The Mystery of the Chinese Junk

by Franklin W. Dixon

  The investigator nodded. “Could be. But it’s not easy for a typist to disguise his touch.”

  “Maybe Tony was right about Clams writing the threatening note,” Joe put in, “although I doubt that he’s the one who stole the typewriter from the hotel.”

  “But it means he knows the thief,” Frank speculated.

  “Not necessarily,” Radley said. “The machine could have been sold to an innocent buyer.”

  The Hardys heaved great sighs. “We’re just going in circles,” Joe remarked. “All the same, I’m going to check further on Clams Dagget.”

  “Let’s radio the Hai Hau and find out if the fellows have seen his boat,” Frank suggested.

  “Good idea.”

  Joe soon made contact with the junk, which had not yet left Rocky Isle on its return trip to Bayport.

  “Is Clams’ boat around?” he asked.

  “Yes, he reached here right after we did,” Chet reported. “Had a full load of passengers, too. I don’t know why he’s so worried about business!”

  “Well, keep an eye on him too, while you’re at it,” Joe ordered. “Frank and I want to ask him some questions when he lands.”

  “Okay, pals,” Chet promised and signed off.

  During the afternoon, while waiting for the junk to return, Frank and Joe phoned Dr. Montrose’s office and house. There was no answer either place.

  “Must be out on calls,” Frank determined. “But what say we go out to his house again this evening?”

  “I’m with you.”

  The boys sat down in the kitchen to chat with Aunt Gertrude while she gathered together the ingredients for a strawberry shortcake. They asked her what she knew about Clams Dagget.

  Miss Hardy frowned. “Clams Dagget? Humph! He’s an old curmudgeon!” With her usual honesty, she added, “But I’m sure he’s harmless.”

  Joe immediately got out the dictionary to look up curmudgeon. He chuckled wryly as he read the definition. “Just an old crab, eh? We think he’s that all right, Aunt Gertrude!”

  Suddenly the short-wave radio speaker in the basement blared out. Frank dashed down to answer. Chet’s voice came over loud and excited. “Frank! Joe! You’d better get down to the dock pronto! We’ll land in a few minutes. Ti-Ming’s causing trouble—hurry up!”

  “Be right there!” Frank signed off. A minute later he and Joe were speeding toward the pier. They arrived just as the Hai Hau was mooring.

  To their amazement, Biff and Chet led Ti-Ming off the junk with his hands tied behind his back!

  CHAPTER XIV

  The Newspaper Clue

  “WHAT’S this all about?” Frank demanded as he and Joe reached the Hai Hau.

  The dapper Ti-Ming seemed more amused than angry at his being a captive. “I am afraid you will have to ask your friends,” he replied with a bland smile. “The whole situation is quite beyond my humble understanding.”

  “Oh yes? We caught him snooping around the junk!” Chet Morton declared furiously.

  Biff, Tony, and Jim vouched for this. But Ti-Ming appeared unconcerned. “I feared I had lost something,” he said.

  By now a crowd of curious spectators had gathered on the dock to stare at the proceedings. A policeman walked up.

  “Mind if we search you?” Joe asked the Chinese.

  Ti-Ming shrugged. “One can hardly resist with one’s hands tied,” he answered nonchalantly. “Go ahead.”

  Frank untied him and requested the policeman to make the search, explaining the reason. Ti-Ming’s pockets contained nothing unusual and held no object belonging to the Hai Hau.

  “We’re sorry this happened, Mr. Ti-Ming,” Frank apologized. “If there’s any way we can make it up—”

  “Please do not trouble yourselves,” the Chinese assured him. “I had, otherwise, a most enjoyable boat trip.”

  Ti-Ming smiled suavely, bowed, and walked off the pier. Now that the excitement was over, the crowd quickly dispersed. The Hardys and their friends stared at one another, nonplused.

  “Pretty slick!” Chet burst out. “But I still think that guy was looking for something on this boat.”

  “Maybe so,” Joe said, “but we can’t have him hauled in on just suspicion. He could sue us for false arrest.”

