A Figure in Hiding (7 page)

The brothers, although eager to resume their sleuthing, decided to stay at home for the day in case the safecracker returned.

The next morning after breakfast the Hardy boys drove to Ocean City and asked directions to Izmir Motors. The automobile dealership was located in a low, white, modernistic building with a glass-fronted showroom. At one side was the used-car display lot. Parked in an open field at the rear were row upon row of gleaming new Torpedo sedans, station wagons, and convertibles awaiting sale.

“This outfit must do a big business,” Joe remarked.

The boys prowled around, peering at the license number of every green Torpedo sedan. Those on the new-car lot had no plates, but there was one on display among the used cars and another—evidently a salesman's demonstrator —standing near the building. Neither checked out. Around the corner, however, they spotted a third green sedan parked at the curb.

Its license number was DZ 736-421!

“Wow! Maybe we've struck oil!” Joe exclaimed.

The boys hurried into the showroom and were greeted by a dapper-looking salesman.

“We'd like to speak to the manager,” Frank said.

“Right over there in the office.”

The manager, a balding and middle-aged man with rimless glasses, was speaking on the telephone. A desk name plate identified him as H. J. Sykes, Sales Manager. As he finished talking, he gave the Hardys a cold, narrow-eyed stare. Finally he hung up. “Something I can do for you?”

Frank then began, “We're trying to trace a car, sir.”

“What for?” Sykes broke in curtly.

“Our father, Fenton Hardy, is a private investigator—it's in connection with one of his cases,” Frank explained. “I think the car we're after is parked right around the corner. It's a new green Torpedo sedan, license number DZ 736-421. Can you tell us who owns it, please?”

“No, I can't!” the manager snapped. “My time's valuable. I have other things to do than to help amateur private eyes.”

His rudeness stung Joe into retorting, “Maybe you'd rather have us go to the police!”

“The police?” Sykes cleared his throat uncomfortably and finally stood up. “Oh, very well. Wait here. I'll check our files.”

He strode to an adjoining office and returned a few minutes later. “Sorry, I can't help you. None of our personnel owns the car.”

Frank and Joe exchanged glances and Frank said, “Thanks for your trouble.”

They walked out of the showroom, feeling Sykes' eyes on their backs.

“Think he was keeping something back?” Joe muttered.

“I'd bet on it,” Frank said. “Let's go take another look at that car.”

They rounded the corner and stopped short.
The green sedan was gone!

“That creep tricked us!” Joe blurted angrily. “I'll bet he had someone drive it away while he was pretending to check license numbers!”

Frank scowled. “Maybe the car will come back, once they think we're gone. Let's stake out the place and see what happens.”

“Good idea!”

The boys drove off, past the showroom. Frank kept going until they were sure no one was tailing them. Then he circled around and parked on a side street near Izmir Motors.

“I noticed a diner right near where the green sedan was standing,” Frank said to Joe. “How about you going in there and keeping watch? I'll take that drugstore right across from the showroom.”

“Roger!”

The morning dragged by. The boys met each other from time to time to exchange reports, and switched positions occasionally. All day long they kept up their dogged watch. The showroom remained open in the evening.

At last their vigilance paid off. Shortly before nine o'clock both boys noticed the green sedan they were watching for cruise slowly around the block. In the dusk it was difficult to make out the driver's face.

Frank and Joe hastily got their convertible. As they drove back toward the showroom, they saw the green sedan suddenly speed away.

“He must have spotted us!” Joe exclaimed.

Frank gunned in pursuit and kept the car in view. The driver wove his way through the mid-town traffic. Near the outskirts of Ocean City, the Torpedo increased speed and lengthened the distance between the two cars. Frank and Joe saw by its taillights that it had turned up a side road.

By this time, darkness had fallen. Frank had switched off their headlights as they left the trafficked streets behind, so as not to be seen in the sedan's rear-view mirror.

