Mystery of the Samurai Sword (11 page)

“It looks so dangerous!” Callie murmured.

“You're right,” said Frank. “But what a showman he is!”

Suddenly Joe became aware of a noisy hum that seemed to clash with the music. As it grew louder, he glanced questioningly at his brother. “Hey, what's that?”

“Sounds like motorcycles!”

The words were hardly out of Frank's mouth when, with an earsplitting din of exhaust, a column of motorcyclists appeared between two buildings and started to charge across the lawn. The riders were masked and leather-jacketed, and bestrode powerful black-and-chrome choppers!

“Are those guys crazy?” Joe blurted, hardly able to believe his eyes.

There were shouts and screams of panic as the audience leaped up and jostled each other in a mad rush to get out of the way. The motorcyclists roared in among them, knocking over chairs and frightening people out of their wits!

Soon the audience and orchestra were scattering in all directions as the masked riders circled around and around the quadrangle. Several of them even roared up the side ramps and across the stage, forcing Warlord and his troupe to take cover.

“Those nuts should be locked up!” Frank shouted. “Come on, Joe. Give me a hand!”

“What can we do?”

Instead of straining his voice to be heard above the engine roar, Frank merely pointed to a coiled firehose on a nearby building. Joe's face lit up.

The Hardys swiftly broke out the wide canvas hose from its wall brackets. Then, while Frank gripped the nozzle and braced himself, Joe spun the valve wheel. A powerful gusher of water shot across the quadrangle as the valve was opened.

“Hang on!” Joe shouted and grabbed the hose before it got away from Frank.

The rogue motorcyclists were enraged by the Hardys' tactic. Some tried to run down the two boys, but the blasting force of the water at pointblank range almost knocked them out of the saddle and forced them to veer away!

Frank and Joe played the hose back and forth, dousing the riders thoroughly. One by one, they scooted out of the quadrangle, rather than get soaked further. The approaching whine of police sirens sped them on their way.

Several police cars soon converged on the campus. The Hardys learned later that an alarm had been telephoned in by a college official who had witnessed the scene from a window overlooking the quadrangle. Unfortunately, the masked riders had fled at top speed before roadblocks could be set up, and there seemed little hope of collaring and identifying any of them.

“Good work, you two!” Sergeant Burton congratulated the Hardy boys. “Did you get a look at any of their faces?”

“No chance, with those masks they were wearing,” Frank replied. “But they could have been the Gung-Ho gang.”

“I'd bet on it!” said Joe.

“So would I,” the burly police sergeant agreed. “Those punks are the worst bunch of motorcycle hoods around here. But there's not much hope of proving it unless the highway patrol manages to nail one of them.”

Warlord and his troupe were willing to resume the show. But half the audience had dispersed, and the orchestra was in disarray due to scattered sheet music and several damaged instruments, so it was announced that the performance would be rescheduled at a later date.

“Sorry the show was ruined,” Frank said when they took Callie home.

“It certainly wasn't your fault,” the pretty blond girl told him with a cheerful smile. “I think it was wonderful the way you and Joe drove off that vicious gang!” Iola agreed.

After a stop at the Mortons' farm, the Hardys drove back to Elm Street. On the way, Joe remarked thoughtfully to his brother, “Think there was any special reason for that motorcycle attack?”

“Good
question,”
Frank responded. “I've been wondering the same thing myself. Breaking up the show that way was really asking for trouble with the police. Seems to me even the Gung-Ho gang wouldn't go that far just for kicks. They must've had a definite motive.”

“That's how it looks to me, too. And here's another question,” Joe went on. “Did you get the impression any of those punks were gunning for us in particular?”

“Matter of fact I did,” Frank said. “When they first showed up, I thought for a while the leader was deliberately steering our way. But there was so much confusion and milling around, he got sidetracked.”

Joe flashed his brother a quizzical glance. “So what does it all add up to?”

