Read The Crisscross Shadow Online
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
The Crisscross Shadow (3 page)
“It looks as though these cases are part of some master plan. We think the same gang is involved in all of them, but so far we haven't been able to find any clues that point to the guilty persons. That's about all I can tell you,” Sam concluded.
Frank gave a long, low whistle. “Sounds like an important and dangerousâcase.”
“We're working on a mystery of our own,” put in Joe.
Briefly the boys recounted the events of the past few hours, ending with Aunt Gertrude's report of the forged letter of reference.
“That man Breck!” their aunt exclaimed. “I just know I've seen his picture in connection with something dishonest. Land sakes, I've been around detectives long enough to know a suspicious character when I see one!”
“You're better at it than I am,” Mrs. Hardy remarked ruefully. “But then, you're Fenton's sister.”
“And just the person to help us find Breck,” Frank said. “We'll go to police headquarters in the morning and look at their rogues' gallery.”
Right after breakfast the next day the boys drove her downtown. She marched purposefully into headquarters, followed by her nephews. It was obvious that Aunt Gertrude meant to find out where she had seen the thief's picture. The boys knew that it was wise to keep in the background when she was in that mood.
“Good morning, Chief,” she greeted Collig as the trio was ushered into his office.
“Aunt Gertrude wants to look at your mug file to see if she can identify Breck,” Frank informed the officer.
“Well, well, so they're making a detective out of you, too,” he joked, showing Aunt Gertrude several albums of pictures which lay on a table.
Miss Hardy leafed through the pages slowly. Suddenly she gave a start. “That looks as if it might be Breck,” she said excitedly.
“It might be,” replied Joe, peering over her shoulder, “except that it's Jerry âthe Character' Slocomb, and he's now serving time in the federal penitentiary for counterfeiting.”
“Gracious sakes,” responded Aunt Gertrude. “Well, what about him?” she asked, pointing to another photograph. “He certainly looks like Breck.”
“Yes, he does,” admitted Frank, “but that man was picked up a couple of days ago on the West Coast for forgery. That's âFancy Fingers' Finley.”
Collig laughed. “Miss Hardy, you've got to do better than that.”
“I'll find him yet,” Aunt Gertrude said with determination.
“Maybe if you come along with us to find himâ” Joe suggested half-jokingly.
“And don't think I wouldn't capture him if I did!” she retorted. “Just the same, good detectives can stay right at home and solve certain mysteries. They don't have to gallivant all over the countryside.”
For the next hour she pored over the pictures. Every once in a while she would pause at one which resembled Breck. Finally she closed the last album with a sigh of disappointment.
“He's just not here,” Aunt Gertrude said dejectedly. “But I know I've seen his picture somewhere,” she vowed.
“Maybe he was in disguise, Aunt Gertrude,” Joe suggested. He was disappointed, too, that she had not been able to put her finger on a photograph of the mysterious man, and neither he nor Frank could find him.
After telling Collig of the man's forgery, Frank asked for Breck's address.
“We'd better work quickly before he decides to leave town,” Frank said.
The officer consulted his files for a moment. “Breck's registered at the Excelsior Hotel,” he informed them, mentioning the name of a third-rate hotel in the waterfront section of Bayport.
After dropping off Aunt Gertrude, who wanted to do some shopping, the boys drove to the Excelsior.
“Have you a man named Wylie Breck staying here?” Frank asked the clerk.
The man consulted the register. “We did,” he replied after a moment, “but he checked out.”
The young detectives looked at each other in disappointment.
“I know,” said Frank. “Let's phone his lawyer Miles Kamp. Maybe he can tell us where Breck is.”
The boys hurried to a telephone booth. After a few moments, Kamp answered.
“Yes, this is Miles Kamp,” came the familiar pompous voice. “May I be of service to you?”
Frank asked where he could find Breck.
“I'm dreadfully sorry, my boy, but I can't help you at all. I haven't the vaguest idea where he went.”