The turnoff taken by the Torpedo was an unpaved road, with only a few widely separated street lights. One side of the road was wooded. On the other could be glimpsed the skeleton frames of several new houses under construction.

“Where'd he go?” Joe said, straining his eyes in the darkness. “Has he given us the slip?”

Frank toed the accelerator. “May as well turn on the lights,” he muttered.

As the yellow head beams illumined the road, both boys gasped. Just ahead was an open excavation!

“Look out!” Joe yelled.

Frank tried to brake and swerve but there was no time. The convertible plunged downward, its front wheels landing with a jolt as the body banged against the frame! Shaken, the Hardys climbed out onto the road.

Frank groaned. “What a mess! It'll take a tow truck to—”

Both boys whirled suddenly at the sound of rushing footsteps. Two stocking-masked figures had darted from behind the trees fringing the road! Up-raised arms swung hard, and Frank and Joe sank to the ground, unconscious!

 

 

 

 

WHEN Joe opened his eyes he found himself looking up at the night sky. It took him a moment to collect his wits. Then he realized he was lying in the road and struggled upright.

“Sufferin' snakes!” he muttered to himself. “How long have I been out? ... Oooh!” His head throbbed from the blow he had received.

A faint moan nearby drew his attention.

“Frank!” Joe sprang to his feet and hurried to his brother's assistance. “Are you okay?”

“Sure, I—I guess so.... Whew! I'm still seeing stars, though.”

Joe gave Frank a hand while he got up. Ruefully the brothers took stock of their position. Their car was nose down in the huge pothole.

“Boy, are we ever a couple of bird brains!” Frank said in disgust. “Take a look.”

He pointed to several overturned wooden barriers beside the road. Evidently they had been used to block off the excavation. Nearby lay lanterns and warning flares—all extinguished.

“The whole setup was arranged beforehand—and that green sedan led us right into the trap,” Joe said.

“Which means someone must have spotted us during the day when we were staked out at Izmir Motors,” Frank speculated.

“Right. And it could have been Sykes himself.”

The Torpedo sedan, the boys reasoned, had pulled off the road and among the trees before reaching the excavation. Then the thugs had waited for the Hardy's car to appear, hoping it would plunge into the hole.

“What do you suppose they were after?” Joe asked his brother.

“I can guess,” Frank said. “The glass eye.”

“Lucky we left it home.”

Frank tried their convertible's two-way radio and found it undamaged. He contacted the Ocean City police operator. A prowl car arrived, followed soon after by a tow truck from an all-night garage. The convertible was hauled out of the excavation and examined. Its front wheels had been jarred out of alignment and the frame needed straightening, so the Hardys had to return to Bayport by bus.

It was after midnight when they walked into their house. Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude had already gone to bed. Frank found a note in his mother's handwriting on the telephone pad.

“Hey, look at this, Joe!”

It said:
Bill Braxton tried to reach you twice this evening.

“Wonder what's up,” Joe said.

“It's probably too late to get him now. We'll have to wait until morning.”

Next day, before breakfast, Frank called Braxton's boathouse.

“Boy, I'm glad you called early!” Bill said. “How'd you two like to take a cruise to Long Point with me on the
Sea Spook?”

“Sounds terrific!” Frank said. Then he asked, “By the way, Bill, have you heard from a man named Zachary Mudge?”

“I sure did, and he told me he'd talked to you fellows. That's what this cruise is all about.”

Braxton explained that Mr. Mudge was interested in forming a partnership to put the young mechanic's hydrofoil design into production. The craft would be built by one of Mudge's present companies—the Neptune Boatworks at Long Point. First, however, he wanted Braxton to take the boat there to be looked over and tried out by Neptune's chief engineer.

“There's to be a conference at one o'clock and a trial run at three—so we ought to shove off pronto. I'd like to get there by noon and have time to grab some lunch.” Braxton added, “There's a swell beach at Long Point. You two could have a swim while I'm at the boatworks.”

An idea popped into Frank's mind. “Swell, Bill —count us in!”