  Meanwhile, Clam Dagget’s motor launch, the Sandpiper, had pulled up alongside the dock. The Hardys waited until his passengers had disembarked, then went over to speak to him.

  Clams scowled. “You two again?”

  “We’d like to ask you a question,” Frank said.

  “That ain’t sayin’ I’ll answer it.”

  Frank ignored the retort and went on, “Do you own a typewriter?”

  Clams’ face took on a belligerent look. “Mebbe. What if I do?”

  “We’d like to see it,” Joe said.

  “Oh, you would, would you? And what if I tell you Hardys to go jump in the bay!” the old man stormed. “I’ve had about enough o’ your pesterin’ and pryin’! What business is it o’ yours whether I got a typewriter or not?”

  “Just take it easy,” Frank said evenly, “and read this.” He handed Clams the threatening note.

  “Did you write it?” Joe asked bluntly.

  Clams’ eyes widened as he scanned the message. “Me!” he croaked indignantly. “I never wrote no such thing!”

  “All right. But maybe someone else used your typewriter.” Frank paused, then added, “Unless you’d rather have the police take over.”

  Clams’ belligerence seemed to melt away. He glanced from one to the other of the Hardys with a worried expression. “Wal, all right,” he grumbled. “But you’re wastin’ your time.”

  Frank and Joe motioned their friends not to wait for them, then climbed aboard the Sandpiper. Clams pushed off and sailed up the bay toward his shack. When they arrived, the boat-man inserted a key in a rusty padlock to open the front door, and led the Hardys inside.

  As Clams lighted a kerosene lamp, Frank and Joe stared about the shack curiously. It was crammed with knickknacks and salvage items picked up during years of beachcombing. There were a boat anchor with a broken fluke, coils of hemp line, and numerous carvings of driftwood. The only furniture consisted of a cot, a potbellied stove, and a rickety table and chairs.

  Joe reflected that the kerosene lamp was certainly needed, since the tiny windows were patched with cardboard, shutting out most of the daylight. Evidently the old salt was a voracious reader. Stacks of back-issue magazines lay piled about the floor.

  “Wal, you wanted t’ see my typewriter,” Clams snorted. “There it is!”

  He pointed to a battered machine standing on an upended orange crate in one corner of the shack. Frank and Joe walked over to examine it. Their faces fell after one glance at the rusty antique. Not only was it much more ancient than a three-year-old model—it was not a Zeus!

  The two boys stared at each other in chagrin. A moment later both burst out laughing.

  Frank turned to Clams. “Guess we did draw a blank,” he admitted.

  Clams had listened in amazement, but gradually his face broke into a grin. Chuckling, he said, “Made a mistake, did you? Wal, I reckon we all do, now and then!”

  Relaxing, he sank down on the cot and invited the boys to make themselves at home.

  “Understand, I got nothin’ personal agin you two,” the old beachcomber said. “But I still think you’re goin’ to ruin my business with that Chinese junk.”

  Frank and Joe tried to reassure him. They pointed out that the Hai Hau was a good attraction for publicizing Rocky Isle as a picnic spot. In the long run this would bring them all more customers.

  “Hmm. Never thought o’ that,” Clams confessed. “Might be somethin’ to it. I had a full boatload today, sure enough.”

  The Hardys offered to hike to town or catch a bus, but Clams insisted upon taking them back to the pier in the Sandpiper.

  “Reckon we may as well bury the hatchet,” he told the boys as they shook hands on parting.

  “
That suits us!” Joe replied with a grin. Frank agreed heartily.

  Driving home, the Hardys puzzled over the reason for Ti-Ming making the trip on the junk that day. Like their chums, Frank and Joe felt that the Chinese had a definite reason for being aboard—and it was not just to admire the scenery!

  First Chin Gok had appeared in Bayport, and now the second Oriental. Certainly this was no coincidence. If the two men were rival leaders, they probably were transferring their war front to Bayport. But why? Was the Hai Hau the sole reason?