As Frank hung up, he wondered if this were true. “No help from that source,” he said to Joe in disgust.
As they passed the desk again, the clerk beckoned to them. They hurried over.
“Aren't you Frank and Joe Hardy?” the man asked.
The boys admitted that they were.
“I thought so,” the clerk continued in a low tone. “I recognized you from your newspaper pictures. I didn't care much for that guy Breck. If you're tracking him down, I'll let you look through his room for any possible clues. Follow me.”
“Thanks,” Frank said.
A minute later the clerk let them into the vacant room, then started back downstairs.
The boys searched thoroughly, looking into drawers, the wastebasket, even under the mattress, but found nothing that might help them locate the mysterious leather-goods salesman.
“Looks as if we're stuck,” Joe said dejectedly as they came out of the room.
“Maybe not. There's a chambermaid. Let's see if she knows anything about Breck,” Frank suggested when he saw a woman coming down the corridor carrying a pile of linens.
The boys approached her and Frank explained that they were looking for some trace of Breck.
“Breck, Breck,” repeated the woman slowly. “Seems like I recall the feller. Hard-looking type. Shooed me out of the room once. Acted very strange.”
Suddenly her face lit up. “I do remember something!” she exclaimed. “A bit of brown wrapping paper.”
Going to a closet, she began to dig through a pile of trash. Presently the chambermaid gave a triumphant cry.
“Here it is!” she called. “I emptied this out of Breck's room.”
The boys scanned the paper hurriedly.
“I can make out a name! Philip York!” Frank exclaimed. “But the address is blurred!”
“Philip York,” his brother repeated. “I wonder if he could be a friend of Breck.”
Taking the paper to a window, Frank held it to let the light strike it obliquely. In this way, he had often deciphered smeared or smudged writing.
“I've got it,” Frank went on, reading haltingly. “Twenty-four Dock Street, Southport,” he concluded triumphantly.
The address was that of a town several miles from Bayport on Eagle Bay, where the boys had often gone cruising.
“Come on, Frank!” Joe urged excitedly. “Let's go and call on this Philip York!”
Within half an hour Frank was guiding their convertible through the crowded streets of the grimy waterfront section of Southport. Reaching Dock Street, Joe began to look at the house numbers.
“There it is!” he exclaimed. “Pull up, Frank.”
Twenty-four Dock Street was a ramshackle tenement. As the boys walked through the open front door, a stocky man dressed in dirty work clothes brushed rudely by them into the hallway.
“Frank,” Joe whispered, “he might be York.”
With a bound, the boys followed the man up the rickety stairs.
“Say, mister,” Joe called out, “we want to ask you some questions.”
The man turned around and faced them. “Who do you think you're following?” he demanded angrily.
“We want some information,” Frank said boldly.
“So you want info, do you?” the man replied. “Well, who are you and what's your business here? Get out of here before I throw you out.” He raised his arm in a threatening motion.
Undaunted, the boys held their ground.
“You'll throw nobody out,” Frank said in a quiet but determined voice. “Do you know a Wylie Breck?”
“No.”
“Are you Philip York?”
The man surveyed the boys standing shoulder to shoulder. “No, I'm not,” he answered. “What's the racket?”
Frank shrugged. “We heard they lived here. Thought we'd look 'em up.”
“Oh, that's different. Well, I never heard of Wylie Breck, but there's a Philip York on the first floor,” the stranger went on, somewhat calmed down.
The man pointed down the stairs. “He lives in that apartment. But I advise you kids to scram. You don't belong here. You'll get into trouble.” He went up the stairs without explaining further.
Frank and Joe descended the stairs. The hallway was dark and had a musty odor. They rapped on the door of York's apartment.
After a few moments' wait they heard footsteps approaching the door.
“Get set, Frank, in case it's Breck and he slams the door in our faces,” Joe whispered.
As the door was flung open the boys tensed themselves.
