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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

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“So we're taking a pleasure jaunt together,” he said, smiling, when they met him at the front desk. The three walked quickly down the front steps and got into the boys' convertible.
During the ride Frank explained about John Mead and the unusual key.
“That's weird,” Riley commented, shaking his head.
About twenty minutes out of Bayport, Frank turned off the highway and followed a side road which paralleled Barmet Bay. They drove around to the north shore, and presently came upon two large stone pillars covered with vines. The name MEAD was carved on one.
As they turned into the driveway, Joe said, “The place looks deserted to me.”
A short distance ahead of them was a clump of trees, around which the driveway wound to the stone mansion. The imposing house at the end of the deeply rutted and overgrown road stood about two hundred feet from the water, commanding an unobstructed view of Barmet Bay.
“Quite a place! Too bad it's so run-down,” Riley mused, noting the closed shutters and uncut, weed-covered lawn.
Frank pulled up close to the front entrance and parked. “Now let's see what the inside is like,” he said, getting out of the car.
The three strode up the wide stone steps, to the massive front door. Frank took the strange-looking key from his pocket. Suddenly he exclaimed in amazement:
“There's no knob on the door!”
The others stared in disbelief. “Frank,” Joe said, “there's not even a keyhole!”
CHAPTER II
The Battered Dory
 
 
 
