While the Clock Ticked (2 page)

Half an hour later, as they rounded a sharp bend, a long, high stone wall came into view. A tangle of ivy clung to the stones, and close-growing young trees partially screened the wall from the road. Here and there, however, the boys caught a glimpse of a bluish slate roof.

“The Purdy house,” said Joe, looking with intent curiosity.

“Gone to seed, since the old man died,” Biff Hooper added. “I hear he was a queer fellow.”

Something in Joe’s lingering tone had warned the easygoing Chet Morton that there was an underlying significance to the remark.

“Wait a minute, fellows,” he began. “Something tells me we didn’t come this way just by accident. If it’s another mystery, you can count me out! I’m not over the last one yet!”

“Well, to be honest, Chet,” Frank said with a chuckle, “we did have a visitor, just before you showed up. He suggested we look over this place.”

“No fooling!” Biff exclaimed eagerly.

The boys had reached the main gate to the place. To their surprise, they found it open, with the marks of automobile tires in the driveway.

As the four walked up the drive, which was lined with the dense green foliage of thick bushes and trees, the silence was broken by a gruff voice:

“Hey, you fellows!”

A figure in the white helmet and black boots of a motorcycle patrolman strode toward them.

“It’s Mike DiSalvo,” said Joe, recognizing the officer. “What’s up, Mike?” The Hardy boys, through their father’s detective work and their own, knew all the Bayport policemen.

“Harbor thieves,” said the officer briefly. “I was driving up Willow River Road when I spotted them roaring toward me. Then they hit that sharp bend, and I lost sight of them. I was sure they’d ducked in here, but I can’t find the car. It was a big, black limousine.”

CHAPTER II

“A
BLACK
limousine! One nearly killed us half an hour ago, Mike!” Frank exclaimed.

As they walked on to the high, rambling gray stone house, Joe gave a description of the tough-looking driver. Mike DiSalvo nodded thoughtfully.

“Sounds like one of the gang,” he agreed. “They’ve been stealing goods from the ships and warehouses for months. We suspected they’d been using that black car, but today was the first time I had a chance at them. Well, that limousine is hot
now!”

The officer straddled his motorcycle, which stood before the entrance of the old mansion. There was a deafening roar as he started the motor.

“Thanks for the tip, boys!” Mike shouted. “By the way, what are you doing out here?”

“Hike!” shouted Frank in reply.

“Case?” the policeman guessed, grinning.

“Maybe. Know anything about this place?”

The officer throttled down. “Not much, except it’s been closed for years. Peculiar that gate being open, though. I
still
think I saw the limousine duck in here. Couldn’t be, I guess, since the car is nowhere around.”

As the motorcycle rumbled out the driveway, Frank called, “We’ll close the gate!”

The roar of the motorcycle died away, and the boys were left in the brooding silence of the rundown, neglected estate.

“Funny,” commented Biff Hooper, looking around him. “I never heard of anything mysterious about this place. It’s not even supposed to be haunted.”

“Well, let’s have a look around,” Frank suggested. “Mr. Dalrymple acted as though something funny might be going on out here.”

“You
do
have a case then!” declared Biff.

“Not exactly,” Joe admitted wryly. “I have a hunch that since he couldn’t see Dad, Mr. Dalrymple is testing us. He doesn’t really expect us to turn up anything.”

“He doesn’t!” Biff echoed incredulously. “Doesn’t he read the newspapers?”

Frank and Joe, though still in high school, had already earned a name for themselves as sleuths. They had been trained by their father, who had
been a crack detective in the New York City Police Department. After retiring to go into private practice in the city of Bayport, Fenton Hardy had enhanced his reputation by handling difficult and dangerous cases for the government, large corporations, and private individuals.

From him Frank and Joe had learned the need for careful observation and the importance of laboratory work. In fact, they already had a small but well-equipped lab of their own in the loft above the Hardy garage.