“What do you want?” An unshaven man, wearing a royal-blue sweater, challenged them. He was not Breck.
“We're looking for Wylie Breck and Philip York,” Frank replied quickly, edging closer to the door.
“Breck? York?” the man rasped in a foggy voice. “Never heard of 'em. What business you got in this place, anyway?” he asked.
“We want to talk to them, that's all,” Frank replied. “Maybe you've seen Breck around.”
Frank described Breck, adding that he carried a suitcase full of leather goods.
“Never saw him,” the man said.
Suddenly he raised his eyes and looked beyond the boys. Alert to danger, the boys turned.
As the door slammed behind them, they saw two dark shapes coming swiftly toward them.
“Look out!” Joe cried out.
CHAPTER IV
The Telltale Moccasin
THE Hardys were only half turned to meet the attack when the two men crashed into them, chest-high. Joe was knocked out, Frank stunned.
Frank instinctively lashed out at the men with both fists. One of the attackers sank to his knees, but the other thug, coming from behind, got a strangle hold on the boy which rendered him helpless.
The Hardys' assailants dragged them down the hallway, pushed them into a closet, and locked the door.
“Leave the key in,” a voice ordered.
It was several seconds before Joe regained his senses and remembered what had happened.
“Who could those guys have been?” Frank rammed his body against the door to open it.
“Beats me. Let's try pounding first,” Joe advised. “We don't want to pay for a broken door.”
They thumped on the panel and waited. All was still. Then they began yelling:
“Help! Help!”
Presently they heard heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Was he friend or foe?
“I'm going to tackle him whoever he is,” Joe said.
Before Frank could warn against it, the door opened and Joe charged the man outside. The two of them rolled on the floor in a heap.
“I've got him, Frank!” Joe yelled.
“Hey, lay off, fellows!” a familiar voice shouted.
“Chet Morton!” Frank exclaimed, recognizing their friend and helping him to his feet.
“Chet, how the dickens did you get here?” Joe demanded. “Gee, I'm sorry. I thought you might be one of the thugs who threw us in the closet.”
“Hm!” said Chet as he dusted himself off. “I thought you would get in trouble, so I followed you from Bayport. My jalopy can't tear like yours. I nearly lost you, but a kid on the comer told me where you went.”
“Good thing you came, Chet,” Joe replied. “Sorry I was rough with you.”
“That's okay,” Chet said lightly. “Centers ought to be ready for surprise tackles.”
“Let's talk again to that fellow in the blue sweater,” Frank proposed. “Maybe he knows who hit us.”
The trio hurried down the corridor, and Joe rapped on the door. No one answered. He pounded.
“Mighty mysterious,” Frank commented. “That fellow knew we were in trouble. If he isn't in league with them, why didn't he help us out?”
“He must be a friend of Breck,” Joe replied. “And that's why he didn't tell us that he was Philip York.”
No one came to open the door. Either the man had gone out, or for reasons of his own would not answer.
“Let's report this whole business to the Southport police,” said Frank. “There's nothing more we can do here.”
“Now you're talking,” agreed Chet. “This is a good place to stay away from.”
After they had made a full statement at headquarters, and asked the sergeant to report any developments to Chief Collig, the boys drove back to Bayport.
Frank and Joe were puzzled by the day's events, but their determination to find Breck was stronger than ever.
Arriving home, they were greeted by their mother.
“Come on, boys,” she said. “Hurry and wash. We'll eat in a few minutes.”
After dinner, which included a second helping of chocolate walnut cake, Frank said:
“Joe, I have an idea. Why don't we try tracking down the manufacturer of that key case Mother bought from Breck? In that way, perhaps we'll be able to find out who he really is.”
“Good idea. Let's start now.”
They went into their father's study, where Mrs. Hardy had put the new key case. Joe turned it over carefully in his hand. There was no name on it.
“But here's something inside,” he announced.
Imprinted on the leather, in a corner of the case, was an odd mark:
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