The Missing Chums (6 page)

—the curling waves, the sand, and even the gray, bleaching driftwood. Now and again Frank and Joe would stoop and put a handful of shells, bits of rope, or a few pebbles into the sacks.

“Some beachcombing!” Joe grinned.

At last the Hardys entered the squatters' village. The first huts were merely tarpaulins stretched across driftwood poles. But as the boys strolled along, they saw that several of the many shacks were of wood, well constructed, with solid, padlocked doors.

A few men were lounging about, smoking. Frank and Joe passed near a group roasting potatoes in hot coals before one of the huts. The men paid no attention to the Hardys as the boys moved on.

“If Chet and Biff are here, they could be in any of these shacks!” Joe muttered in a low tone. “How can we get a closer look?”

The young sleuths were walking between the water's edge and the first row of huts. Near them a man stood in the water wringing out a shirt.

“Let's drift up to the next shack,” Frank suggested.

The boys approached a solidly built shanty. Abruptly the door swung open. A thin, seedy-looking man with faded red hair stepped out in the sunlight and stared at them with hard blue eyes. As the Hardys returned the look, the fellow moved toward them.

“What are you doing here?” he challenged harshly.

“Just walking along the beach,” Joe returned in a tough-sounding voice. “Looking for junk.”

“Yeah? Well, get out of here and do it some place else. See?”

“This is a free country,” Frank retorted, also speaking in a tough tone. “We'll walk here if we feel like it.”

Instead of answering, the man reached into a back pocket and pulled out a blackjack. He lunged at Frank with the agility of a cat.

“Cut it out, Sutton!” barked a voice. The new-comer, a broad-shouldered young man, darted between Frank and his assailant. A boxer's hand chop sent the blackjack flying to the sand.

Sutton muttered under his breath, clenched his fists, and glared at the tall man. He was young and strong, with a blond crew cut.

“If you're looking for trouble, I'll give it to you,” the big fellow said meaningfully.

Sutton dropped his eyes and turned away. He retrieved his weapon and disappeared behind his shanty.

Relieved, Frank said, “Thanks a lot, Mr.—”

“Call me Alf,” was the friendly reply. “I was wading over there when I saw Sutton go for you. You'd better stay away from this place. We've had a lot of trouble lately.”

“Well, thanks again, Alf,” Frank said warmly as he shook the huge, hard hand. “You sure saved me a lump on the head. I'm Frank, and this is my brother Joe.”

The three strolled along the beach. “So there's been trouble in Shantytown lately,” Joe repeated, hoping to learn more from their new acquaintance.

“Yes. Sutton and his pals have been the ones making it, too. All they do is fight among themselves. Shantytown wouldn't be such a bad place, otherwise.”

“Do you live here, Alf?” Frank inquired.

“Me?” The man laughed good-naturedly. “No, but I work on the docks and I know some fellows who work in town occasionally and live here, so I come out a lot on my hours off.”

By now the three had reached the far edge of the colony. “I've got to see a fellow,” Alf told them. “Look out for Hank Sutton when you go back. If he tries anything, just yell for Alf—Alf Lundborg.”

The young giant's friendly act and his open face made Frank decide to trust him. “Maybe we can help you sometime, Alf,” he said. “Our name is Hardy, but we don't want anyone in Shantytown to know it.”

“Nobody'll hear it from me,” Lundborg replied. “Say, if you're going to be around for a while, why don't you eat with my friends and me?”

“We'd like that,” Frank said. “How'll we find you?”

Alf reached into his pocket. “Just listen for this,” he replied, opening his hand. In the palm lay a harmonica. “See you around,” he said and moved off.

When Alf Lundborg had gone up the beach, the brothers retraced their steps. While picking up more stones and shells, they scanned the sand carefully for anything that might belong to their missing chums. This time they took care not to venture too close to Sutton's shanty.

“There's our ‘friend,' ” Frank said in a low voice.

Stealing a glance toward the hut, Joe saw Sutton standing at one corner, talking earnestly with another man. His companion was listening with obvious impatience. He shifted his weight and suddenly turned full around. The Hardys saw that he was short in build, and had black hair combed straight back.

