The Crisscross Shadow

Table of Contents

 

 

When a man selling leather goods door-to-door steals the key to their detective father's file cabinet, Frank and Joe Hardy set out to track him down.

An odd mark on a key case which the man sold to their mother leads the teen-age sleuths to an Indian village, whose chief begs them to help him. Two strangers have claimed title to the Indians' land, the deed to which had been secretly buried by the chief's father, along with other valuable tribal possessions, shortly before he died. The only clue to the location is that a crisscross shadow marks the site when the October full moon is low in the sky.

How Frank and Joe find the missing deed and the other Ramapan treasures, how they prevent the phony leather-goods salesman from carrying out a ruthless scheme, and how they help their father solve the top-secret case he is working on for the U.S. government makes exciting reading for all fans of the Hardy boys.

Copyright © 1997, 1969, 1953, by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset
Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.
THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 69-14268

eISBN : 978-1-101-07646-0

“I WANT to speak to my nephews Frank and Joe Hardy at once,” said an excited voice on the telephone. “It's urgent.”

“Yes, Miss Hardy,” replied the manager of Bayport High's football team. “They're out on the field. I'll get 'em.”

Meanwhile, on the thirty-yard line Coach Devlin was saying, “Okay, team. Let's run through our defensive play once more.”

The eleven lined up—the regulars on defense, the scrubs facing them.

“86X,” barked Frank Hardy, captain and quarterback, as the opposing center moved over the pigskin.

The ball was snapped. At the same instant, stocky Chet Morton, the regulars' stalwart center, pulled out of the line to cover the left flank. The scrubs' halfback darted up and over the line of scrimmage.

“Tackle him, Chet, tackle him!” shouted Frank.

Chet plowed into the second-string ball carrier and brought him to the ground for no gain.

“Good going, boys,” said Coach Devlin. “I think you've got that defensive play down pretty well. Once around the field and then into the showers,” he said, dismissing them.

Frank and his brother Joe, a year younger, jogged along together. Lithe, blond-haired Joe, who played left halfback, was puffing.

“Coach really had us working on that 86X, didn't he?”

“I'll say he did,” tall, dark-haired Frank replied. “But it's going to come in mighty handy when we play Hopkinsville—”

“Frank! Joel” the manager called out. “Telephone call for you. Better hurry. Your aunt seems very excited!”

The brothers looked at each other wonderingly. Sons of Fenton Hardy, the famous detective, they were accomplished sleuths in spite of their youth. They had often received urgent calls but never in a locker room!

Joe hurried to the phone. “Hello,” he said anxiously.

“Joe, is that you?” asked a crisp feminine voice. “This is Aunt Gertrude.”

“What's up?”

Aunt Gertrude, who was staying at the Hardy home, was the boys' favorite relative. Though she did not hesitate on occasion to reprimand her nephews, they had great respect for her insight into human nature.

“There's a strange salesman in the house,” Aunt Gertrude reported. “He's trying to sell your mother some leather goods, but I don't like his looks. I'm sure he's a swindler. I've seen his picture somewhere in the papers.”

Joe whistled softly. “We'll come right home, Auntie,” he promised.

The boys did not wait to shower or change their clothes, but hurried to their convertible.

Since their father was in San Francisco on a secret mission—so secret that he had not even told the boys its nature—Frank and Joe felt a protective responsibility toward the two women at home.

As he maneuvered the sleek car through Bayport's busy streets, Frank looked puzzled.

“I don't like this at all, Joe,” he said.

“Let's take a look through the window before we go in,” Joe suggested. “You know what Dad says. A little undercover sleuthing in advance is better than barging in head-on.”

“Good idea.”

When they reached the tree-lined neighborhood where the Hardy home was located, Frank proceeded cautiously.

“We'll park here,” he said, quietly turning off the motor and gliding to the curb about three hundred feet from the house.

The boys went up a neighbor's driveway, crossed the back yard, and approached their own house from the rear.

“How about looking in the side living-room window?” Frank whispered. Joe nodded.

The boys flattened themselves against the side of the house below the window. Cautiously they lifted their heads until their eyes were on a level with the sill. A strange man, his back to them, was there alone.

Suddenly Joe gave a start and said, “He just took something off Mother's desk!”

“What is it?” Frank asked. “I can't make it out—oh, yes—it's Dad's key case!”

As the youthful detectives watched, the man, unaware that he was being observed, opened the case and quickly slipped a key off one of the rings.

The boys did not wait to see any more. They dashed around the house, unlocked the front door, and ran into the hall.

“Why, hello, boys,” a pleasant feminine voice said. Mrs. Hardy was descending the stairway. “What brings you home so early from practice—and in your football uniforms?”

“Hello, Mother!” they answered together as they followed her into the living room.

Joe burst out, “This man is what brings us here.”

“I don't understand,” she replied as the stranger stared at them with an air of surprise.

“Why did you pick up my father's key case and take a key from it?” Frank asked sharply.

“What do you mean?” the stranger demanded angrily.

“Frank! Joe!” their mother exclaimed, taken aback by her sons' actions. “You'd better apologize to Mr. Breck. I bought a new key case from him for your father.”

“And I was merely transferring the old ones to the new case while your mother went upstairs for her pocketbook,” Mr. Breck said triumphantly.

Embarrassed, the boys looked at the two cases. There were three keys in the new one.

“Here is a letter of introduction that Mr. Breck brought from Mrs. Wilson,” their mother quickly explained as she handed them a folded sheet of paper.

Her sons scanned the typewritten letter, which told what a reliable man Mr. Breck was and how reasonably he was selling fine handmade leather articles. At the bottom of the page was a signature which the boys recognized as that of an old friend of their mother and father.

As they looked up, Mr. Breck gazed straight at the boys. A taunting smile outlined the lips of the dark, burly man who was about thirty-five years old.

“No reason to get excited,” he said smoothly. “I've just been showing your mother some beautiful hand-tooled leather—”

Breck stopped speaking and looked flustered when he saw Miss Hardy in the doorway. Tall, stern Aunt Gertrude stood there glaring in unfriendly fashion. But the salesman recovered himself quickly.

“Oh another customer,” he said.

“Indeed not,” stated the boys' aunt firmly. “Laura,” she addressed her sister-in-law, “are you sure this man is—?”

“Oh, please,” Mrs. Hardy begged, greatly distressed.

Meanwhile, Joe had been silently counting the keys. He did this twice to make certain how many were there. He knew the exact number there should be because Mr. Hardy, shortly before he left, had given the keys to his wife in Joe's presence. The boy's sleuthing instinct had prompted him to count them at that time. Now one key was missing!

“Mr. Breck,” he demanded, his eyes flashing, “what did you do with a thin brass key that was in this old case?”

“Why ... why ...” the stranger stammered, hunting for words. “How dare you accuse me of stealing!”

“There's a key missing—a special one. Hand it over!” Joe insisted.

“I haven't got it, you young whippersnapper,” the man replied indignantly.