 
FRANK, Joe, and Con Riley stared in puzzlement at the heavily carved door.
“This is ridiculous,” Frank said. “There must be a way to open it!”
“Maybe it's a swinging door,” Riley suggested. He pressed against it, but it did not budge.
“Let's have a look at the other entrances,” Frank suggested.
The Mead mansion had four outside doors, one on each side. All were ornate, but like the main entrance had no visible knobs, locks, or keyholes.
“What do you make of this?” Frank asked Joe, still shaking his head.
“Looks as if this key doesn't belong to the house after all,” Joe muttered.
“It might not even have been dropped by our alleged Mr. Mead,” Frank observed. He was thoughtful for a moment, glancing up at the windows. They were shuttered and appeared to be without hinges or fasteners.
“One thing is for sure,” he continued. “The architect who designed this place didn't like hardware. There must be a keyhole hidden in the carved designs on the doors. Let's examine them more carefully.”
“You start,” Joe replied. “I want to go down to that boathouse and look it over. Seems like a pretty nice one from here.”
He hurried along a narrow path that led from the mansion to the water. A tangle of bushes and large overgrown flower beds indicated that the grounds had once been beautiful; now they were badly neglected.
The boathouse was locked. Its side door had no knob, keyhole, or other means of opening it. The two windows had closed shutters like those on the house.
“Wonder if there's a boat inside,” Joe mused. But there was no way of finding out except by swimming under the large rolling door on the water side.
A honking came from the main house and Joe ran back to find Officer Riley with his hand on the horn.
“Sorry, boys,” he said as Frank joined them. “I have to get back on my beat!” He added, “I checked the back door and found absolutely nothing!”
“I found nothing on the east side door,” Frank reported, and then Joe told them about his quick survey of the boathouse.
The Hardys were reluctant to leave, but had no alternative. They climbed into the convertible and headed for Bayport.
When they stopped at headquarters to let Riley off, they were surprised to see their father coming down the steps. They waited to tell him about the strange doors at the Mead mansion, whose owner was reportedly dead.
“Most unusual,” he commented. “We'll certainly have to look into the matter. No knobs or keyholes, eh?” He gazed into space for a moment, then added, “Let's talk it over later. Right now I'd like to borrow your car. Mine's being repaired at the Acme Garage, and I must see a man over in Henryville.”
Frank and Joe got out and started for home on foot. They took a short cut that brought them to the back of their property. Suddenly Frank caught Joe's arm and whispered:
“Look!”
“What's up?”
Frank pointed. Crouching at the back door of the Hardy home was a man, apparently picking the lock!
As Joe started to run, Frank grabbed him by the arm. “Hold on!” he warned in a low voice.
“And let the thief get away?”
“If you rush him, he will get away. Let's sneak up on him!”
Tiptoeing swiftly across the yard, the boys reached the picklock without being heard.
“Say, what's the idea?” Frank cried out.
Startled, the man jumped and turned to face the Hardys. Bracing themselves for a fight, they were astounded when he made no move to run. Instead, he asked insolently:
“Who do you think you are?”
“We live here,” Joe replied. “And it looks as if we got here just in time, too.”
“I suppose you think I'm a burglar,” said the stranger. “You Hardys think everybody's a crook. Well, I got a perfect right to be here, so run along and catch a thief somewhere else.”
Frank's eyes flashed, and Joe could hardly keep his fists under control.
The thin, sneering young man went on, “Mrs. Hardy ordered this lock changed, and I'm here to do it.”
The boys were taken aback. Although this was a plausible answer, it struck them as peculiar, for their mother had not mentioned having any locks changed, and they knew she was not at home.
“Who sent you here?” Frank asked.
“Ben Whittaker. Does that satisfy you?”
Frank and Joe knew old Ben well. He had been Bayport's leading locksmith and hardware dealer for many years. They wondered how he could tolerate such a disagreeable employee.
A man was picking the lock on the Hardy's back door
Still suspicious, Joe asked the fellow his name and was told it was Mike Batton. Frank staved out with the workman while Joe went inside and telephoned the Whittaker shop. Ben answered. Yes, Whittaker reported, Mike Batton worked for him. and on his desk pad was an order to change the lock on the Hardvs' back door at once.
“Will you please describe Mike Batton,” Joe requested.
Mr. Whittaker's description fitted the young man perfectly. Joe went outdoors again.
“Okay, Batton,” he said. “You win. But I'm sure there's some mistake. Since you haven't started your work yet, don't bother with the lock.”
“That's okay with me,” the workman growled, and went up the walk to the street without looking back.
“What did you find out?” Frank asked his brother.
Joe told him what Ben Whittaker had said, and added, “His story seems to be on the level, but I'm still not satisfied. I wish Mother would come home so we could ask her.”
But Mrs. Hardy did not return, and after eating lunch, the boys became impatient.
“Why don't we go down and see Mr. Whittaker?” Frank suggested. “I'd like to find out more about Batton. There's just no sense in anyone trying to change a lock without even opening the door!”
“Right!” agreed Joe. “And say, we might ask Mr. Whittaker about the Mead place. Maybe he's seen the strange doors there, and knows whether the key we have fits any hidden locks in them.”
The Hardvs started down the street. They had gone only three blocks when their chubby friend Chet Morton jumped out of a yellow sedan which stopped briefly and then went on. He was munching an apple.
“Hi, fellows,” he greeted them. “I was on my way to your house. Phil gave me a ride. Going anywhere special?”
“Well, sort of,” Joe replied. “Why?”
“Put it off,” Chet insisted importantly. “I've got something to show you.”
“What is it?”
“Come with me to Water Street and you'll see,” Chet said mysteriously.
Frank winked at Joe. They were always secretly amused by their friend's great enthusiasm for any new interest. Chet lived on a farm just outside of Bayport, and when he was not helping the Hardys on a mystery, he was constantly developing any one of a dozen different hobbies.
Frank and Joe wondered what Chet was up to this time.
At Water Street their friend turned down a lane leading to the shore of Barmet Bay. Frank and Joe followed as he walked onto a dilapidated dock, stopping at the edge.
“There she is,” Chet said proudly, pointing. “Pretty swell, eh?”
Chained and padlocked to a pile was a heavy dory. It was nicked and scarred, and badly in need of paint. Altogether, the boat did not look very seaworthy. It had a motor, but the Hardys guessed from its age that it would not run.
“My craft's not as fancy as the
Sleuth,”
Chet declared, “but I can go fishing now any time I want.”
The
Sleuth
was the Hardys' sleek, powerful speedboat. They had paid for it with reward money they had received for successfully solving a past mystery.
“Do you own this boat?” Frank asked in astonishment.
“Yep. Bought 'er only an hour ago. She's the
Bloodhound!”
“How about a ride up the bay?” Joe asked, grinning.
“Sure thing,” Chet answered enthusiastically. “You fellows start the engine while I get the oars. They're in that boathouse over there. Came with the
Bloodhound
in case of emergency.”
As their friend ran off, Frank and Joe inspected the ancient motor, which had to be cranked by hand. They turned it over until their arms ached. Then they tried priming the engine with gasoline from the spare can, but it refused even to sputter.
When Chet returned and heard the bad news, he did not seem at all downcast. The boy said confidently that with a little work, the motor would go.
“Can't understand it, though,” he remarked. “That fellow assured me it was in good running order.”
“What fellow?” asked Joe.
“The one who sold me the boat.” After a moment's reflection, Chet added, “But I suppose I should have tried it first to see that everything was all right.”
Frank and Joe made no comment. They knew that Chet was a bright boy, but usually his hindsight was better than his foresight.
“Let's go for a ride, anyway,” Chet urged.
It was agreed that the boys would take turns rowing. Chet started.
Presently Frank, seated in the bow, noticed a built-in metal box. He tried to raise the lid, but it was locked.
“What's in here?” he asked.
“Don't know,” Chet replied. “Haven't looked yet.”
“Got a key?”
Sheepishly the boy admitted that none had come with the boat. He said he would be sure to ask for one when the man brought the registration and bill of sale.
“When are you going to see the fellow?” Joe asked.
“In an hour. He had to get the papers at the bank,” Chet answered, starting to puff. “How about one of you taking a turn at the oars?”
Frank got up to take Chet's place. Suddenly he was thrown off balance by the rocking of the boat. The water, which had been calm when they started out, was now very choppy. Waves slapped furiously against the side of the
Bloodhound.
Chet quickly pulled the boat around so the next wave would strike it head-on. But the old dory gave a convulsive shudder and a torrent of water came rushing into it.
“We've sprung a leak!” Joe cried.
He had hardly finished the sentence when two of the seams split wide open, and water gushed through them.
“Jump!” Frank warned. “Jump!”
As the dory began to sink, the Hardys dived overboard. Chet seemed paralyzed for the moment. Only when the water reached his waist did he rouse himself and leap from the boat.
Grimly the three set out for shore, as the
Bloodhound
sank to the bottom of Barmet Bay in twelve feet of water. Swimming was difficult in the rough sea but finally they reached the dock. Chet sat down and held his head in his hands. He was sad and chagrined, and almost exhausted.
“It's a shame,” Frank said. “Wish we could help you, Chet.”
“Guess there's nothing we can do,” the boy muttered. “All my hard-earned money gone.”
“Maybe not. The fellow who sold you the dory ought to make good on it.”

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