“That man!” Joe whispered. “It's—”

“I know!” Frank took his brother's arm and hurried him toward the beach. “It's the speedboat driver who almost rammed us! What's he doing here?”

“KEEP going,” Frank advised Joe. “If we turn around for another look, that powerboat pilot may recognize us!”

With bent heads, the young detectives shuffled along the beach between the ocean and the first line of squatters' shacks. If the stranger with the dark, combed-back hair noticed them at all, he saw only two ragged beachcombers wandering back in the direction of Bayport.

“So, the fellow who rammed us hangs around Shantytown!” Joe burst out.

“Yes,” Frank added thoughtfully, “and he's friendly with the chief troublemaker there.”

“But why should one of Sutton's pals try to ram the
Sleuth?”
Joe puzzled. “Because he found out—or suspected—we'd be investigating Shantytown?”

“Possibly,” Frank replied. “And if Chet and Biff are prisoners here, the men don't want us to find out! They'll do everything to keep us away.”

Joe whistled. “If that's true, we must find them. I'm scared about what may have happened to them.”

“Maybe we'll pick up some clues tonight,” Frank said. “It's almost suppertime. Let's go back and watch Sutton's place.”

When the boys returned to the group of shacks, they saw some of the men drifting in from work, and others tending cooking fires.

Behind Sutton's shanty was a deserted shack. Frank and Joe slipped inside and settled themselves by a broken window. Although they stayed at their post an hour, they saw no sign of activity.

“Sutton's probably eating somewhere else,” Frank said. “Let's find Alf and come back later.”

As the boys stepped outside they heard a lively tune from a harmonica. Following the sound of the music, they found Alf playing for a small group of rough-looking men, seated around a fire.

When Alf finished the song, he introduced the boys and the laborers by first names. The men looked the Hardys over and nodded.

“The stew's done,” a big red-faced man said, taking the lid from a large kettle. “Pitch in!”

As the men began to serve themselves on tin plates, Frank and Joe reached into their bags and took out the food they had brought. They unpacked a pound of frankfurters, rolls, two cans of beans, and apples.

“Help yourselves,” Frank invited cordially.

“Looks good, boys,” said the red-faced man, whose name was Lou. “Most of us are hungry enough to eat two suppers.”

By the time the last crumb had disappeared, the men had warmed up to Frank and Joe and willingly answered their seemingly casual questions about Shantytown. None of the men, however, knew what the fights were about, nor had they seen two strange boys.

“We'll keep our eyes open for 'em,” Lou volunteered. He took some driftwood from a bushel basket beside him, and threw two pieces on the fire. Then he tossed a piece of dark cloth after it.

“What's that?” Frank asked sharply. He grabbed a long stick and hooked the cloth from the blaze.

“It's just some junk I picked up,” Lou answered.

Frank dropped it to the ground and the brothers eagerly examined the piece.

“It's a sleeve from Chet's gorilla outfit!” Joe whispered excitedly.

“I thought it looked familiar,” Frank said. To Lou he said, “It's part of a costume. Where did you find this?”

“Behind Sutton's shack,” the man replied.

“Is it important?” Alf asked the boys.

“It definitely links our missing friends with Shantytown,” Frank replied, as he put the sleeve in his burlap bag. “Come on, Joe! Let's gro back to Sutton's place.”

After thanking the men for their hospitality, the boys hurried off into the darkness.

“Be careful,” Alf called after them. “Yell if you need help.”

The Hardys found the shanty dark and padlocked. They circled it cautiously, but there was no one around. Joe knocked on the door. “Chet! Biff!” Frank called. Not a sound from inside. Again Joe pounded and both boys called repeatedly.

“It's no use,” Joe said finally. “If they are inside, they're probably bound and gagged.”

“Look for an opening between the boards,” Frank instructed. The boys pulled out pencil flashlights and examined the side of the shack.

“I've found a knothole,” said Joe.

