Footprints Under the Window (5 page)

“Will you give us complete details?” Mr. Crothers asked. “It's important.”

Frank told the men of their experience with the
Dorado
stowaway, including his mysterious “footprints” warning. “We didn't mention this in our statement. We thought it might have to do with a private case of our father, Fenton Hardy.”

“Fenton Hardy?” Mr. Dykeman glanced at Crothers. “Please continue, boys.”

Joe related the theft of Mr. Hardy's papers.

“We've been trying to put two and two together,” Frank explained, “but we haven't been able to contact Dad. The papers must be important, if somebody wanted to steal them!”

Mr. Dykeman paced the floor. “You were right not to reveal anything that could be detrimental to your father,” he stated.

“Do
you
know where Dad is?” Joe pressed.

“Not exactly,” the agent replied. “Let me explain. I am here in Bayport to supervise security for a vitally important project.” He paused and smiled. “We owe you two boys a debt of thanks for your alertness yesterday.”

“You mean—at Micro-Eye Industries?” Frank exclaimed.

“That's right. I know you both can be trusted to keep this matter confidential. Micro-Eye is in danger of espionage by aliens, internally as well as externally. We are counting heavily on your father's help.”

“Then Dad's assignment
is
for Micro-Eye?” Joe asked excitedly.

“Yes—but as a field agent. Even Mr. Crothers and I don't know where he is. The plot we are up against appears to be extensive geographically.”

“You believe that somehow ‘footprints' are involved with this plot?” Frank queried.

The intelligence officer glanced at his associate, who nodded slightly. “I can tell you this much—we are aware of a conspiracy to uncover, and perhaps steal Micro-Eye's secret work. We believe it to be centered in South America, and directed from there, and it operates, we think, under the code name Footprints.”

“Footprints!” Joe echoed. “Then the stowaway may be part of this plot! And that phony immigration officer too!”

“We'll have to track them down before we know,” Mr. Crothers replied. “We've had our men constantly watching incoming ships and planes for people entering the country illegally, but they manage to slip in, nevertheless.”

Frank and Joe promised their full cooperation. After giving the boys a card with their secret telephone number, the two agents thanked them for the assistance. Outside the building, the Hardys hurried to their car.

“Well, at least we've found out what Dad's working on,” Joe remarked. “Hey! Do you think he's in South America?”

“Could be. I wonder if the Footprints members may have infiltrated Micro-Eye. Question is, where do the stowaway and the immigration impostor fit into the scheme?”

“And the machete men,” Joe added.

Frank remembered Scott's mention of the Huella Islands. “I'm wondering if those South American names that the stowaway asked about belong to spies or refugees.”

“Either way, he sure took a risk showing up at the immigration office,” Joe stated.

“We'd better warn Aunt Gertrude to keep an eye out for suspicious-looking South Americans,” Frank suggested.

Joe grinned. “Or vice versa.” They reached the car and headed home.

As they turned the corner at a warehouse, Frank's attention was suddenly caught by a tall, white-suited stranger crossing the street.

Frank pulled over to the curb. “That man matches the description Aunt Gertrude gave of the vanishing Mr. Ricardo!”

Joe peered out the window as the stranger stepped onto the sidewalk a few yards ahead. Suddenly the man glanced at them through dark glasses and hurried past the car.

“You're right!” Joe whispered. “Angular face and all! Do you think it's just a coincidence?”

“Maybe, but let's see where he's heading!”

The boys waited a few moments, then stepped out and followed the man. They kept a block's distance. But the stranger looked back again, and pulled his panama hat lower over his hawk-nosed face. His pace quickened.

“Looks as if he's on to us. Let's go!” Frank urged.

The white-suited man suddenly cut sharp right and disappeared down a narrow side street.

“Don't let him get out of sight!” Joe urged.

Pretense abandoned, the boys broke into a run. With Frank at his heels, Joe nimbly dodged two laborers shouldering a long metal pipe and whipped around the corner.

Joe had collided full tilt with a man, and he fell backward onto Frank. Both boys landed in a sitting position on the pavement. They looked in astonishment at the roly-poly figure of the man, who was slowly getting to his feet.

Oscar Smuff!

“Oowwww!” Groaning, the would-be investigator glared at the Hardys. “You! You! You would get in my way!”

Smuff, muttering furiously, snatched up a notebook from the sidewalk. He continued to sputter. “You Hardys! Who else would interfere just when I was on the track of conspirators!”

“Of consp—” The boys stared in dismay past the self-styled detective. Their own pursuit seemed hopeless. The side street was deserted.

“What conspirators?” Frank asked, gritting his teeth to hide his irritation.

“Don't know yet,” Smuff raged, “but I'm hot on their trail—or was until you two meddling amateurs bumped into me.”

“You sort of got in our way yourself,” Joe retorted.

Smuff ignored him. He peered around the corner, then darted off after the workers carrying the pipe. Despite their annoyance, Frank and Joe were curious and followed.

“What's up?” Joe asked. Smuff gave him a reproving look, then whipped out a pencil. His round face glowed with importance.

“The code of the underworld!” he whispered, and waddled faster. “I'm trying to break it!”

Frank frowned. “The what?”

“You'll see. Stick with me and learn something about detecting!” Smuff motioned them ahead to overhear the laborers' conversation.

“You Hardys would get in my way!” Smuff groaned

“If they don't take the pennant this year,” one was saying, “they'll never win it. The league is getting too tough.”

“Say,” the other replied, “I've got peanut butter and jelly today. What'd you bring?”

“Sardine, and a bacon and tomato.”

