The Disappearing Floor (7 page)

As Frank stroked swiftly toward them, the frogman released his victim and swam off.

“Good grief! I hope I'm not too late!” Frank thought frantically.

Joe was limp, his head sagging as he slowly floated upward. Frank grabbed him under the arms and hauled him to the surface.

“Tony! Give us a hand!” Frank shouted as he broke water.

Tony had been watching anxiously for a sight of the Hardy boys. At Frank's call, he sent the
Napoli
gliding toward them. In a few moments they had Joe safely aboard.

“Get back to the dock! Fast!” Frank exclaimed. He positioned Joe as best he could in the bottom of the boat and quickly began applying mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

The
Napoli
went planing over the water toward shore. The jouncing made Frank's efforts doubly difficult, but by bracing himself against the side he managed to hold Joe fairly steady.

Tony cut the engine and yelled for help as he brought the boat alongside the dock. Four men assisted the boys in lifting Joe out of the
Napoli,
then laid him full length on the dock. Frank quickly resumed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

“I've called an ambulance!” someone shouted.

But Joe was already reviving. Frank breathed a silent prayer of thanks.

“Boy! You sure had a close call!” Tony said, squatting down beside Joe.

“You're telling me.” Joe grinned weakly. “I must've swallowed half of Barmet Bay!”

By the time the ambulance arrived, Joe was on his feet. He allowed the intern to examine him but refused to be taken to the hospital.

“Nothing doing. I'm okay,” he insisted.

“Well, I can't force you.” The intern grinned and turned to Frank. “At least take him home and put him to bed for a while.”

Once they were seated in the convertible and the ambulance had departed, Joe protested, “Listen, I'm not sleepy! Why should I go to bed?” he argued. “Then we'd have to tell Mom what happened. And think of the fuss Aunt Gertrude would make!”

“Okay, if you're sure you feel all right.”

As the boys walked back to the dock, Joe said, “The frogman who attacked me must have come from that cabin cruiser in the cove,” he reasoned.

“I think that cruiser pulled out before Frank and I started sun-bathing,” Tony objected.

“Joe could still be right. The cruiser could have left and arranged to pick up the frogman somewhere else,” Frank pointed out. “It's a cinch he couldn't have been lurking on shore, just waiting for us to show up. We didn't even know, ourselves, that we'd be going to that particular spot to swim.”

“I guess you're right,” Tony agreed, frowning thoughtfully. “Must've been just bad luck. The cruiser spotted us, and whoever was aboard decided this was a perfect chance to nail at least one of the Hardys.”

The boys boarded the
Napoli
and made a quick scouting trip back to the cove. The cruiser was nowhere in sight. Neither Tony nor the Hardys had paid enough attention to the craft to be able to identify it. Nor had Frank seen the frogman clearly enough to provide the police with a useful description.

The boys dressed aboard the
Napoli
and headed back to the dock. Frank and Joe then said good-by to Tony and drove home. Chet Morton's tomato-red jalopy was parked in front of the house. A girl was seated in one of the porch rockers.

“That's Iola!” Joe exclaimed as they drove up.

She came running to meet them as they got out of the car. “Oh, thank goodness!” Iola said excitedly. “I was afraid you might not get back in time!”

“Something wrong?” Frank asked.

“I think we've found the man who stole our amethyst—at least we think we know where he is!”

“Where?” Joe blurted.

Iola explained that she, Callie, and Chet had gone rock hounding again that morning in the hills outside Bayport. While they were trying to locate the spot where the girls had picked up the amethyst, they had glimpsed a man trailing them at a distance.

“Did he look like the fellow who questioned you at the gem shop?” Frank put in,

“He was skulking too far behind—and ducking out of sight whenever we looked back,” Iola said, “so we couldn't be sure.”

“Where are Chet and Callie?” Joe asked.

“They stayed behind. We made a fire and now they're having lunch—acting as if nothing's wrong. But Chet told me to sneak back to the car and get you two.”

“Okay. Hop in your jalopy and lead the way,” Frank said. “We'll follow you.”

