The Shore Road Mystery (11 page)

The energetic professor agreed that his relatives had been victims either of an accident or a kidnapping, though he failed to see how news of the lost Pilgrim treasure could have reached other ears. Of the Shore Road thefts, or Slagel or Birnham, he knew little.

“Then you didn't reach Bayport until after your relatives had disappeared?” Chet asked.

“No. I heard the news over the radio. It was then that I decided to leave my car in another town and camp in the northern Bayport area. With authorities already dragneting the region for my relatives, it seemed best for me to work from the Pilgrim-clue angle. While I've had little success in decoding it yet, I feel strongly that something may have happened to them while tracking down—or being forced to track down—the clue.”

As Martin Dodd spoke, a cordial relationship began to develop between the boys and the astronomy professor.

He went on, “Jack had written to me about trying to get your help on our mystery, but I didn't know you and wanted to be extra careful.” The professor smiled. “That is why I watched you several times when I heard your voices in the woods.”

“Then it was your footprints we spotted,” said Frank, “and you who inquired about the gold in Bayport.”

Dodd nodded. “I've used a disguise whenever I went into town. I wish you and I had had more success with the black-willow clue or the plant drawing.”

Martin Dodd told the boys he was interested in astronomy and carried telescopic equipment on his trips. He now unfolded a small piece of paper and handed it to Frank. It was a photostat of a note in the same handwriting as that in the Pilgrim clue, except that it contained several numbers, angles, estimations, and the words:
“the evening ftar crefcent.”

“I owe you boys an apology,” the professor said. “I didn't give you this, which is also part of Elias Dodd's last message, and refers to the position of the planet Venus in the late summer of 1647.”

“Which might help locate the treasure site?”

“Yes. Elias Dodd attempted, before dying, to cite his position relative to that of Venus. If his estimation was accurate, it may indeed pinpoint the location.” The professor paused. “I believe I am on the verge of solving these calculations, which seem to be leading me farther east each day.”

Chet mulled over the piece of paper. “These sure are complicated numbers!”

“That is why I didn't include them with the rest of the message,” Martin Dodd replied. “The fact that he called Venus the ‘evening star' indicates its crescent was in a period of eastern elongation. As you may know, the motions of Venus are irregular, with identical phases for a given month recurring only about every eight years.”

“Then there is a deadline for solving the Pilgrim mystery!” Frank exclaimed.

“That's right, Frank, and time is running out, since this particular phase of Venus won't be seen in August again for another eight years. Boys, the progress you've made so far astonishes me. I think by working together we may find the treasure, but more important, my brother and nephew before it is too late.”

“Let's meet early tomorrow afternoon,” said Frank. “We'll come here.”

“Very good.”

On the way home Chet dozed in the back seat. When they arrived at his farm, he asked, “What's hatching, guys?”

“Some work for you. Game?” Joe said.

Chet was cagey. “Tell me first.”

“Will you try to follow Birnham's truck on its rounds today? It's big and red.”

“Oh, sure,” Chet agreed.

The Hardys arrived home to find a hearty breakfast awaiting them. As they ate, the brothers discussed the purchase in Harpertown of a used car as part of a plan for solving the case. “I'll go,” Frank offered.

Joe remained at home and greeted Chet when he stopped in before his reconnaissance errand.

“Chet! You look starved!” Aunt Gertrude observed.

“Suppose so.” He yawned. “Do feel kind of empty. But no food, thanks. I've decided I'm not so interested in land vegetation any more.”

“You mean you're going to break your diet?” Joe asked.

“Certainly not! But I think I'll become an al gologist.”

“An algologist?”

Chet brandished a green book with a picture of
the ocean on its cover. “Algology is the study
of marine vegetation—seaweed and stuff.”

Joe grinned. “By this time next year you'll be a poor fish?” Chet gave his friend a black look.

