The Secret of the Old Mill (7 page)

“Wait until Tony and Chet see this!” Joe exclaimed, when they were pulling back toward the boathouse.

“Speaking of Tony—there he is,” Frank said. Their dark-haired classmate was standing on the dock, shouting and waving to them.

Joe, who was at the wheel, brought the
Sleuth
neatly alongside. He turned off the engine as Tony rushed up.

“Don't tell me this dreamboat is yours?” he demanded in amazement.

“Nothing but,” Joe said proudly.

Tony and the brothers inspected the boat carefully, comparing her various features with the
Napoli.
They lifted the battens from the
Sleuth's
cowling and admired the powerful motor underneath.

“She's neat all right,” said Tony. “But I'll still promise you a stiff race in the
Napoli!”

“We'll take you up on it after the
Sleuth's
broken in,” Joe returned, laughing.

Tony became serious. “Say, fellows, something happened today in connection with my dad's business that I want to tell you about. Your mother said you were down here,” he explained.

“What's up?” Frank asked.

Tony's father was a building contractor and also had a construction supply yard where Tony worked during the summer. “Today I went to the bank, just before it closed, to deposit the cash and checks we took in this week,” he said. “The teller discovered that one of the bills was a counterfeit!”

“A twenty-dollar bill?” Frank guessed.

“Yes. How'd you know?”

The Hardys related Chet's experience. Tony's dark brows drew together. “I'd like to get my hands on the guy making the stuff!” he said angrily.

“So would we!” Joe stated.

The Hardys learned that the head teller had told Tony he would make a report to the Bayport police and turn the bill over to the Secret Service. “Did he explain how he could tell that the bill was a fake?” Frank asked.

“Yes,” replied Tony, and from his description, the Hardys were sure that the bill had come from the same batch as the one passed to Chet.

“Think back, Tony,” Frank urged. “Have you any idea who gave it to you—or your father?”

Tony looked doubtful. “Three days' trade—pretty hard to remember. Of course, we know most of the customers. I did ask Mike, our yardman, who helps with sales. He mentioned one purchaser he didn't know.”

Frank, eager for any possible lead, carefully questioned Tony. The Hardys learned that three days before, just at closing time, a faded green panel truck had driven into the Prito supply yard. “Mike remembers there were no markings on the truck—as if the name might have been painted out.”

“Who was in it?” Joe prompted.

“A young boy—about fourteen—was with the driver. Mike says they bought about fifty dollars' worth of old bricks and lumber. The boy paid him in assorted bills. One was a twenty. Our other cash customers had given smaller bills.”

“What did the driver look like?” Frank probed.

“Mike said he didn't notice—the fellow stayed behind the wheel. There was a last-minute rush at the yard, so the boy and Mike piled the stuff into the back of the truck. Then the driver gave the boy money to pay the bill.”

Frank and Joe wondered the same thing: Had the man driving the truck passed the bogus bill deliberately? If so, was he the one who had fooled Chet? “It seems funny he'd go to so much trouble to dump one phony twenty-dollar bill,” Joe said.

Frank agreed and added, “Besides, what would a person in league with counterfeiters want with a pile of old bricks and lumber?”

He turned to Tony. “Did Mike notice anything in particular about the boy?”

“He was tall and thin. Mike thinks he was wearing a striped shirt.”

Frank and Joe exchanged glances. “Could be Ken Blake!” Joe declared. Briefly, the Hardys explained their first encounter with the boy.

“He might have been helping pick up the load for Elekton,” Frank reasoned. “But why would a modern plant want secondhand building material? And why wouldn't they have the purchase billed to them?”

“What's more,” his brother put in, “why didn't the driver get out and help with the loading? Unless, perhaps, he wanted to stay out of sight as much as possible.”

“Too bad Mike didn't notice the truck's license number,” Tony said. “Naturally he had no reason to at the time.”