Smuff, perspiring heavily, frenziedly wrote in his notebook.

“Don't you get it?” he asked the boys. “That's all a secret lingo. ‘Pennant' is a munitions plot—and ‘league' is the explosive! ‘Tough' means it's hard to get!”

Frank bit off a smile. “I see. But how about the peanut butter and jelly?”

“Haven't figured ‘em out yet—the ‘sardine' means the plot'll take place at sea.” He detected Joe's grin and grimaced. “You won't laugh when I crack this case wide open.”

The workmen placed the pipe in a truck, then leaned against it and opened paper bags. Smuff edged closer as the men took out thick sandwiches. They now noticed the pudgy fellow peering curiously at them. “Want somethin', Mac?” one of the workers called out. Smuff flushed and backed away. The men shrugged and bit into their sandwiches, resuming their conversation.

Joe clapped Smuff's shoulder. “Good luck on the bacon and tomato! Hope they're not too dangerous.”

Smuff stalked off indignantly, and the Hardys returned to their car. Joe roared with laughter. “Wow, talk about wild-goose chases! ‘Underworld code'—in sandwiches!”

“Think what Oscar the Sleuth could make of a whole menu!” Frank said, chuckling.

The brothers still chafed over the disruption of their chase.

“If only we could have found out where that man was headed!” said Joe. “And if he actually is the Mr. Ricardo from Aunt Gertrude's ship.”

“He certainly wanted to get away from us,” Frank added. “It's possible Ricardo planned to disappear from the ship. And I don't like it that he quizzed Aunt Gertrude about Dad.”

The brothers' discussion ended abruptly as they approached their car and Frank said, “Flat tire!” He pointed to the scraps of rubber near the left-rear wheel. There was a gaping gash in the tire.

“Somebody did this on purpose!” he exclaimed.

Joe yanked open the front door and gasped with alarm. “Frank, look at this!”

Rolls of gouged-out stuffing covered the entire seat. Driven deeply into the driver's seat was the long blade of a black-handled machete!

As Joe grimly whipped out a handkerchief and wrapped it around the handle, a piece of paper fluttered from the seat. Pasted on it were bits of newsprint forming the message:

Joe asked angrily, “Are you thinking the same thing I am?”

“If you mean the vandals are responsible—Yes.” Frank opened the trunk and grabbed a jack. The boys rolled out the spare, changed the tire, then headed home.

“Ricardo—or whoever that stranger is—saw us park here,” Joe pointed out. “Do you think he could have doubled back and done the damage?”

Frank doubted this. “I'm sure the man wasn't carrying a machete.” He looked at Joe. “It's possible Ricardo and the vandals are in cahoots, though.”

The Hardys reached home and hurried inside. Frank glanced into the living room and gave a cry of alarm.

Aunt Gertrude lay motionless on the floor!

 

 

 

“AUNT Gertrude!”

The boys rushed to her side. With a slight shriek Miss Hardy jumped to her feet.

“Aunty, what happened?” Frank asked with relief. “Are you all right?” The tall spinster quickly removed a curtain rod stretched between two chairs.

“Of course I'm all right!” she snapped, apparently flustered at the boys' sudden entry. “Just—er—slipped and lost my balance. Knocked the wind out of me a moment.”

“Whew, you gave us a scare!” said Frank.

Aunt Gertrude walked quickly to the hi-fi set, snatched a disc from the turntable, and slipped it into an album. Frank peeked at the garish orange-and-purple cover.

“‘Limbo for Hot-spirited Latins!' Wow!”

The boys glanced at the curtain rod in their aunt's hands and grinned widely.

“Aunt Gertrude! You weren't trying to do the Limbo!” Joe exclaimed, referring to the “dance” in which one arched backward beneath a horizontal bar held lower and lower.

“The what? Nonsense!” Miss Hardy picked up a dustcloth and began vigorously polishing a table. “Silly voodoo music! I was just playing that record out of curiosity.”

Joe and Frank winked at each other as their aunt propped the curtain rod in a comer. “How about a Limbo lesson, Aunty?”

“Never you mind, Joe Hardy,” she remarked, and changed the subject. “Why, look at that dirt all over your trousers! Where on earth have you two been?”

The boys told of having seen the man they thought was Mr. Ricardo, and of their futile pursuit. Aunt Gertrude was astonished.

“You mean he really didn't disappear?”

“It's possible he just wanted it to seem that way,” Frank reasoned.

“You boys have too much imagination,” Miss Hardy scolded. “I suppose you think Mr. Ricardo is a pirate in disguise or some other kind of villain.”

The boys asked if there had been any word from Mr. Hardy.

“No. Oh, I almost forgot,” she added. “There was a telephone call for you boys.”

“Where from?” Frank asked.

“Mr. North, the shipping magnate, of all people. He called three times, and was very brusque. I almost told him a thing or two about how inefficiently his ships are run!”

“Did he leave a message?”

Miss Hardy reported that North wanted the brothers to come to his office the next morning at ten o'clock to discuss some “important business.” The boys were puzzled.

“Maybe he wants some information about the
Dorado
stowaway,” Joe said.

After supper the boys checked the machete for fingerprints. There were none.

“But look at this!” Joe exclaimed. “A Cayenne trademark on the blade! This is from South America! We must report our find to Mr. Dykeman!”

Frank took a world atlas from a bookshelf, flipped to the back index, and ran a finger down the list. “The Huella Islands,” he said, “are off the coast of Cayenne!”

“The stowaway got aboard there,” Joe said. “He could be one of the higher-ups in the gang. Anyhow, we'd better get our car fixed.”