At that moment the mail arrived. One letter was addressed to the Hardy Boys. Joe showed the envelope to Chet. “Another Bridgewater postmark.” Quickly he tore it open to find a handwritten message:

“Do YOU think the message is another trick?” Chet asked as Joe studied the note.

“Could be. The handwriting's not Jack's, but it could be Mr. Dodd's. What do you think?”

Chet shrugged. “It
sounds
like Mr. Dodd, but I still think it's suspicious. You're not going to go, are you?”

Joe paced the room. “If only Frank were here!” He looked at his watch. “It's almost noon now! That doesn't give us much time to decide!”

At last he made up his mind to go to the rendezvous. “I can't afford
not
to go—wouldn't sleep tonight if I just dismissed the possibility that the Dodds really may have escaped. There isn't time to check the handwriting. Keep your fingers crossed. If you don't hear from me by four, get out to Saucer Rock with Frank as fast as possible! Meanwhile, good luck in town and don't let Birnham's driver see that you're tailing himl”

After seeing Joe off on Frank's motorcycle, Chet was called by Aunt Gertrude to the kitchen. She handed him a wrapped, warm box.

“What's this?” he asked.

“Since you're going into town, you won't mind dropping this cake off at Mrs. Bartlett's house on Kent Street, will you?”

“I'll be glad to.”

When Chet reached the business district, he pulled his jalopy over to the curb. “Guess I'll deliver the cake later,” he said to himself. Chet felt very empty. “Should've had a bigger lunch.”

He squared his shoulders and took out a list of Bayport markets supplied by local farmers. He hoped to pick up the trail of the Birnham's produce truck.

“Guess I'll start with Max's Supermarket.” From his pocket he took out some watercress and munched on it.

There was no red truck bearing the name Birnham at the large, block-long store. Chet drove on to the Food Fresh Market three blocks away. Seeing only a blue truck unloading vegetables, he headed farther down the street to a smaller store. He checked vehicles parked at the rear. No luck.

Back in his jalopy, Chet looked longingly at a pork-roll sandwich stand crowded with customers.

“Boy! I could go for a nice, juicy, well-done ...” Quickly he drove out of sight of the stand.

At Castagna's Grocery near the waterfront, Chet obtained the names of stores usually supplied by the Dodds' now jobless truck driver.

“These must be some of the places giving Birnham business now,” the youth concluded, stuffing the list into his pocket. In the car again, he spread the paper out on the front seat, moving Aunt Gertrude's cakebox over. For a moment he eyed it hungrily, then drove off.

By two-thirty he had covered five of the nine listed stores without seeing the red truck. He shut off the motor and relaxed. His stomach rumbled. “Should have eaten something at the Hardys',” he thought, and again looked at the cakebox.

Taking out a pencil, Chet crossed out the stores and markets he had already covered. He sighed wearily.

“The vegetable deliveries may be over for today. Wonder what kind of cake Aunt Gertrude made. Four places to go. Wonder ...”

He lifted the lid of the white box and sniffed. “Chocolate fudge—my favorite!” He sighed, then started the motor and proceeded to Frankel's Market.

“Birnham's truck just left here,” the manager told him. “About five to ten minutes ago. I think he goes to a place on the west side of town after us.”

“That must be the other Food Fresh store,” Chet thought. Getting into the hot car, he again sniffed the cakebox. Slipping the string off, he opened the cover, and beheld the luscious whipped chocolate frosting. His stomach growled as he wiped his forehead. “Maybe a little taste—”

Finding a large gob of frosting that had fallen off he thumbed it. Carefully he picked it up and laid it on his tongue.
“Mmm,”
he murmured.

When Chet reached the Food Fresh Market on Kennedy Street, he learned that the Birnham truck had not yet made its delivery. The man in charge of the produce department told him it was uncertain when the truck would come.

“Guess I'll wait,” Chet said, but almost immediately returned to the car. Untying the string again, he took a small dab of frosting.

After half and hour Chet got out, stretched, and paced back and forth in front of a restaurant. Then he got back in. He felt weak with hunger.