Iola drove into the hills west of Bayport. Frank and Joe stayed close behind in their convertible. Finally the jalopy pulled off the road. The Hardys parked nearby.

“We'll have to do some walking,” Iola said.

A five-minute hike brought them to a hill overlooking a narrow ravine. Iola explained that Chet and Callie were waiting just beyond. “And the man who's been shadowing us is down there somewhere among all those rocks and shrubs—at least, he was when I left to get you.”

“A perfect setup,” Joe gloated. “Frank, suppose you and I go into the ravine at this end and flush him out? Then he'll either have to break for high ground or go right out past Chet.”

Frank agreed to the plan, and the boys wound their way down the hillside and up the floor of the ravine. Iola headed along the brow of the hill to rejoin Chet and Callie.

The Hardys spread out, searching among the brush and boulders. Twenty minutes later they emerged at the opposite end of the small canyon, their faces registering disappointment. Chet and the girls ran to meet them.

“Did you find him?” Chet asked.

Frank shook his head. “No, but there are signs he was there.”

“We spotted a trail of broken brush where someone climbed out of the ravine,” Joe added.

Chet's moonface sagged. “Rats! I thought sure we could nab him!”

“I'll bet he guessed that Iola went for help,” Callie put in, “so he decided he'd better not stay around.”

The Hardys drove home, eager to tackle their investigation of Aden Darrow. Mrs. Hardy informed them that Jack Wayne had telephoned from the airport. Frank called him back.

“Strang landed about an hour ago,” Jack reported. “I tried to reach you, but couldn't.”

“Anyone with him?” Frank inquired eagerly.

“Just the pilot, Al Hirff. That black sports car didn't show up, but another car did. A tough-looking guy met them and drove off with Strang.”

“What about Hirff?”

“Still here at the airport. I tried to strike up a conversation with him, but no luck.”

“Good work, Jack,” Frank said. “Keep trying.”

Frank passed the news to Joe. The boys ate a quick lunch of sandwiches and lemon pie, and then prepared to place a long-distance call to Western State University. Before they could do so, the telephone rang. Joe answered.

“This is Mr. Filmer at the gem shop,” said the voice at the other end.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Filmer. Is anything up?”

“Well, a man came into my shop a while ago with three stones that he wanted me to appraise. I don't know what sort of mystery you boys are working on, but I thought you might want to know—the stones were amethystsl”

JOE'S pulse quickened when he heard of this promising new lead. “We'll be right over to talk to you, Mr. Filmer!” he exclaimed.

Hanging up, he told Frank what the gem-shop proprietor had said.

“Maybe we're onto something,” Frank agreed.

Aunt Gertrude paused in the midst of trimming a pie crust as they rushed out through the kitchen door. “Land sakes! Where are you boys off to now?” she scolded. “Don't you realize you'll ruin your digestions?”

“On your cooking? Why, Aunty!” Joe grinned and ducked out before she could retort.

The boys hopped into their convertible and drove to the shop on Bay Street. Although Mr. Filmer again looked somewhat nervous, and obviously had no desire to become involved in a criminal case, he seemed eager to be helpful.

“This man who brought the stones—had you ever seen him before?” Frank inquired.

“No, and he gave no name,” Mr. Filmer replied. “The amethysts were uncut stones—quite large.”

“Genuine?”

“Oh, yes, indeed.”

“Did you ask where he got them?” Joe put in.

“Well, I tried to find out where they came from, but he was very evasive. And he wouldn't leave the stones for cutting and polishing, although I offered to do it very reasonably.”

“What did this fellow look like?” Frank asked.

“Oh, he was big and husky.” The proprietor's Adam's apple bobbed as if the thought made him uneasy. “And he was dressed rather sportily. His hair was bushy and he had on a plaid sport coat.”

Frank darted a surprised glance at Joe. The description clicked!

“Sounds like Duke Makin,” Joe muttered. Hoping for a further lead, he asked Mr. Filmer, “Did you see what kind of car he was driving?”

