The Ghost at Skeleton Rock (9 page)

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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

BOOK: The Ghost at Skeleton Rock
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One of the men approached the spot where the Hardys were hiding. The boys closed the lids noiselessly and held their breaths. Through a knot-hole, Joe could make out one man's legs, scarcely inches away. Apparently he was examining the label on Joe's box!
A cold sweat broke out on the youth's forehead.
What if he opened the lid?
“Hey, come here!” called out a raspy voice.
“Qué quieres?”
said the man near Joe.
“Think I've found somethin' good—a box of fine Swiss watches! Should make a real haul!”
“Ah,
bueno!”
As the Spanish-speaking intruder moved away, Joe gave a noiseless sigh of relief.
The boys could hear muttered conversation as the thieves discussed the loot. Cautiously Frank and Joe raised the lids of their boxes. A moment later Chet and Tony lifted theirs.
They could see the figures of the two burglars silhouetted by their own flashlights. They were squatting in front of a small crate, their backs to the boys. One of them seemed to be holding a bag.
Scarcely daring to breathe, the four boys watched tensely. One of the men produced a fine saw and began cutting deftly along the label of the box containing the watches.
In a few minutes an opening was made. The thief reached in and removed the packaged watches. Then his partner began filling the box with sand and rubble from the bag to equal its previous weight.
“Okay. Now!” hissed Frank, giving the signal to attack.
Moving silently, the four boys started to climb out of their crates. Chet was the first to emerge completely. But, in his eagerness, he let the crate lid slip from his sweaty fingers.
B-a-a-ang!
Instantly the burglars sprang to their feet. “Somebody's here!” cried one of them.
The other shrilled,
“Vámonos!
Let's go!”
Clicking off their flashlights, the two thieves darted off into the darkness. But the boys snapped on their own lights and managed to pin the fleeing men for a moment in the yellow beams.
One of the thieves was heavy-set, dark, and swarthy. The other, slim and blond, bore a startling resemblance to Joe!
The Hardys became tense with excitement. Was this the contact man of the gang—the one who had chloroformed Jack Wayne back at the Bayport airfield?
“I'll guard the tunnel,” Frank told his brother. “The rest of you scatter!”
The two thieves had already taken cover among the barrels and crates.
“One of 'em's over there!” shouted Tony. But a crash of boxes indicated that their quarry was already plunging off.
Joe, Tony, and Chet lost no time in pursuing him. Soon the darkened warehouse was a scene of bedlam.
“I wonder where the watchman is,” thought Frank. “He must have been knocked out.”
Crates were banged over, piles of goods and boxes sent toppling as hunters and quarry blundered about in the darkness.
“Help! I've got him!” Chet panted, in a far corner of the warehouse.
Tony sprinted to aid him. His beam picked out the blond man, struggling in Chet's bearlike embrace. Instantly Tony tackled the fellow around the knees just as he jerked loose from Chet. The stout boy flashed his light square on the prisoner.
“It's the one who looks like Joe!” Chet cried out triumphantly.
“I
am
Joe!” howled the captive.
“Oh,
no!”
babbled Chet in nervous confusion.
Just then a yell from Frank brought the others whirling to attention. “They're getting away. Come quick!”
The three boys raced in the direction of Frank's voice. But it was too late. During the melee between Chet, Joe, and Tony, the two suspects had grabbed Frank and pinned him behind a stack of barrels. Then they had wriggled through the tunnel.
“Come on! Let's go after them!” cried Joe.
He started to crawl into the tunnel headfirst, but Tony dragged him back.
“No, Joe. Don't try it! Those guys have the advantage.”
“But we can't let 'em get away!” Joe protested in exasperation.
In the meantime, Chet had released Frank and they ran forward.
“Let's try the door!” Frank suggested. “Maybe we can nail the men when they come out the other end of the tunnel.”
He led the way eagerly toward the door. The others hurried after him, and tried to push it open.
“Locked!” he cried.
