

“You—er—were saying that you wanted to get in touch with us, sir,” Frank reminded him.

“Oh, yes. About that—what did you call it?—hydrofoil.” Mr. Mudge explained that he had watched the
Sea Spook
through binoculars the day before, and had heard several people talking about it. “Looks to me like the coming thing for water travel—maybe a good investment opportunity.”

He explained that he had had his chauffeur drive him to the waterfront to talk to the craft's designer. But someone near the boathouse had told him about the assault on Braxton and advised him to see the Hardys. Mudge said he had looked up their address and told his chauffeur to drive him to their house.

“Then I noticed that health-farm station wagon on our tail—somebody at the place must have spotted me leaving. I slipped out of the car when we stopped for a traffic light and hoofed it the rest of the way.” The elderly tycoon grimaced. “Guess I overdid things a bit.”

“Bill Braxton is still in the hospital,” Frank said. “We called just before you got here. But he should be out in a day or two. By the way, another man is interested in the
Sea Spook.”

“What's that?” Mudge stiffened, his eyes glinting suspiciously. “Who is he?”

“He gave his name as Lambert,” Frank said.

Mudge scowled. “Never heard of him.”

At this point, a limousine pulled up in front of the house. Zachary Mudge explained that he had ordered his chauffeur to pick him up here.

“Appreciate your help, boys.”

They grinned. “Glad to give it.”

As soon as Mudge had gone, Frank and Joe drove off in search of Henry Zatta. They cruised back and forth through Bayport without catching sight of the pseudo-blind man.

“Dad did say he works in other towns along the coast,” Frank reminded Joe.

“Right. Let's try Ocean City next.”

A couple of miles outside the town limits of Bayport they sighted a pudgy figure in a heavy sweat suit jogging alongside the road.

Joe gasped. “Don't tell me that's Chet Morton!”

“Working out off-season, too!” Frank chuckled. “Boy, now we've seen everything!”

Although Chet made a good lineman on the Bayport eleven, he was not noted for his physical activity. Chet's chief hobbies were food and relaxation whenever he had a chance.

The Hardys pulled up and their chum stopped to greet them. His moonface was lobster red and dripping with perspiration. Chet pulled out one end of the thick towel draped around his neck and mopped his forehead.

“You out of your mind?” Joe teased. “I thought you'd engaged a hammock for the summer.”

“I'm getting in shape,” Chet retorted. Plopping himself down on a boulder, he plucked out a candy bar, peeled off the wrapper, and began munching it hungrily.

“That chocolate bar will put you in shape,” Frank said with a grin, “like a lead balloon.”

“Aw, cut it out! I have to have some quick energy, don't I?”

“Listen, what's this roadwork all about?” Joe asked. “You're not doing it for fun.”

Chet looked smug. “Just wait and see, wise guys. Certain people needed a powerfully built young fellow for an important athletic post, and I was their natural choice.”

“Choice for what?” Joe gibed. “A before-and-after model for one of those diet ads?”

“Okay, pal. Have your laugh.” Chet got up, and this time set off at a brisker pace.

The Hardys grinned and drove on. They spent the day searching Ocean City and a number of other places but found no trace of Zatta. Finally they returned to Bayport for a late supper.

Just as they were leaving the table, the telephone rang and Joe answered. The caller was the manager of the Bayview Motel.

“That fellow Lambert just came back here and left a forwarding address for mail,” the man said. “I thought you boys might want to know.”

“We sure do!” Joe said eagerly. He copied down the address and was surprised when it turned out to be a street on the outskirts of town. “Thanks a lot.”

Joe showed the address to Frank. “Let's go see what Lambert—or Spotty Lemuel—has to say.”

“Okay, but we'd better pass this information along to Chief Collig in case he wants to follow up on what happened to Bill Braxton.”

Police Chief Collig was an old friend of the Hardys. After leaving a message for him with the police operator, Frank and Joe hurriedly started off in their convertible.