“If you‘reasking for a hunch, I'd say it could be more than a coincidence that this should happen right after last night's stakeout.... Check?”

“Check! In other words, Warlord helps set up a trap for whoever stole the samurai sword, so the next day his show gets wrecked for revenge!”

“And if you and I were seen last night,” Frank added, “that would be enough reason for including us in the revenge.”

“Right. Assuming our hunch about the identity of the masked riders is correct, it would also mean the Gung-Ho gang must be in cahoots with the gallery thief, who—”

As the Hardys turned up Elm Street and could see their home, Joe broke off with a slight exclamation. A familiar blue sedan was parked in front of their house. “Hey! That's Sam Radley's car. I wonder what's up?”

The boys hurried inside and found the operative chatting with their mother. Aside from a much smaller bandage than they had seen him wearing at the hospital, he seemed none the worse for wear.

“No concussion?” Frank queried as they shook hands warmly.

“Nope.” Radley grinned. “I woke up this morning raring to go, so they had to turn me loose.”

Mrs. Hardy excused herself to attend to some chores, and Sam Radley hastily briefed the two boys on the reason for his visit. He told them that ever since his release from the hospital that morning, he had been keeping watch on the waterfront cafe where he had seen the Japanese gangster meet the American.

“Did you spot the
Yakuza
again?” Joe asked eagerly.

“No, but I did spot the guy he met yesterday.” Sam related that his attempt to shadow the man had failed when his quarry leaped aboard a passing bus. “But this time I got a really good look at his face—and I was surer than ever that I'd seen him somewhere before! I drove straight home and checked my files, and sure enough I got a make!”

“Then his photo would probably be in Dad's files, too,” Frank put in.

“Of course. I'll show it to you.”

Fenton Hardy's study was lined with file cabinets bulging with dossiers on every known criminal who had come under his scrutiny. Besides data from his own cases, information had been gleaned from police and FBI sources as well as newspaper accounts.

Sam Radley quickly pulled out a picture from the K drawer and handed it to the Hardy boys. “There's the bird I'm talking about. He's an expert burglar and second-story man named Krunkel.”

The photo showed a squint-eyed, hatchet-faced man about forty years old with a receding hairline. As they studied the picture, both boys gasped.

“Hey! That's the guy we saw right after the motorcycle race!” Joe blurted.

“Right,” Frank concurred. “He's the man Len Boggs was talking to!”

Radley was keenly interested to learn that the Hardys had already come across Krunkel in their investigation of the Satoya case. He was also startled when he heard about the anonymous phone call offering to sell Warlord the stolen samurai sword, and the outcome of last night's stakeout.

“Tough break,” the private detective commented. “But at least we've got a definite lead now. I'd say this makes it pretty certain that Krunkel must figure in the case.”

Frank and Joe also felt that it confirmed their hunch that the Gung-Ho gang might be in cahoots with the criminals behind the theft of the samurai sword.

“Incidentally, I've got an idea how that gallery heist might have been pulled,” Frank added.

“Let's hear it,” said Radley.

“The thief couldn't have dropped a line from the roof of the Palmer-Glade Galleries because there are some kind of detectors or sensors up there that would've triggered the alarm. But suppose there are two thieves—and they went up separately on the roofs of the buildings on each side of Palmer-Glade.”

“Then what?”

“They heave or shoot a line from one to the other, so that it passes over the gallery building without actually touching the roof. They make it fast at both ends and let the middle of the line droop down in front of the Palmer-Glade building's facade.”

“I get it!” Joe exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “And then they simply go down the line, hand over hand, to the third-story window where they want to break in.”

“Right, or they could use a pulley with a handgrip and slide down. That would give the first man something to hang onto while he cut the pane.”

“Pretty smart,” said Radley. “I think you've hit on the answer, Frank. What's more, it ties in with Krunkel's usual M.O.”

The boys knew that among detectives M.O. stood for modus
operandi,
or a crook's known working methods.

“He generally works with a partner,” Radley explained, “and he always comes up with some cute trick to avoid setting off the alarm.”