The boys hurried to a door leading to the office and let themselves outside. Back of a bench an elderly man was groggily getting to his feet.
“You the watchman here?” Frank asked.
“Sí.
I—I think—someone—knock me out.”
“You're right. Two thieves who've just robbed this place. We're after them now. Where's the exit to the tunnel?”
The dazed watchman led the boys to the marauders' point of exit, an open manhole with its cover overturned. The discovery brought fresh groans.
“Of all the rotten breaks!” Joe grumbled.
Just then Frank heard the sound of a car starting up in the distance. “There they go!” he shouted, as twin headlights swept a path through the darkness.
Joe glanced around frantically for some way to take up the chase. He spotted a small motorcycle. “Whose is that?”
“It is mine, señor,” the bewildered watchman admitted.
“May I borrow it?”
“Sí, si!
But be careful—
por favor!”
Joe dashed toward the motorcycle, leaped into the saddle, and kicked the starter. The engine sputtered to life. With a blast of exhaust, he took off after the fleeing car.
The noise of the motorcycle gave warning to the thieves that they were being followed. At top speed they careened through the darkened residential district of Santurce, then into the old town of San Juan.
Most of the way, Joe managed to keep the car clearly in view. But after passing San Crist6bal fortress on the right, he emerged into the Plaza Colón to find that the burglars' automobile was no longer in sight.
In the center of the square on a tall pillar, a bronze statue of Christopher Columbus loomed against the night sky.
“Oh, brother! If you could only talk!” Joe muttered helplessly.
Obviously the thieves had disappeared down one of the narrow, cobblestoned streets leading off the square. But which one?
Wheeling over to a parked taxi, Joe questioned the driver about a speeding car. “Ah,
sí,
señor. It went that way!” replied the driver, pointing down one of the streets.
“Thanks!
Muchas gracias!”
Joe exclaimed.
So that the warehouse thieves wouldn't hear him approaching, he parked the motorcycle near the entrance to the narrow street and then continued on foot. He had gone scarcely a hundred yards when he gasped jubilantly. Ahead in the moonlight stood the thief who resembled Joe!
He was putting something into a basket which had been lowered by rope from a balcony. Joe had seen the same method being used earlier that evening when people purchased fruit or vegetables from street vendors.
Sprinting forward, Joe tried to take the man by surprise. Unfortunately, the fellow spotted him and darted into a narrow, twisting street.
Quickly Joe reached up and managed to grab the basket. But the man on the balcony gave it a hard yank, jerking it free. The basket shot up out of Joe's grasp.
The young sleuth tried to find an entrance to the building, but apparently there was none facing the street. He retraced his steps part way to the square and found an alley which led back to the houses. Cautiously he made his way through the shadowy, musty passageway.
Counting the buildings, Joe found the one from which the basket had been lowered. It was a three-story building of pink stucco, with shuttered windows and a wrought-iron balcony on each of the two upper stories. An outside flight of steps led up to its gloomy-looking interior.
Joe started up the steps on tiptoe. But he did not get far. Suddenly he was struck on the head. Joe slumped to the ground, unconscious.
CHAPTER XII
The Tattooed Prisoner
BACK at the warehouse, Frank, Chet, and Tony waited anxiously for Joe to return. The police had come and gone. The boys had given the watchman first aid and he was now feeling better.
“Joe's been gone almost an hour,” muttered Frank, glancing worriedly at his watch.
“Why don't we get a taxi,” Tony suggested, “and see if we can find him?”
“Second the motion!” Chet responded.
But finding a taxi at that hour was not easy and the boys finally had to go to the airport to round one up. Since the thieves' car had sped away in the direction of Santurce, Frank ordered the driver to try that part of the city first. But fifteen minutes of cruising up and down the darkened streets proved fruitless.
“Take us into Old San Juan,” Frank said.
As they drove into Columbus Plaza, Chet exclaimed, “There's the motorcycle Joe borrowed!”
