Mystery of Smugglers Cove (3 page)

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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

BOOK: Mystery of Smugglers Cove
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Joe shrugged. “She said she wanted to call Wester but that he was on the phone. And we saw he was when we went into his study.”
“She could have heard it ring and used it as an excuse,” Frank said, unconvinced. He parked in front of Chief Collig's office, and the boys went inside to see their old friend, who had helped them on many of their cases.
The chief, a tall, burly man with ruddy cheeks, happened to be at his desk when they entered. “Boys, what can I do for you?” he asked in a friendly tone.
Joe placed the two fingerprints from the Wester house in front of him. “We'd like to know if these match.”
The chief squinted at the young detectives. “You're on another case, aren't you? Want to tell me about it?”
The Hardys described their visit to Raymond Wester's home and mentioned Wester's suspicion that
they
had had a hand in stealing his painting.
Collig whistled. “That puts you in the hot seat, doesn't it? Well, I'll see what I can do to get you off.”
He led the way to the police crime laboratory and placed the two fingerprints under a dual microscope that he adjusted until the prints meshed at the edges. For a moment he peered intently through the eyepiece, then said, “They're not the same. See for yourselves.”
Frank and Joe, who were skilled in the science of fingerprints, took turns at the microscope.
“Morphy's print is a loop,” Joe noted. “The print from the wall is a double loop.”
“They're from two different people,” Frank agreed. “I wonder who the other one is.”
“Let's see if we have anything on that,” Collig offered. He went to his file of fingerprint cards and thumbed through them. After a few moments, he shook his head. “Nothing here. Your man is not a known local criminal. I'll wire the print to the FBI in Washington. Maybe they can identify it for you.”
The chief added that he would look into the robbery at the Wester house. The Hardys drove home feeling reassured by Collig's support.
Their father, a New York City detective turned private investigator, had just arrived a few minutes earlier.
“I know Key Blanco,” he said after hearing their story. “It's a center for smuggling in the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean. But Frank and Joe Hardy, alleged crooks! That's a new one in this family.” He chuckled.
Mrs. Hardy frowned anxiously. “I think this case is too dangerous,” she said in a worried tone.
Aunt Gertrude sniffed. “Laura, it happens all the time,” she said. “Frank and Joe can find danger anywhere, even in the house of a respectable banker.”
“Perhaps Wester's the crook,” Joe said, grinning. “He may have robbed his own painting.”
Gertrude Hardy shook her head in mock despair, then smiled. “Before you make any more clever deductions, young man, I have some chocolate cake in the kitchen for both of you.” Despite her tart manner, she was very fond of her nephews and liked to spoil them with her excellent cooking.
Some time later, the phone rang. It was Chief Collig. “I have the
FBI
report on that second fingerprint,” he told Joe, who had answered the call. “It belongs to a man named Ignaz Nitron. He once did time for burglary, and was last seen on Key Blanco. ”
“Key Blanco!” Joe exclaimed. “That's where Wester sent his painting! Thanks, Chief.”
He hung up and reported the new development to the others.
“I've heard of Nitron,” Fenton Hardy stated. “He's suspected of running a smuggling ring, but he's never been caught with the goods. Stealing the picture from the Wester home is the kind of thing he'd be involved in. Since it's a portrait of Si-m 6n Bolívar, he could easily find a wealthy buyer in Latin America.”
“The initials on the jackknife must be his!” Frank said excitedly. “Perhaps he dropped the knife when he helped carry the picture through the secret passage to the driveway!”
Joe looked puzzled. “But what's a crook from Key Blanco doing in Bayport?”
“Maybe Harrison Wester talked about the portrait and Nitron heard about it,” Frank theorized. “So he came to Bayport and grabbed it.”
“Probably with the help of Morphy,” Joe added. “And there might be a third crook. Morphy supposedly hired two couriers.”
“Now don't jump to conclusions,” his father warned. “Nitron, perhaps with the help of an accomplice, could have gotten rid of Morphy and planted your photograph in Wester's desk.”