The Tower Treasure
, the first mystery the brothers had solved on their own, was one that had puzzled all Bayport and baffled the police. As Fenton Hardy became busier, he allowed his sons to help on his cases. But they worked best on their own, following their own clues and meeting dangers resourcefully. Recently, the young sleuths had encountered several harrowing adventures before they rounded up a gang of jewel thieves in
What Happened at Midnight.

Frank shrugged. “I guess Joe and I will just have to prove ourselves to Mr. Dalrymple.”

“Right. Let’s get started,” Joe urged. “How about Biff and me checking doors and windows?”

Frank agreed. “Meantime, Chet and I will look over the grounds.”

The boys separated. Frank and Chet, examining the earth carefully, moved around the big house until they came to the back.

“Whoops!” Frank exclaimed suddenly, bending down.

“What? I don’t see anything,” Chet said. “Just matted grass!”

Frank pushed aside the limp blades and pointed out the distinct impression of a footprint in the earth.

“Somebody came through here last night,” he said. “The grass was flattened and broken when it was dewy.”

“Pal, you sure have X-ray eyes,” Chet marveled.

By tracking carefully, Frank followed the prints down the yard and into a belt of thick woods where a path, apparently a well-used trail, led to Willow River.

“Whoever was here probably came to do some fishing,” Chet remarked.

“Could be,” Frank murmured. To himself he added, “Or the person might have been after something besides fish.”

Presently the four boys met once more.

“Find anything?” Frank asked his brother.

“All the doors and windows seem to be locked,” he replied. “But there are scratches around the front-door lock. Somebody must have tried to open it in the darkness.”

Briefly, Frank described his own findings. “Doesn’t add up to much,” he admitted. “Not enough to impress Mr. Dalrymple.”

“Well, thank goodness!” declared Chet.
“That’s one mystery we’re rid of! Now let’s do what we started out to do.”

“Chet means let’s eat.” Biff grinned.

But Joe stood silent, looking up at the rambling stone house. “It’s such a big old place,” he mused. “For all we know, somebody could be inside it right now, watching every move we make.”

“Yes,” Frank agreed. “I wouldn’t write off the footprints and key scratches. Take them together, with Mr. Dalrymple’s queer hint—I’ll bet they do mean something.”

Chet cast an uneasy glance at the blank dark windows above his head. “Let’s go! Are we hiking, or aren’t we?”

“So good for your appetite,” Biff teased.

“Okay, okay. I just don’t like the idea of something peeking at me out of windows,” the stout boy blurted.

Frank grinned. “All right. We’ll get away from the spooks.”

With his knapsack jiggling up and down, Chet eagerly turned and marched down the driveway to the road. Laughing, the other three boys followed. Secretly, the Hardys felt a strong urge to investigate further, and hoped they would have the chance to do so.

As they left the driveway, Frank closed the heavy wooden gate behind them. But there was no way for him to lock it, since he did not have the key. Soon the four friends again reached the
sunshine of Willow River Road and resumed their hike.

“I don’t understand why a sensible banker like Mr. Dalrymple would be interested in a run-down place like that,” said Joe.

“Forget it!” Chet begged. “Think about something pleasant. Forget mysteries!”

“Concentrate on important things,” Biff needled him. “Eating and sleeping, for instance.”

“Yes, eating and sleeping.” Chet defended himself. “Who can live without food? Luscious, delectable food! And sleep—soothing sleep! We grow when we sleep.”

“You
grow much more, and you’ll be a giant beach ball.” Biff grinned.

But Chet was now scanning the countryside. The boys had left the estates behind. A heavily wooded hill rose up on their right. A field of fresh-cut, drying hay fell away on the left. At the bottom of the field a huge oak tree spread its shading limbs invitingly.

“Now
there
is the place for both,” Chet said. “First our lunch. Then, refreshing sleep—before our walk home.”

Frank, Joe, and Biff looked at one another, eyes twinkling. There remained a full hour until lunchtime!

“No,” said Biff. “Thumbs down.”

“Why?” Chet pleaded.

“No water. What’s a picnic without water?”

Another half hour went by. Chet sighted a clear stream, flashing in the sun, pouring through a green meadow. “There!” he exclaimed in triumph.