“I don't think he came in a car,” the proprietor replied, “although someone may have dropped him off, I suppose. But I watched when he left and I saw him get into a taxi at that stand across the street.”

“How long ago was that?” Frank asked.

“Mmm,
say half an hour.”

“Thanks, Mr. Filmer! You've been a big help!”

“Don't mention it, boys.”

Frank and Joe hurried across the street. A taxi driver was slouched in his taxi, reading a newspaper. The boys described Makin to him and asked the man if he had seen what cab driver had driven off with him.

“That was Mike, I think. Should be back here soon, unless he picked up another fare.”

The Hardys returned to their convertible to wait. They fidgeted impatiently as twenty minutes went by. At last another taxi pulled into the stand. The first driver looked up from his paper, gave the boys a two-fingered whistle, and jerked his thumb toward the other taxi. Frank and Joe strode across the street and questioned the man who had just arrived.

“Sure, I know the guy you mean,” he told them. “I took him out to some little picnic ground on Shore Road.”

“Picnic
ground?” Joe echoed in surprise.

“Yeah, it did seem like a funny place for him to get out,” the driver said. “I figured he probably planned to meet someone there.”

At Frank's request, the driver described the spot and sketched a map. Frank tipped him, and the boys hurried back to their own car.

“Let's take a look at the spot right now,” Joe proposed. “We might pick up a clue.”

“Right!” Frank took the wheel and soon their convertible was rolling along Shore Road.

In a few minutes they came to the spot the driver had described, a small clearing laid out for picnickers. A family was eating at one of the tables. Otherwise, the site was deserted.

The Hardys got out to look around. Beyond the clearing, the ground was wooded and sloped steeply down to the shore of Barmet Bay.

“I wonder what Makin was doing around here,” Joe said.

“He must have had
some
reason,” Frank said. “Maybe we can find it.”

The two boys wandered around the fringes of the picnic area, peering among the trees and shrubbery. Suddenly Joe gasped and pointed toward the water.

“Look, Frank!”

Far below, and about a hundred yards to seaward from the point of the bay at which they were standing, the shore was indented by a reedy inlet. A cabin cruiser lay anchored close to shore.

“Oh—oh! I'll bet that's the answer, all right,” Frank agreed. “Maybe it's the same cruiser the frogman came from!”

The Hardys scrambled along the brow of the slope until they were overlooking the inlet. Even here the cruiser was not completely visible. Its hull was screened by heavy clumps of reed and rushes, and the boys' view was further blocked by the thick growth cresting the slope.

“Sure picked a good place to hide,” Joe muttered. “Let's go down closer.”

The Hardys began picking their way cautiously down the steep hillside. But as the trees and brush thinned out, they themselves were exposed to view as they moved close to the cruiser. Suddenly they saw a man emerge from the cabin and cock one arm.

“Look out!” Frank cried out. “That may be a bomb he's throwing!”

The boys flattened themselves in the underbrush as an object spun through the air....
Whoosh!

“A gas grenade!” Joe yelled to his brother. The boys sprang to their feet and hurried back up the slope as the throb of a boat engine reached their ears. In seconds the hillside was filled with billowing purple smoke!

Gasping, choking, and with tears streaming from their eyes, Frank and Joe finally reached the top of the hill and ran toward the picnic ground. The family at the table stared at them in wide-eyed excitement.

“What's happening?” the man shouted.

“Some prankster in a boat down there threw a tear-gas grenade,” Frank said, so as not to alarm the group.

“Why, that's terrible! Someone should call the police!” the man's wife said.

“We'll report it,” Frank promised.

Fortunately, an offshore breeze was blowing the smoke away from the picnic ground and out onto the bay. But the smoke screen hid the cruiser completely from view.

The Hardys hurried to their car and warmed up the short-wave set. Frank contacted the Coast Guard station and the radio operator on duty promised that an effort would be made to spot the cabin cruiser. There seemed little hope of identifying it, however, among all the other craft on the bay, especially since the boys had noticed no special features, not even the cruiser's name.