“Was there anything unusual about the truck besides the fact it wasn't marked?” Frank asked his chum.

Tony thought for a moment. “Mike did say there was a bike in the back. He had to move it out of the way.”

“Ken rides one,” Joe remarked.

“Well, Dad will be glad if you two pick up any clues to these counterfeiters,” Tony said. “He's hopping mad at being cheated, and Mike feels sore about it.”

“We'll keep our eyes open for that green truck,” Frank assured him. “The whole business sounds suspicious—though the bill could have been passed accidentally.”

“Let's question Ken Blake,” Joe proposed.

He and his brother housed the Sleuth, and the three boys started homeward. On the way they continued to speculate on the counterfeiting racket.

“Let me know if I can help you detectives,” Tony said as he turned into his street.

“Will do.”

That evening, when it grew dark, Frank and Joe told their mother and aunt that they were going out to do some investigating. Before they left, the boys had a chance to speak to their father in private about Tony's report of the counterfeit bill and green truck and their own hunches.

Mr. Hardy agreed that the purchase of lumber and bricks seemed odd, but he felt that until more positive evidence could be obtained, it was best not to approach Elekton officials on the matter.

“I guess you're right, Dad,” said Frank. “We might be way off base.”

The detective wished them luck on their sleuthing mission. The boys decided to make the trip in the
Sleuth.
They rode their motorcycles down to the boathouse, parked them, then climbed aboard the new boat. Joe took the wheel and soon the sleek craft was cutting across the bay toward the mouth of Willow River.

When they entered it, Joe throttled down and carefully navigated the stream. Meanwhile, Frank shone his flashlight on the wooded banks.

“There's the cave—ahead!” he whispered.

Joe ran the boat astern a few yards and Frank dropped anchor. The brothers waded ashore, carrying their shoes and socks.

When they reached the mouth of the cave, Joe said, “Let's investigate this place first.”

They went into the cave and moved forward to the tunnel. One glance told them that the tunnel had become impassable—it was filled with water.

“Must have been the cloudburst,” said Frank, as they emerged from the cave. “We'll have to wait until the ground dries out. At least we can take a look through the woods and the area around the mill for clues to the bowman.”

Shielding the lenses of their flashlights, so that the light beams would not be easily detected by anyone lurking in the vicinity, the boys began a thorough search of the wooded section. As they worked their way noiselessly uphill among the trees, the only sound was the eerie rattling the wind made in the leaves and branches.

Frank and Joe shone their lights beneath shrubs and rocks, and even crawled under some fallen trees. They found nothing suspicious. They were approaching the edge of the woods and could see the outline of the mill beyond. The old wheel creaked and rumbled.

Suddenly Frank whispered hoarsely, “Look! Here's something!”

Joe joined his brother, and together they examined the leather object Frank had picked up.

“An archer's finger guard,” he said.

“It may be a valuable clue to the arrow warning,” Joe said, as Frank pocketed the guard. “Let's go up to the mill,” he proposed. “Maybe the men there have seen something suspicious.”

As the boys crossed the clearing toward the gatehouse, they saw that it was in darkness.

“Probably everyone has gone to bed,” Frank remarked.

For a moment the brothers stood wondering what to do next. “Something's missing,” Joe said in a puzzled voice. “I have it! The mill wheel has stopped turning.”

“Maybe it was switched off for the night,” Frank observed.

The boys were eager to question the occupants, but decided not to awaken them.

“Let's walk around the mill,” said Frank, “and look through the woods on the other side.”

The boys had just passed the north corner of the building when, with a creaking groan, the wheel started to turn again.

“There must be something wrong with the mechanism,” Frank deduced. “The wheel hasn't been used for so many years that adapting it to work the generator may have put a strain on it.”

“We'd better let the men know it's acting up,” Joe said.

The boys retraced their steps to the mill door. As they reached it, the wheel stopped turning.

Frank and Joe stood staring off to their left where the mass of the motionless wheel was outlined against the night sky.

