The Shore Road Mystery (5 page)

“That's right,” said Frank. “Tomorrow let's forget the car thieves and start a hunt for Slagel.”

The next morning Frank and Joe worked on their battered short-wave radio, then cycled into town. When they reached the Bayport business district, the boys paused for a moment at the corner of Main and Larch. Frank gave Joe one half of a penciled list of hotels and rooming houses and the copy of the Slagel photograph they had made.

“Righto,” said Joe. “See you in an hour at this corner.”

The boys separated, Joe taking the north end of Bayport and Frank the south. An hour later neither Hardy had yet come across a Slagel registered in any of the hotels. None of the desk clerks had recognized the photographs.

During the second hour, Joe had no success. Only five names were left on his list.

“You have any luck?” he asked Frank hopefully when they met to compare progress.

Frank wiped his brow. “Not a thing. I covered all the waterfront places and saw the registers myself. How about you?”

“No.”

Frank read down his list. “Well, this last run ought to do it. Fingers crossed!”

But the boys' final circuit turned up no leads. Disappointed, the brothers headed through the center of town for home.

“Slagel may still be in the area, but staying in another town,” Frank remarked.

“At any rate,” Joe declared, “I guess we'll have some more footwork cut out for us.”

At the Dock Street traffic light Joe noticed a heavy-set, well-dressed man getting into a taxicab.

“Frank! That's our nameless visitor from New York!”

The brown-and-white cab pulled out and headed toward the western side of town. The boys decided to follow on their motorcycles.

Moments later, the taxi wound under an overpass and came to a stop at the Bayport railroad station. Parking nearby, the Hardys followed as the man purchased a ticket in the waiting room, then boarded a waiting New York train.

Joe heaved a sigh. “Well, we can cancel one lead—at least for the time being. Maybe he was telling the truth about living in New York City.”

Frank and Joe found Chet at their house. Presently the three boys went to the brothers' crime lab.

Chet proudly dropped a large cylinder of paper on the table. “I thought we could use this to find the car thieves.”

“What is it?” Joe asked.

Chet rolled out a highly detailed map of Bayport and its environs. “It's on loan from my father's real-estate office.”

The Hardys marveled at the map's detail, which included geographical features as well as houses and roads in the entire Shore Road area.

“This is a great help, Chet!” said Frank.

After switching on an overhead fluorescent light and locking the door and windows for security, he rejoined the boys over the map spread out on the table. The three pored over the paper for the next half hour. Except for the sounds of Chet chewing gum, the room was silent.

Two considerations were paramount: Where were the Dodds, and where were the stolen cars being taken?

At last Frank sat back. “I have a hunch that working on the thefts is the only way we'll ever find Jack and his father. With the Dodds missing, suspicion of future thefts would naturally fall on them.”

“Do you think their lives are in danger?” Chet asked.

“I'm afraid so,” Frank replied. “They may be prisoners within a few miles of where we are this minute. The gang may be making a quick haul of flashy cars, and storing them at a hideout until they can be safely moved. But as long as the thefts continue, I think the Dodds will be kept prisoners.”

Since Chet was to be a part of their sleuthing team, Frank and Joe now told him about the Pilgrim mystery.

Joe paused at the window. “I feel that the treasure also would fit right into the disappearance of Jack and his father and even the uncle,” he commented. “If only we had a copy of Elias Dodd's last message! Do you think Slagel or the car thieves found out about the treasure and kidnapped Jack and his father to keep them from looking for it?”

“It's possible,” Frank answered.

Moments later, Mrs. Hardy interrupted briefly to give the boys four letters which had come for them in a late delivery. As Frank and Joe read them, Chet noted their grim expressions.

“Who sent the letters?” he asked.

“They're complaints,” Frank replied. “Some townspeople aren't happy about our backing the Dodds.”

Joe slapped the letter he was reading. “This one is from a theft victim. He even says he'll hold us responsible if the Dodds aren't apprehended!”

“People are really getting up in arms about these thefts,” Frank said. “We must work harder to track down the thieves.”

First, the boys reviewed recent copies of the
Bayport Times
for theft evidence, which proved to be scanty. Then they studied minutely the mapped roads leading to and from Shore Road.

“There are a few things that seem certain,” Frank concluded. “One, the thieves appear to be after late-model cars, and to steal most of them at night. Two, the gang can't be a small one—their success alone would suggest that. And three, the stolen cars are most likely driven
north
up Shore Road.”

“If,” Chet cut in, “your U-turn theory is right.”

“Correct. The police have suspected a southerly direction so far, and therefore have been concentrating on watching Bayport. But as the papers indicate, patrols are now keeping an eye on other towns that lie off Shore Road to the north.”

Chet shrugged. “Then what could we possibly learn that the police haven't?”

Frank drew the others' attention to the black line which represented Shore Road on the map.

“The thief heads north. He
could
go straight into Northport, but he'd take a chance staying on one road all that distance. This leaves the turnoffs which meet Shore Road from the west.”

“I follow,” Joe murmured.

“Now,” Frank continued, “police have been watching all towns at the end of the turnoffs, but there's one place they haven't been stationed—at the intersections themselves!”

He went on to propose a two-part plan. “With daily night watches, at the Shore Road intersections with Springer Road, Route 7, and Pembroke Road, we should find out which one the thieves are using! Daylight hours we can spend sleuthing around the terrain off Shore Road, since the gang may have a secret hideout in the woods.”