“I doubt it,” Joe said. “Why would Morphy give the staff the day off unless he had something to hide?”
Mr. Hardy nodded slowly. “You have a point there. Anyway, it's a real puzzler. Your best bet is to go to Key Blanco and start investigating.”
“We'll go underground and pose as smugglers,” Frank suggested. “Hopefully we'll run into Nitron. ”
“And we'll keep an eye out for Morphy, too,” Joe added.
Fenton Hardy approved of the plan. However, he warned the boys to be careful.
Just then the phone rang again. Frank picked it up. It was Raymond Wester, so the young detective motioned for Joe to pick up the extension.
“I'm at the Bayport Hotel!” Wester declared irritably. “Why aren't you boys here yet?”
“Why should we be, Mr. Wester?” Frank asked, perplexed.
“Because you asked me to meet you here!” the art collector snapped.
“But—we haven't talked to you since we left your home!” Frank protested. “We never mentioned the Bayport Hotel.”
“Frank Hardy, you phoned about an hour ago,” Wester accused him. “I expected you and Joe to be here. I thought you might have found my painting. I'm in room 707. ”
Frank was mystified. Instead of arguing the point over the telephone, he just said, “Okay, we'll be right over.”
“Where did he get the idea you asked him to go to the hotel?” Joe wondered.
“Someone called him and imitated my voice,” Frank said grimly. “Come on, we'll have to check this out!”
Both boys were rushing toward the door when Mr. Hardy called them back. “You'll have to look into this, I agree,” the detective said. “But be very careful. You might be lured straight into a trap!”
4
Alligator Bait
Frank nodded thoughtfully. “You're right,” he said. “If we're not back in half an hour, come after us, will you?”
“I sure will,” his father promised, and the boys went out.
When they reached the Bayport Hotel, the desk clerk informed them that they were to call Mr. Wester instead of coming up to his room. Frank realized instantly that whoever had set them up wanted to be warned about their arrival.
“No need to,” he told the clerk casually. “We just spoke to Mr. Wester a few minutes ago.”
Quickly he and Joe went to the elevator. However, just before the doors closed, they caught a glimpse of the desk clerk dialing a number.
“He called the room anyway,” Frank said tersely as they rode to the seventh floor. A few moments later they knocked on the door of room 707. The answer was a frightening groan. Joe opened the door and the boys gasped. Raymond Wester lay on the floor, his hands tied behind his back, while two men were escaping through the open window.
They wore stocking masks over their heads. Frank and Joe noticed that one of them was heavy-set and clad in checkered pants. The other was tall and muscular and just about to climb over the sill when he saw the boys. He grabbed a lamp from the bedside table and hurled it at them. Then he followed his partner down the fire escape.
The lamp hit Joe, who lost his balance and fell to the floor next to Wester.
“Frank, follow them!” he cried.
Frank circled around his brother and the art collector and rushed to the window. Quickly he swung his legs over the sill. Beneath him, he saw the fugitives rapidly descending the fire escape. They leaped to the ground and hurried to the parking lot around the side of the building.
Moments later, Frank reached the ground and ran after them. He heard the roar of an engine, then a car shot out of the lot and hurtled directly at him!
Frank's athletic ability enabled him to leap onto a heavy wire fence, find a toehold in its empty spaces, and cling desperately to its meshes with his fingers.
The car zoomed past him with inches to spare! He saw two faces disguised by stocking masks glaring at him from the front seat before the vehicle rolled through the exit and vanished down the street.
Frank jumped down to the ground. Wow! he thought. Any closer and I'd have been sitting in the front seat with those guys!
Shaken, he reentered the hotel lobby. The clerk stared at him in surprise. “Where're
you
coming from? I thought you—”
Frank did not reply. Instead, he walked right into the elevator and rode up to the seventh floor.
In Wester's room, he found his brother and the art collector sitting on the couch waiting for him.