The address was on Malabar Road, a quiet street of old houses which were set well back from the pavement and screened by big trees and heavy shrubbery. Dusk had fallen as the boys cruised along slowly, aiming their spotlight at the house numbers. The one they sought—25—was visible in brass letters on a tall gate.

“Look!” Joe gasped, and Frank pulled over.

In seconds the boys were out of the car. To their surprise, a FOR SALE sign was posted on the fence. The house looked dark.

“Apparently Lemuel hasn't moved in yet,” Joe murmured. “But what about that eye?”

As the brothers walked to the gate, a figure moved on the front porch and came down the drive. He was a boy about sixteen—a wiry, cocky-looking youth in tight jeans and motorcycle boots.

He leaned on the gate and stared up and down at the Hardys with a mocking grin, his jaws chomping on a wad of gum. “Know what that means?” he said, pointing to the chalked eye.

“Maybe,” Frank said evenly. “Who are you?”

“The checker, stupid. Who d'you suppose?” the boy retorted. “Look, are you guys here for the meeting or just snooping around?”

Joe glanced at his brother. “We're here for the meeting.”

“Then let's see your pass.” As the brothers hesitated, the youth pointed to the eye again and rasped, “Come on, don't try to con me. Have you got one or haven't you?”

On a sudden hunch, Frank took the glass eye from his pocket. The boy nodded. “Okay. Go on around to the back and knock twice.”

As he spoke, he opened the gate. The Hardys entered and walked up the drive.

“Looks as though we made the grade!” Joe whispered triumphantly.

The boys' hearts were thumping as they went to the rear of the house. Here the weed-grown yard was shrouded in gloom. Joe was about to knock on the back door when Frank stopped him.

“What's the matter?”

“I don't know exactly, Joe, but there's something about this setup I don't—”

He broke off with a cry of alarm as two figures sprang at them out of the darkness! Both boys were seized and rough hands were clamped over their mouths!

 

 

 

 

THE brothers struggled wildly to break loose from the steely hands that clutched them and dug into their faces. As the two boys twisted around, they saw that the thugs were wearing nylon stocking masks drawn tightly over their heads.

Joe managed to brace himself long enough to deliver a stinging kick on the left shin of his foe. The man yelped with pain and loosened his hold. Joe promptly jerked his face free and let out a volley of piercing yells.

“Help! ... Help! ... Help!”

Frank's attacker was a thickset, barrel-chested brute. The man was scrabbling at Frank's pockets as if groping for the glass eye, which gave Frank an opportunity to wrench one arm loose. He swung a chopping right hook that caught his assailant on the side of the head.

Furious, the man let go of Frank and dealt him a stunning backhand cuff that left the boy's right ear ringing. But Frank, too, was able to shout for help.

The Hardys' cries seemed to throw their attackers into a frenzy. Joe's opponent had tried to rip his pockets, but now bent all his efforts on silencing the youth. The other man clutched Frank's neck in his huge paws and tried to throttle his yells. The brothers fought back like wildcats, kicking, punching, and clawing.

Suddenly a police siren shrilled nearby. Brakes screeched to a halt and footsteps came pounding up the drive. The thugs hurled the boys aside and raced across the yard. Vaulting a back fence, they vanished into the night. Two policemen dashed up to Frank and Joe.

“They went that way!” Frank panted. “A couple of masked men!” The officers plunged in pursuit.

“Hey, Frank! Let's not forget that kid out front!” Joe exclaimed.

The boys ran around to the front of the house, but the “lookout” had disappeared. By now, neighbors' doors were opening and heads were popping out of windows along the street. The officers soon came running back.

One said to the Hardys, “Hop in with us and we may be able to nail those hoods before they get too far away.”

Joe went with the driver while the other policeman accompanied Frank in the convertible. On the way, each of the boys gave an account of what had happened and the police driver turned in a radio alarm.

Frank kept in touch with the prowl car via the Hardys' own two-way radio. The searchers sped up and down streets, crisscrossing the whole surrounding area. But after the officers had stopped to question a number of people, the pursuit was finally given up.