Frank hurried to the table, where he and Joe excitedly discussed the cruise over breakfast. “Look!” Frank proposed. “We could hop a train at Long Point and be in New York City in less than an hour. That would give us a chance to talk to that art dealer about the Jeweled Siva and still get back in time for the trial run.”

“Keen idea!” Joe agreed.

Mrs. Hardy had no objection to the trip, but Aunt Gertrude expressed grave doubts about the seaworthiness of Braxton's “contraption.” “And what's all this about the Jeweled Siva?” she inquired, giving the boys a piercing stare.

“The Jeweled Siva is a valuable little idol from India. It was stolen,” Frank explained. “Dad's going to take the case and we're doing some preliminary legwork for him.”

“The idol has a curse on it, Aunt Gertrude!” Joe said. He proceeded to give her a blood-chilling version of the story the boys had heard from Mrs. Lunberry.

“Humph,” said Miss Hardy. “If you think I believe one word of that nonsense about a curse, you're mistaken.” But the boys could tell she was disturbed when she almost poured maple syrup into her coffee.

“What Joe told you is true, Aunty,” Frank said, straight-faced but with a twinkle. “When we were at Mrs. Lunberry's a faceless figure peered in the window.”

Mrs. Hardy became worried and begged the boys not to have anything more to do with the case. After much wheedling and reassurance, however, she was persuaded that they should continue.

“Whew!” Joe breathed as the boys started off for the boathouse. “Next time I start teasing Aunt Gertrude with any chills-and-thrills stuff remind me to keep my big mouth shut!”

“Ditto!” Frank said, grinning.

The
Sea
Spook was fueled and checked by the time they reached the bay. Soon it was scudding out of the harbor—rising on its hydrofoils as it picked up speed.

“Is the deal with Mr. Mudge all set?” Joe asked the
Spook's
skipper.

“Well, not quite. The slide-rule boys at the boatworks are going to look over my blueprints with a fine-tooth comb. Then the chief engineer will probably give this job a real workout on Long Point Sound.” Braxton added with a confident smile, “But I think I can convince him.”

The sun beat down hotly out of a cloudless sky and the Atlantic was running in calm swells as the
Sea Spook
tooled along the coast at thirty knots. Frank and Joe enjoyed the cruise immensely.

It was not yet noon when the craft docked at Long Point. The Hardys hurried off to catch their train. By ten minutes to one it was pulling into New York City. They taxied through skyscrapered canyons to Fontana's art shop in Lower Manhattan. A sign in the window said:

Inside, the store was filled with paintings, pieces of sculpture, and tapestries. A clerk directed the boys to Mr. Fontana, a tall, distinguished-looking man with graying dark hair and beard.

“Of course I have heard of the famous detective, Fenton Hardy!” he said, shaking hands with Frank and Joe. “And I am most happy to hear that he will be taking the case.”

“Will you tell us about the theft, please?” Frank asked.

Fontana related that the shop's burglar alarm had been cunningly disconnected by the thief or thieves, who had jimmied the back door.

Joe remarked, “Whoever did it must have cased this place pretty thoroughly beforehand.”

“Exactly. No doubt he was one of the many people who came into my salon to browse around during the past few weeks.”

“But you didn't notice anyone who struck you as suspicious?” Frank asked.

Fontana frowned and stroked his beard. “I recall one dark-skinned man. He wore a turban and appeared to be an East Indian. He asked many questions and fingered the Siva as if he hated to put it down. But unfortunately”—Fontana threw out his hands in despair—“I have no idea who he was.”

“Nothing was taken except the Siva?”

“Nothing at all. A policeman passing by on his beat thought he saw a glimmer of light in the shop and tried the door. He went inside, but found the place dark and empty.”

“Do you think the thieves could sell the Siva anywhere?” Joe asked.

“Definitely,” Fontana replied. “There are many collectors who would buy such an exquisite object with no questions asked. The gems alone would bring ten thousand dollars.”