The car was very warm. As the cake frosting became stickier in the heat, occasional breezes wafted its fragrance to Chet's nostrils. He opened the box. “Just one more lick.”

By now, he had eaten all the uneven gobs of chocolate. Chet sighed. Slowly he ran his finger lightly around the cake in a complete revolution, chuckling. “Mrs. Bartlett won't even notice.”

After licking the frosting off his thumb, he studied the cake again. One part of the swath he had made was wider then the rest. With his finger he made another circuit to even the groove, but in his eagerness dug in too deeply at one place.

“Uh-oh, now I've done it!” he moaned.

Glancing out the window, he still saw no sign of the red truck. His eyes returned to the inviting cake. “Can't just leave it that way, he mused. Then he swallowed. ”Morton, get hold of yourself!”

Chet got out and plodded to and fro. No red truck. Sighing, he climbed into the front seat and uncovered the cakebox again.

“If I just cut off that little gouged piece, I can tell Mrs. Bartlett I snitched a tiny bit.”

Chet sat back, tucked a handkerchief into his T-shirt, and having no knife, made a small wedge of two pudgy fingers to push down through the thick, melting frosting. A minute later his hands and chin were daubed with chocolate. The hungry boy surveyed the damage.

Several thumbprints surrounded the drooping surface near the small missing segment. Besides, his fingers had cut wider and wider on their paths toward the plate.

“Got to even it off.”

Twenty minutes later Chet was still evening up the wedge and making it larger and larger. Suddenly he heard a heavy motor and saw a huge, red truck marked BIRNHAM pull into an alley next to the store. He climbed out and crossed the street.

Chet leaned heavily against a mailbox. He had a clear view of the back end of the truck as it was unloaded by the driver and two store employees. This appeared to be the truck's final delivery, for its eight or ten remaining vegetable crates were removed and taken into the store.

“That truck's big enough to carry two cars all right,” he said to himself.

The tough-looking driver started the motor and began backing out. Chet hastened to his car, his stomach feeling a bit uncomfortable. Behind the wheel, he loosened his belt.

“Wonder where that driver's going,” Chet thought.

A block from Barmet Bay he saw the produce van pull into a large, dilapidated, brown-shingle warehouse surrounded by a vast, junk-filled lot. The faded sign over the door read: KITCHER'S JUNKYARD.

Chet cut his ratchety engine and looked warily up the street toward the building. He heard the truck door slam.

“What could Birnharn have to do with a run-down place like this?” he wondered.

Chet decided to take a closer look and shuffled up the street. Nobody was in sight at the wide entrance. Swallowing dryly, Chet hitched his trousers up, and after peeking in the warehouse, tiptoed inside.

The faint murmur of voices came to him from behind a closed door to the rear. Next to the parked truck was a black sedan Chet recognized as the one driven by Slagel. He peered in its rear window.

On the floor lay a small, vinyl phonograph record near a small generator. “A cluel I'll give it to Frank and Joe.” After glancing toward the office, he reached in and picked up the disk, then slid it inside his T-shirt.

Chet turned to the musty flaps on the back of the truck. His face red with exertion, he clam bered up and squeezed through the flap opening, letting some light into the rank-smelling interior.

On the stained, bare floor were scattered splinters of wood and random, rotted greens. “If these vegetables don't prove to be clues,” he thought, “I can use them for samples of botanical deterioration.”

As he scooped the various greens into his pockets, Chet noticed, on the scratched floor, muddied, ridgelike patterns.

“Tire-tread marks!”
he gasped.

Then he heard the voice of an approaching man, calling back to the office. “No, the kids'll fall for the trap. Slagel's waitin' out at Saucer Rock to take care of them!”

“Good night! Joel Joe's out there!” Chet realized, suddenly feeling sweat on his forehead. His heart thumped wildly. “I must get back!”

Just then the truck flap flew open and light flooded the interior. Glaring in at him, Chet saw the hard face of a stocky, red-haired manl