“Does Krunkel operate in the Bayport area?” Joe inquired.

“Not that I know of. Most of his robberies have been around New York or Boston, although he pulled one job in Miami. But now that I've seen him in Shoreham two days in a row, it looks as if he's staying here. I'll check the hotels and motels in this area.”

“Good idea,” said Frank.

Soon after Radley left, the telephone rang. Joe answered. His face tensed and he beckoned his brother to listen in as a whispering voice came over the line.

“You interested in that Jap sword that got heisted in New York?”

“You could say that,” Joe replied. “Who's calling, please?”

“Never mind who I am. And don't bother trying to trace this call. I won't be on the line long enough.” The whisperer paused for effect before adding, “I just thought you might like a tip.”

“Go ahead. I'm listening.”

“Ever hear of Dobert Humber?”

“Sure. He collects rare weapons.”

“That's the guy. And he may soon be adding that stolen sword to his collection.”

“How come?” Joe asked, exchanging a startled glance with Frank.

“Because he just made a secret deal to buy it from the thief who swiped it!”

There was a click at the other end of the line as the unknown caller hung up. Joe whistled softly and put down the phone. “What do you make of that, Frank?”

“Looks like the thief couldn't make a sale to Warlord last night, so he's trying another customer.”

“Right. But how do we find out if the tip's on the level?”

“There's one simple way,” said Frank. “Let's get hold of Humber and ask him while we watch his face.”

Frank called the collector and requested an appointment. Humber was willing to see the Hardys immediately, so they drove to his house. He invited them into his sitting room.

“Mr. Humber,” Frank began, “would you have been interested in bidding on that samurai sword that was stolen from the Palmer-Glade Galleries?”

“Oh, definitely. In fact, I intended to do so. It would make a splendid addition to my collection. Why do you ask?”

“Because we got a tip that you've arranged to buy it from the thief.”

Humber's reaction to Frank's bombshell was plain to see. Surprise was written all over his face, but neither boy could see any sign of guilt.

“Why, that's the most ridiculous thing I ever heard!” Humber exclaimed. “How on earth would I be able to get in touch with the thief, when I don't even know who stole the sword? Or is he supposed to have contacted me? Just who told you this fantastic tale, anyhow?”

“An anonymous phone caller.”

“No wonder! He wouldn't dare make such an idiotic charge in public, where I could have the law on him! I'd like to get my hands on that lying sneak! I'd soon teach him not to go smearing my good name!” Their freckled host was becoming red-faced with anger as he responded to the charge.

Frank held up his hand with an apologetic smile. “Okay, you don't have to convince us, Mr. Humber. We received the call, so we got in touch with you right away to give you a chance to refute his story. Apparently whoever contacted us either has a screw loose, or has it in for you.”

“Any idea who it might be?” Joe asked.

Before Humber could answer, the phone rang. He scooped up the handset impatiently, but a few seconds later the Hardys saw his expression change dramatically.

He beckoned frantically to the boys. Frank and Joe sprang up from their chairs and bent close to listen as he held the receiver slightly away from his ear.

“You can have the sword for ten thousand in cash!” a man on the other end said.

Humber flashed a glance at Frank, who nodded.

“And to whom would I—er, pay this money?” he said into the phone.

“To me.”

“How?”

“Ever heard of Lookout Rock?”

“Hm, yes. On the outskirts of Bayport, I believe. In any case, I'm sure I can find it.”

“Do that. And be there tonight, at twelve sharp, with the money in a flight bag. Got that?”

“I think so. Midnight at Lookout Rock, and bring the ten thousand dollars in a flight bag,” Humber repeated.

“In unmarked bills!” the voice added sharply. “Now listen carefully. Wear a watch, and make sure it's adjusted to the telephone time signal. Lookout Rock's on top of a hill, but when you first arrive, just go halfway up the hillside and wait there. Then, at twelve, start walking toward the rock.”