“And here's a chink. I'll shine my light in while you look through the hole.”

Joe watched the slender beam shift around the dark room. “Empty,” he declared, disappointed. “Let's look for more of Chet's or Biff's belongings.” They searched the sand around the shanty, but found nothing.

“Let's hide in the deserted shack again,” Frank suggested. “If Sutton comes back with any of his pals, we may overhear something important.”

Patiently the young detectives waited and watched, but their quarry did not return. Frank consulted his watch. “It's almost midnight. Maybe—”

“Sh!” Joe interrupted. “Listen!”

They heard footsteps and saw a dark figure approaching Sutton's shanty. The stranger knocked several times. Finally a neighbor opened his door. “You lookin' for Sutton?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied the unknown caller. “All I know is he went off in a car with a dark-haired fellow. I heard Sutton say he wouldn't come back tonight.”

Without a word the caller disappeared into the darkness. The door to the shack slammed shut.

“That's that,” Frank said in disappointment. “Let's go back to town and report to headquarters.”

“You bet. Frank, do you suppose Chet and Biff were here but have been taken away?”

“It's a good guess.”

The boys covered the mile of beach to their boat, quickly pulled off the improvised camouflage, and launched her. Frank headed down the coast toward Bayport and the Hardy boathouse. When the boys had debarked, they donned their street clothes again. Carrying their burlap bags, they emerged from the boathouse and mounted their motorcycles. It was well past midnight.

When the Hardys reached police headquarters, they were amazed to see Chief Collig in his office. He looked tired and somewhat dejected.

“I've been working night and day on the bank robbery case and the mystery of your friends,” he said. “I'm afraid that the boys have been kidnaped.”

“That's what we fear,” Frank said. He showed the gorilla head mask and sleeve of Chet's costume and told of the boys' run-in with Sutton.

“I'll send men out there to make a thorough search,” Collig said.

“We'll go with them!” Joe volunteered eagerly.

“We'd better not,” Frank countered. “Once the men at Shantytown see us with the police, we won't be able to work under cover there.”

Regretfully, Joe agreed.

Chief Collig rose, strode around the desk, and clapped each of the young sleuths on the shoulder. “Thanks, boys! You've brought in the first two leads I've had on this case,” he said. “If we find Chet and Biff, I'll call you at once.”

Frank and Joe hurried home through the silent streets. When they let themselves into the house, they saw a light in Fenton Hardy's upstairs study. Frank knocked.

“Come in,” called the detective. When his sons entered, he pushed aside some papers on his desk. “What did you find out today?”

He leaned back in his big leather chair and listened carefully as his sons gave an account of their day's progress.

When it was finished, their father said, “If Collig doesn't find Chet and Biff in Shantytown tonight, and they were kidnaped, their parents should receive ransom notes soon.”

“Perhaps they will come tomorrow,” Frank suggested. He turned to his father. “Do you think Chet and Biff's disappearance could have anything to do with the bank robbery?”

“It's possible.”

“In that case, maybe you'd let us give you a hand on the bank robbery case, Dad.”

“As a matter of fact,” the detective replied, “if Collig hadn't offered you the Shantytown problem, I would have asked your help on this one.”

Frank and Joe looked perplexed. “But the bank robbery hadn't happened then!” Joe protested.

Mr. Hardy smiled briefly. “For some time I have been working secretly to round up a certain ring of bank robbers who operate on a national scale.”

“I see,” said Frank. “And they committed the Bayport holdup?”

“I believe so. It looks like their work. I've learned that the gang is broken up into a number of teams,” Mr. Hardy explained. “Somewhere on the West Coast is the ringleader who assigns each ‘team' to rob a local bank in a different part of the country. The scheme is very well organized.”

The boys went to bed, hoping to be disturbed by a call from the police, telling them good news, but none came. In the morning Joe called headquarters, then relayed a disappointing report to his family. “The police didn't find Chet and Biff, but they picked up pieces of their costumes on piles of half-charred paper trash in different parts of Shantytown. Someone didn't know the outfits were fireproof and tried to burn them.”