“Those goons escaped in a car,” Frank explained. “They almost ran me over. What happened to you, Mr. Wester?”
The retired banker looked uncomfortable and puzzled. “Well, I came to the hotel after I heard from you,” he began. “Since you boys weren't here, I phoned to find out where you were. I had hardly put down the receiver when those two men came through the window.”
“Did you recognize them?” Joe asked.
Wester shook his head. “Not with those masks on. They ordered me to tell you to leave when you called from the lobby, and threatened that my life wouldn't be worth a nickel if I didn't take you off the case.”
Nervously he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. “Then the clerk called and said you were on your way up. The men did not expect this. They panicked, bound my hands, and took off through the window.”
“Are you still suspicious of us?” Joe wanted to know.
“Why not?” Wester snapped. “You might want to get off the case and are using this setup at the hotel to make it look good. Tricked me into coming here and then sent those goons to manhandle me!”
“Then why did we come over here?” Joe demanded. “We could have stayed home and called you with an excuse instead of hotfooting it to the hotel and getting hit with a lamp.”
“Or almost run over by a car,” Frank added grimly.
Wester shrugged. “There's only one way you can make me stop suspecting you.”
“What's that?”
“Stay on the case and solve it!” the retired banker boomed.
“We will,” Frank promised. “We're headed for Key Blanco to begin our investigation.”
“That's fine. Harrison has a house on a cliff on the east side of the island overlooking Smugglers Cove. I'll phone him and say that you're coming down. ”
“Thank you,” Frank said. “We'll let you know our approximate arrival time.”
Raymond Wester nodded, then left the hotel. Frank and Joe drove to their home on Elm Street. On the way, they discussed the incident.
“I don't get it,” Joe said. “Why didn't those characters simply go to Wester's place and tell him to take us off the case? Why bother with this setup at the hotel?”
“To keep him suspicious of us,” Frank pointed out. “Remember, he still thinks
I
called him to the hotel. Those crooks expect him to believe we arranged this whole thing because we really
are
guilty. ”
“I guess you're right.”
When they arrived home, the boys took some books from their father's library into the living room and began to read about southern Florida. They discovered that Key Blanco was near Key West in the Gulf of Mexico.
“It was a pirates' lair in earlier times,” Joe read from an encyclopedia, “and today is a center for smuggling despite the efforts of the U.S. Coast Guard to end this illegal traffic.”
Frank was studying another volume. “It says here that Key Blanco has a lot of coves where smugglers run contraband ashore. That's why the coast guard has such a tough time catching them.”
Suddenly a loud noise echoed outside. Startled, the Hardys wondered if it was a shot. They relaxed as the sound was followed by a series of backfires.
Frank grinned. “That's Chet with his jalopy.”
Chet Morton was their best friend. A rotund youth who lived on a farm outside Bayport, he frequently accompanied the Hardys on their investigations. Although he would probably rate eating as his chief interest, the Hardy boys knew Chet would never let them down when they were in danger.
Joe went to the window and looked out. An old jalopy came up the street, backfiring at every turn of the wheel. Chet drove it like a cowpoke on a bucking bronco. His freckled face had a tense expression as he stopped with a jolt in front of the house and turned off the ignition.
Recognizing another friend beside Chet in the front seat, Joe said, “Biff's with him.”
Biff Hooper was the star athlete of Bayport High. He knew how to use his fists when Frank and Joe were in a tight corner and needed help, since he, too, had been in on some of the Hardys' most dangerous cases.
Biff jumped out of the car and took a few steps with his hands on his hips, pretending to limp. Seeing Joe open the door, he called out, “Get me to a doctor! I've got a slipped disk from riding in this miserable heap!”
“Take another ride,” Joe advised humorously. “Your disk will be jarred back into place.”
Chet struggled to get his bulk past the steering wheel and eased himself onto the sidewalk. “Rave on!” he told his two friends. “This is the fastest car in Bayport. I could break the sound barrier with it. ”

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