Footprints Under the Window (10 page)

The Hardys had decided to reach the area before two o'clock, the time the beachcomber had arrived the day before.

Chet was waiting outside when the Hardys drove up and jumped into the car. Soon the three were heading south along the coast.

When Chet learned of his friends' trip to Micro-Eye, he looked at his pals in awe. “You really rate!” he exclaimed.

Although curious about the project, he realized that the Hardys could tell him nothing further for the present.

Half an hour later Frank parked the car in the lane leading to Barren Sands. The trio made their way swiftly through the tall grass onto the deserted beach. Soon they reached the spot where Callie had found the sea shell.

“No circle of footprints today,” Joe said.

“Let's scout the rest of the beach,” Frank suggested.

Farther along it, the boys stopped short. A double path of fresh, damp footprints, ending at the water, led to and from a circular pattern of prints!

“Look!” Joe pointed to the circle. In the center lay a small spiral shell.

“The same kind Callie found!” Chet observed. “Now what?”

“Get out of sight before the beachcomber shows up,” Frank decided. He stooped and picked up the shell. “Come on. Let's have a look!”

The three boys backtracked, brushing over their own footprints. They hid in a sandy hollow, screened by reeds and coarse shrubs.

Frank took out his penknife. As the others watched closely, he carefully worked the small blade into the shell opening. Then he heard the crisp scratch of paper.

“Something's inside.”

Slowly Frank extracted a rolled-up piece of white paper. Joe and Chet stood by breathlessly as he unfolded it.

 

 

 

“IT'S a message!” Joe cried as Frank held up the paper from the sea shell.

“What does it say?” Chet asked eagerly.

Frank read the handwritten message aloud:

Joe jumped at the first words.

“The Huella Islands!”

“But what could ‘Santilla' and ‘Colombo' mean?” Frank murmured. “They're not the names Gomez inquired about at the immigration office.”

“Beats me.” Chet shrugged. “Maybe they're—”

“Down! Get down—quick!”

At Joe's whispered warning they all ducked low. “Wh-who's coming?” Chet quavered.

“Sh! Sandy, the beachcomber.”

Cautiously the boys peered from the hollow. The ragged figure was scuffing along the beach past their hiding place. Occasionally he stopped and looked back over his shoulder.

The boys watched intently as the man started up the slope. Reaching the top, Sandy feverishly combed through the sand near the circle of footprints.

“It's—Where is it?” he shouted, looking frantically in every direction.

Finally the beachcomber scrambled down the incline. He stopped for a moment as if trying to decide where to search, then headed for the hollow. Frank quickly pocketed the shell and the boys crouched, motionless.

They could hear the man muttering as he drew near, and the sound of bushes being slapped angrily aside. Presently the muttering ceased.

Frank raised himself stealthily and looked out. Sandy was hastening up the beach.

“Come on! Let's see where he goes!”

“Whew, that was close!” Puffing hard, Chet climbed out of the hollow behind the Hardys.

Bent low, they ran forward, keeping shielded from view by clumps of high grass. Suddenly the beachcomber veered up the beach toward the road, and the next moment dropped out of sight behind a dune. Seconds later the boys heard a car start. They raced to the top of the dune and saw a red-and-white hardtop pull away from the side of the road and head in the direction of Bayport.

“There he goes!” Joe cried out.

The three dashed to the convertible. Frank took the wheel and spun out of the lane after the hardtop. He kept far enough behind so its driver would not suspect pursuit.

“That's a jazzy wagon for a beachcomber to own,” Joe remarked. “He must get good money for his sea-shell pickups.”

“I'll bet he's heading straight to the person who hired him,” said Frank. “And that person must know something about the Huella Islands.”

“And the spy plot!” Joe finished. “This note clinches it.”

Chet was skeptical. “That beachcomber doesn't seem smart enough to be a spy.”

“Maybe he isn't,” Frank replied. “Could be he doesn't even know what's in the shells.”