Chet whistled. “Boy, night watches, day watches, and three mysteries rolled into one! There goes my important museum workl” He groaned loudly as Frank and Joe grinned.

“But, Chet, this will give you a chance to do some real field work for your botanical and dietary investigations,” Joe explained, slapping his heavy friend on the back. “Think of all the herbs and plants in those woods!”

Chet was weighing the idea when they heard familiar footsteps ascending the garage stairs and a sharp rap on the door.

“I've brought you boys some refreshments,” came the voice of Gertrude Hardy.

“Refreshments!” Chet echoed happily, opening the door. The laden tray Aunt Gertrude carried looked inviting.

Noticing the closed windows she winced. “A beautiful day like this and you three sitting in a hot, stuffy room! Frank, Joe, here are some apple pie and chocolate milk.”

A heavy object sailed through the window

“Oh boy!” Chet exclaimed.

“And for you, Chet Morton, a large glass of cooling parsnip juice. I fixed it especially for your vegetarian diet.”

“My vegetarian—” Chet's voice trailed off despondently at the sight of the liquid.

Muffling laughs, Frank and Joe thanked their aunt. “Your pie is—”

Suddenly there was a deafening crash. A heavy object sailed through the rear window, sending splinters of glass against Joe's neck. Chet flew from his chair and Aunt Gertrude screamed.

“Run!” she cried.

But Frank knew that in a few seconds all of them might be killed! He snatched up the grenade and ran to the window with the deadly missile. Would he be able to hurl it outside in time?

THE others watched in frozen horror, fully expecting the grenade to go off in Frank's hand. The next second he tossed it from the broken window. Everyone stood as if in a trance, waiting for the explosion.

But it never came.

The boys and Aunt Gertrude drew shaky sighs of relief. “Must be a dud,” said Frank. “I'll check.”

He ran downstairs and around to the rear of the garage. He immediately spotted the grenade lying in the grass. With his foot he gingerly turned it over. In the bottom gaped a round, unplugged hole. “It's a dummy, all right,” Frank said to himself.

Next, he looked about for any signs of the grenade thrower. There was no one in sight and no clues to the person's identity. Quickly Frank picked up the grenade and returned to the lab.

Aunt Gertrude, recovered from her fright, was highly indignant. “I don't care if that—that bomb is a fake! What a wicked thing to do! The villain responsible should be tarred and feathered!” She paused for breath. “Frank, you were very brave, but you shouldn't take such chances!”

Her nephew smiled. “I'll try not to, Aunty.”

With a warning for the boys to be extra cautious, Miss Hardy left. Chet and Joe had by now swept up the broken glass and the young sleuths turned their attention to the grenade. Joe lifted it and studied the hole closely.

“Look, there's a note where the firing pin should be!” He unrolled the paper and the boys read the typed words:

The message was unsigned, and when they dusted the grenade it showed no fingerprints except the Hardys'. The weapon was clearly of foreign manufacture.

“Think Slagel threw it?” Joe suggested, recalling the missing glove.

“Or one of his pals,” Frank replied. “At any rate, our conference wasn't overheard. What say we start today on our two-part plan?”

After the window had been boarded up, the Hardys and Chet started for the door. Joe grinned. “Chet! You forgot to drink your parsnip juice.”

“Oh—er—yeah, I almost forgot,” he muttered, plodding over to the table. Grimacing, he downed the liquid, choking on the last few gulps.

“Good?” Frank asked, chuckling.

Chet wiped his lips and beamed at the brothers before leading the way vigorously down the stairs, the map under one arm.

“Nutritional!” he called back.

Chet rode at the rear of Joe's motorcycle as the three boys headed for a wooded area near Springer Road. This was the most northern of the three roads they suspected as the thieves' possible escape route.

The trio spread out and began combing the area for clues. There was little traffic this far north. The air was close, and the pitch pines afforded little shade.

In white sneakers and saggy dungarees, Chet trudged along between the Hardys. He occasionally consulted a botanical handbook.

They reached farmland and doubled back along the edge of the woods. Finding no tire marks or buildings, the boys returned to the motorcycles and rode a few hundred yards south. They began combing another patch of trees.

Five minutes later the trio heard a noise behind a thicket-covered hill. Frank motioned for silence and the boys hid behind a large rock.

The crunch of turf became louder. When the person had almost reached the rock, Frank revealed his presence.

“Well, Frank Hardy! And Joe, and Chet! What brings you city fellers all the way out here?”

“Scratch! What a surprise!”

Before them stood the disheveled figure of Scratch Cantrell, a well-known local drifter and long-time acquaintance of the Hardys. Scratch lived alone in the woods. Under a straw hat and ragged gray overcoat, he wore brown trousers, patched in several places. Two pieces of clothes-line provided him with suspenders, and rusty sewing scissors, with which he shaved, were tucked into a belt loop. The boys explained their interest in the Shore Road mystery.

“Have you noticed any cars in the woods around here, Scratch?” Frank asked.

Removing his hat, the drifter scratched his wispy hair. His voice was gravelly. “No, haven't seen none. But I've
heard
'em.”

“Heard them?”

“Yep, about two days back. I was just waterin down my campfire when I heard a motor in the woods, then a noise like a crash. Didn't find nothin'. Sounded like a siren on the highway later.”