“Uh-uh!” said Joe, poker-faced. “No shade. I can’t eat in the blazing sun. Hurts my digestion.”

“Oh-h,” the stout boy moaned, but proceeded doggedly ahead. Presently the woods closed in on both sides, and the road crossed a small creek.

“Now?” Chet sighed hopefully.

“No.” Frank shook his head.

“Oh-h!
Now
why?”

“Too many trees. No sun. Can’t eat without a little sun.”

But at last, when Frank, Joe, and Biff had agreed, by a wink at one another, that the proper time for lunch had come, they simply jumped into a ditch at the side of the road. “Chow time!”

“But …” Chet stammered. “There’s no water!” Biff pointed to a trickle in a culvert nearby.

“Well, there’s no shade!” Chet argued. Joe grinningly indicated a tree twenty feet away.

“And under this bank, it’s not even really sunny!” Chet pointed out.

“Just right.” Frank chuckled and dug into Chet’s knapsack.

“Say, cut it out!” Chet bellowed. “I have half a mind not to give you fellows any lunch at all!”

“Ho! Now you want us to starve!” Biff laughed
as he and the Hardys lifted out succulent sandwiches, a jar of home-preserved peaches, a gallon Thermos of chilled milk, and slabs of chocolate cake.

“Lucky for you, Chet,” Joe teased, “you brought enough so there’s some food left for you.”

The heavy-set boy, though pretending indignation, settled down to enjoy his share of the lunch. Then the Hardys and Biff followed Chet’s example and took a nap after the hearty meal. “Not a bad idea,” Joe murmured as he dozed off.

An hour later, however, the four chums were hiking back to Bayport.

Once in town, Frank and Joe said good-by as Chet and Biff went off toward their own homes. When the brothers reached home, they were met at the door by Aunt Gertrude.

“About time!” she greeted them impatiently. “Get in here, quick!”

Bewildered, the boys followed her into the living room. To their astonishment, Mr. Raymond Dalrymple was pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace.

The tall man wheeled as they entered. “You boys still want to handle my case for me?” he demanded gruffly. “Well, it’s yours!”

CHAPTER III

“I
ASKED
people about you,” the banker said as the startled Hardy boys took seats. “Mind you, I wouldn’t have done that if I weren’t desperate. You looked like a pair of inexperienced kids to me.”

“And what did you find out, Mr. Dalrymple?” Joe asked politely.

“That you really have done some fine work on problems like mine. In fact, the police here told me that if Fenton Hardy were out of town, I couldn’t do better than to call in his sons.”

Although Frank and Joe were proud to hear this, both remained quiet and attentive.

“You say nothing,” Mr. Dalrymple noted. “Good. I like that. Now, to business. Did you stop at the Purdy estate on your walk today?”

“Yes,” Frank answered.

“Well—notice anything?” Dalrymple eyed him narrowly.

“When we got there,” Frank explained, “the gate was open. A motorcycle policeman looking for harbor thieves was in the driveway. After he left we found some footprints—”

“Footprints?” Mr. Dalrymple interrupted, suddenly very agitated. “When were they made?”

“Sometime in the night, after the dew fell.”

“But the gate!” the banker broke in. “I locked that gate when I left the place last night!”

At this the boys sat bolt upright with surprise. “You were out there, sir?” Joe burst out.

“Of course. I own the house.”

“You!”
Joe exclaimed.

“Yes. I was out there yesterday until shortly before dark. Now, from what you tell me, someone else was there later—perhaps to injure me!”

“Wait a minute!” Frank said. “Why don’t you tell us your whole story, Mr. Dalrymple?”

“Right. You’re absolutely right,” the banker agreed, regaining his composure. After a moment’s thought, he began:

“Mr. Jason Purdy was a wealthy and eccentric man, as you no doubt know. His estate was left to the Bayport Library. I recently purchased the house and grounds on speculation—hoping to sell them later at a higher price. However, when I inspected the house, I discovered a strange thing!”