“You mean the gang is using Sandy as they probably did Raymond Martin,” Joe said.

Frank nodded, keeping his eyes on the red-and-white car. Soon it turned into the street which ran to the center of Bayport. The trail led through the business section of town and finally into a wealthy residential area. To the boys' surprise, their quarry turned into the drive of a hedge-bordered estate.

Frank, now a block away, pulled to the curb and the boys hopped out. Joe pointed to a gold-lettered sign at the front of the driveway which read “North Manor.”

“Orrin North's home!” he exclaimed.

Excitedly the trio hurried along the quiet street and stopped at the estate's winding drive. They saw the unkempt beachcomber rush to the front door of the brick mansion.

The boys ducked back and peered around the hedge. The door was flung open and the angry face of Orrin North appeared. “You—you fooll” he rasped. “I told you never to come here!”

He irately surveyed the grounds, then pulled the man inside and slammed the door.

“For Pete's sake!” Joe exclaimed. “North
is
tied in with the spies!”

“Apparently the shells are delivered to him at some other place,” said Frank. “Wonder where.”

The boys crept up to the house. The first-floor windows, high off the ground, were shut.

“Shall we take a peek in?” Joe proposed.

“Better not risk it—we can't overhear anything,” Frank replied.

Chet agreed. “Come on, fellows! They might spot us.”

“Wait!” Frank whispered. He went over to scrutinize a jumble of footprints in the soil beneath a side window overlooking the drive. The others joined him.

“They're probably our prints,” Chet said.

“No, they're not. Look at those cracks near the front of the sole, Joe. They're just like those of the intruder at our house!”

“You're right! Think they're North's?”

“No—unless he sneaks around his own house,” Frank murmured. “Whoever left these was trying to get in through that window.”

The Hardys were baffled. “Which means,” Joe said, “the person who took Dad's papers must also be up to something in connection with North. It doesn't make sense.”

“Figure it out later,” Chet said nervously. “Let's go!”

Before the boys could move, footsteps came from the rear. The three friends darted behind some ornamental evergreens in front of the house. A moment later the beachcomber shuffled down the driveway to his hardtop.

“Let's grab him!” Joe whispered impulsively.

Frank shook his head. “Not yet. We don't want to alert North we suspect him.”

After Sandy had left, the young sleuths waited, wondering if Orrin North would emerge. Half an hour went by with no sign of the shipowner, so the boys returned to the convertible.

“What next?” Chet asked.

“The sea-shell note,” Frank replied. “We must find out who Santilla and Colombo are.”

“I'll make a wild guess,” Chet offered. “They're men North wants kidnapped and shipped to the Huella Islands!”

“Not bad,” Frank conceded. “One of the names could even be an alias for Gomez.”

Joe took up the speculation. “Or the words ‘To Huellas' could mean the note itself is to be sent there.”

“In which case, the names might refer to people now on the islands,” Frank reasoned. “If we only knew who wrote the note!”

“Maybe Mr. Ricardo,” Joe ventured. “Another puzzle—do those names belong to spies or refugees?”

The Hardys decided to report to Mr. Dykeman and drove directly to Micro-Eye. Chet waited in the car outside the gate while the Hardys hastened into the agent's office. They showed him the shell, handed over the note, and gave complete details, including their suspicions of the man called Ricardo.

“Good work!” the agent said, returning the shell to Frank. “I'll have the note analyzed.” He frowned. “We have records of every South American refugee in the Bayport area, but Santilla and Colombo don't ring a bell.”

“Then unless they're in hiding here—they may still be on one of the islands,” Joe suggested.

“Yes. Unluckily, the dictator, Posada, is not cooperative with United States Intelligence—we'll have a rugged time finding out.”

“Are you going to question Orrin North?” Frank asked.

“Not at present. I suggest you boys play it cooL We'll keep a tail on him, in hope that he'll lead us to the whole spy nest if he is guilty. But North will be doubly alert, since he knows someone else picked up the shell.”