It was standing parked at the curb where Joe had left it, but the young sleuth was nowhere in sight. Frank paid their driver, and gave him an extra dollar to take the motorcycle back to the watchman at once.
The three boys began a search of the surrounding streets for Joe. But the hunt was unsuccessful and finally they gave up in despair.
“Guess we may as well go back to the hotel,” Frank said glumly. “But I sure hate to tell Dad that Joe's missing.”
Mr. Hardy was greatly dismayed by the news. “With the gang we're up against, anything may have happened to Joe!” he declared.
Before he could formulate a plan of action, there was a knock on the door of the hotel room.
“You are Senor Fenton Hardy?” a Puerto Rican police officer asked.
“That's right.”
“You have a son named Joe Hardy?”
“I certainly do. You have news of him?” Mr. Hardy asked anxiously.
“I regret to inform you, señor, that your son is in jail.”
The officer, expecting to hear alarmed protests from the group, was amazed to see looks of relief on their faces.
“We'll go to see him at once,” Mr. Hardy told the officer.
A police car took them to San Juan Police Headquarters. Here they learned, to their amazement, that Joe was being held for attempted burglary. A turnkey took them to his dimly lighted cell.
“There he is, senor,” said the jailer.
The blond figure inside was slumped dejectedly on his cot, a livid bruise on one temple. But at sight of Mr. Hardy and the others, he brightened and jumped to his feet.
“Am I ever glad to see
you
people!”
Mr. Hardy was about to greet his son when Chet cried out in alarm. “Look! It's not Joe! It's that fellow who resembles him!”
Chet pointed out that on the prisoner's left forearm was a pineapple tattoo! To everybody's surprise, the prisoner merely laughed.
“Had you fooled, Chet,” he said. “It's only a joke. I put the pineapple on myself with this indelible pencil I borrowed from the guard.”
Frank chuckled with relief. “You're Joe, all right. Someday that stunt may come in handy.”
“Now that you have been identified,” said Mr. Hardy, “suppose you tell us why you're here.”
Joe told about the basket incident and how he had tried to enter the house by a rear stairway. “Someone conked me. When I came to, the guy claimed I was a burglar and called the police!”
“Hmm.” Mr. Hardy regarded his son with a wry smile. “I suppose you can hardly blame the fellow for being suspicious.”
“That's if he's on the level,” said Joe. “But I have a hunch he was more interested in keeping me from finding out what was in the basket!”
“We'll check up on the place,” Mr. Hardy said.
After showing his credentials, the detective obtained Joe's release. Although the officer in charge was a bit dubious, he issued a search warrant and dispatched a police car to take the group to the house in question.
They ascended the stairs to the rear entrance and knocked. A thin old man opened the door.
The policeman said in Spanish that they had a warrant to search the house for stolen goods.
The old man seemed bewildered, but allowed them to enter. He informed them that a separate family lived on each floor. Mr. Hardy and the policeman questioned all the occupants and searched every room with the help of the boys. Nothing suspicious was found and the man who had charged Joe with burglary was not at home.
“Looks like a wild-goose chase,” Chet murmured as the searchers reached the top floor.
Frank, too, was about ready to give up when he caught sight of a small white card on the floor. He took out his handkerchief, wiped some dust off his hands, then dropped the handkerchief on the floor as if accidentally. He picked it up casually and returned the handkerchief to his pocket. A few minutes later the group left.
When they gathered later in Mr. Hardy's hotel room, the private investigator tossed his Panama hat on the bed with a sigh.
“Well, boys, it was a good try,” he told them, “but we seem to have run into a blind alley.”
Frank grinned. “Maybe not, Dad.”
He pulled out the handkerchief and extracted the small white card. “I found this on the top floor,” he explained, “but I didn't want to mention it in front of the people who lived there.”
Mr. Hardy and the others read the card in amazement. It bore the words, crudely printed by hand:
CABEZONA N
Joe whistled loudly. “It's the same code message we worked out from those dummy instructions back in Bayport!” he exclaimed. “This house may be a hideout for the gang!”

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