“Spooky, isn't it?” Joe commented.

Frank nodded, and knocked on the door. There was no response. After a short wait, he knocked again—louder this time. The sound echoed in the deep silence of the night. Still no one answered.

The Hardys waited a while longer. Finally they turned away. “Must be sound sleepers,” Joe commented. “Well, maybe they'll discover what's wrong tomorrow.”

Frank and Joe were about to resume their search for clues when they heard a loud crashing noise from the woods which bordered Willow River.

The boys dashed ahead to investigate. Entering the woods, they made their way stealthily forward, flashlights turned off. Silently they drew near the river.

After a few minutes they stopped, and listened intently. The sound was not repeated.

“Must have been an animal,” Joe whispered.

Just then they heard a rustling sound behind them and turned to look. The next instant each received a terrific blow on the back of the head. Both boys blacked out.

CHAPTER IX

WHEN Frank regained consciousness, his first thought was of his brother. He turned his throbbing head and saw that Joe was lying next to him.

“Joe!” he exclaimed anxiously.

To his relief, Joe stirred and mumbled, “W-what happened?”

“Someone conked us on the head—”

Frank broke off as he became aware of a gentle rocking motion. He sat up. Was he still dizzy or were they moving? When his mind and vision cleared, he knew they were certainly moving.

“Hey!” he said. “We're on the
Sleuth!”

Astonished, Joe raised himself and looked around. They were indeed aboard their boat—lying on the foredeck and slowly drifting down Willow River toward the bay. The anchor lay beside them.

“A fog's rolling in,” Frank said uneasily, observing white swirls of mist ahead. “Let's start 'er up before visibility gets worse.”

The boys wriggled into the cockpit and Joe pressed the starter. It would not catch. While Joe stayed at the controls, Frank climbed to the foredeck and lifted the cowling from the engine. He quickly checked to see if the distributor wires were in place. They were. There did not seem to be anything visibly wrong with the engine, but when he lifted the top off the carburetor, he found it empty.

A quick check of the gas tank revealed the cause of the trouble. The tank had been drained.

“Fine mess we're in,” he mumbled. “What was the idea?”

“The man who hit us on the head can answer that one,” Joe said bitterly. “He sure did a complete job—even took both the oars!”

“We'll have to tow her,” Frank said tersely, “to make more speed and guide her.”

While Joe stripped to his shorts, Frank quickly led a painter through one of the foredeck fair-leads.

“Take this painter,” Frank said, handing Joe the rope. “Make it fast around your shoulder and swim straight ahead. I'll unhinge one of the battens and use it as a paddle and try to keep her straight. In a few minutes I'll change places with you.”

The Hardys knew that keeping a dead weight like the
Sleuth
moving in a straight line would be a tough job. However, with Joe swimming ahead and Frank wielding the batten, they managed to make fairly steady progress.

It was slow, backbreaking work, and before they reached the bay, the boys had changed places three times. Their heads were pounding more than ever from the physical strain. Also, the fog had grown so dense that it was impossible to see very far ahead.

Frank, who was taking his turn in the water, did not know how much longer he could go on.

Suddenly Joe shouted from the boat, “There's a light! Help! Help! Ahoy! Over here!” he directed at the top of his lungs.

Gradually the light approached them. Frank clambered back into the
Sleuth
as a Harbor Police boat, making its scheduled rounds, pulled alongside.

“You're just in time!” Frank gasped to the sergeant in charge. “We're exhausted.”

“I can see that. You run out of gas?” the police officer asked.

“Worse than that. Foul play,” Frank replied.

“Tough luck,” the sergeant said. “You can tell your story when we get to town.”

The officer gave orders to his crew, and a tow-line was put on the
Sleuth.
The boys were given blankets to throw around themselves.

When the two crafts reached the Harbor Police pier, the boys went inside and gave a full account of what had happened to them and asked that the report be relayed to Chief Collig.