Joe asked about the suspected Micro-Eye employee, Pryce. Dykeman shook his head.

“The camera discovered in his jacket took the pictures on the film found in the torn piece of Martin's raincoat. Certain defects on that roll showed up on a fresh film we ran through. But Pryce still claims he knows nothing and we gave him a thorough grilling.”

Dykeman added that the camera had revealed no fingerprints. “Of course Pryce could have worn gloves. Then, again, the camera could have been planted.”

The agent had shocking news for the Hardys: Raymond Martin had disappeared.

“Disappeared!”

“Yes, in Cayenne. Martin was kept under surveillance, but nevertheless he vanished from a small hotel yesterday after he checked in.”

“Spies in Cayenne may have seized him when they found out about the torn raincoat,” Frank said.

The Hardys spoke of their planned flight to Cayenne with Jack Wayne. “We'll try to uncover some clues to Martin and to his captors.”

“Fine. You may find out more than our department could, since you can pose better as tourists. Meantime, I'll circulate a description of Ricardo. He's here illegally, I'm sure, and for no good reason.”

Back at the car, Frank handed the sea shell to Chet. “Thanks!” He grinned. “Callie and Sis will be happy.”

On the way home Joe voiced another idea. “I wouldn't be surprised if the Huella Islands
are
headquarters for this Footprints gang.”

Frank agreed. “I have another theory, too. We're pretty sure North smuggled Ricardo in—so he may be smuggling in spies from Cayenne, too.”

Chet shifted uncomfortably. “Golly, fellows. You still want to go there?”

“You bet!” Joe replied. “And to the Huellas, if possible.”

Chet heaved a sigh. “I smell trouble already.”

That evening Frank and Joe packed. Aunt Gertrude hovered about them, offering a constant stream of advice and warnings.

“Don't worry, Aunty,” Joe assured her. “We four will stick together down there.”

Frank in turn offered his aunt a suggestion. “Aunt Gertrude, maybe you'd like to visit your friend Mrs. Berter while we're gone, and compare notes on your trip.”

Miss Hardy gave him a sharp look. “You think I can't take care of myself? I'm not afraid to stay here alone, young man!”

Nevertheless she finally agreed to the idea, and made plans to leave the following day. The boys were getting ready for bed when the telephone rang. “Maybe it's Dad!” said Joe, picking up their extension phone.

The caller was Chet Morton. “Guess what!” he exclaimed. “Sis and Callie looked up that shell in a book. It's unusual all right—it's the shell of a Cayenne keyhole limpet!”

“Cayenne!” Joe repeated.

“Right.
‘Diodora cayenensis,'
and it's not native to this area!”

The Hardys were excited. One more link in the chain of espionage!

Would their visit to Cayenne reveal others?

 

 

 

FRANK, Joe, and Chet clambered excitedly out of a taxi at Bayport Airport the next morning. They tipped the driver and scooped their suitcases out of the trunk.

“There's Jack!” Joe announced, spotting the plane at the end of a runway. The boys trotted across the field.

“All set?” the pilot greeted them.

“You bet!”

The luggage was hoisted aboard, then the Hardys and Chet climbed in. Jack swung behind the controls and turned to Chet. “How's the weather forecast, Mr. Morton?”

“Doing just fine!” Chet parried. “Undercast, with blue clouds expected by dayfall.”

Amidst the laughter, the propeller clacked over, then spun at top speed. The craft took off, steadily gained altitude, and leveled off at ten thousand feet. Jack said he would land it in Cayenne the following afternoon.

Then Frank asked about the repaired wing, Jack replied, “I had her carefully checked out this morning. Also, I've been keeping a sharp lookout for visitors with machetes.”

“That's a relief!” Chet said emphatically.

Joe asked Jack if he had had anv leads on the luggage thefts at Cayenne.