  Thoughtfully the Hardys continued to High and Elm Streets. Reaching there, Joe remarked:

  “You know, Frank, the solution to this whole mystery is probably right in front of our eyes, if we could only see it.”

  Next day was Sunday. After attending church, Frank and Joe sat in the living room, and once more speculated on the different angles of the case. Gradually the boys became aware of an appetizing aroma wafting out from the kitchen.

  “Mm, boy! Roast beef!” Frank exclaimed.

  Joe perked up hungrily. “I could eat the whole piece!” he declared. “Let’s see what else is on the menu!”

  The boys strode out to the kitchen. Aunt Gertrude, in an apron with her sleeves pushed up, was beating whipped cream to top two large chocolate pies. On the stove were pots of simmering vegetables and fluffy mashed potatoes. A bowl of crisp salad stood ready for the table.

  “Hey! A real feast!” Joe cried. “All for us?”

  “Any objection?” Aunt Gertrude retorted mysteriously.

  “I’ll say not. But—”

  Joe’s unspoken thought was drowned out by the alarm buzzers, followed almost immediately by the ringing of the doorbell. Frank and Joe rushed to the front hall and opened the door to find Chet, Tony, Biff, and Jim assembled on the porch.

  “What’s this? A convention?” Frank asked in surprise.

  “Sure—a starving one. Your aunt invited us,” Chet announced. “Wow! Do I smell roast beef?”

  The boys crowded inside, laughing and joking. Aunt Gertrude poked her head into the living room to greet the newcomers. Her eyes twinkled behind her spectacles as she added to Frank and Joe:

  “You two can have your little mysteries, so I thought I’d arrange one myself!”

  “You’re tops, Aunty!” Frank said, hugging her.

  The boys ate heartily of the delicious dinner, Chet finishing off half of one chocolate pie. Then the brothers and their friends, in assembly-line fashion, helped Miss Hardy clear the table and wash the dishes.

  When they returned to the living room, Biff picked up the comic section of the Sunday newspaper. As he chuckled over a series on Psycho the Cat, Frank’s eyes were narrowing on a headline in a report from Fremont, a town not far away.

  Safe Cracked as Women Sleep

  Quickly the young sleuth read the story. Dr. Montrose of Bayport had treated an elderly widow, Mrs. Velman, and her unmarried sister, Miss Anker, at his office. They had returned home and fallen into a deep sleep.

  “According to the story told by Mrs. Velman and Miss Anker,” the newspaper article went on, “the women had slept for several hours.

  “‘When we awoke,’ Mrs. Velman said, ‘the safe was open, and our securities stolen!’ ”

  Frank whistled and read the account aloud to Aunt Gertrude and the other boys. “Aunty, that sounds like your experience!”

  “Are you implying,” Biff spoke up, “that Dr. Montrose may be the thief—or at least is in league with one?”

  “I’m not accusing anyone,” Frank replied, “but it’s all mighty funny.”

  Chet spoke up. “Boy, I wish I’d come here soon enough that day to catch him!”

  “I am confused,” said Jim Foy. “Do you mean that Dr. Montrose is paid by the burglar to put people to sleep?”

  “It could be figured that way.” Frank nodded.

  “I’m going to find out!” Joe declared, as he jumped from his chair and dashed to the hall telephone.

  CHAPTER XV

  Hunting an Intruder

  JOE consulted the telephone directory, then dialed Mrs. Velman’s house. After explaining who he was and saying that his aunt had fallen asleep under similar circumstances, he found the elderly widow very co-operative.

  “Did Dr. Montrose give you and your sister sleeping pills?” Joe asked.

  “Why—uh—yes, he did. Said we were to take them as soon as we got home. We felt fine when we woke up—that is, until we discovered the robbery.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me?” the young sleuth prodded.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Joe said that he hoped the police would soon recover the securities, thanked her, and said good-by. He returned to the living room and reported what he had learned. At once Aunt Gertrude said, “Dr. Montrose certainly looks suspicious.”

  “There are lots of reasons for talking to the doctor,” said Frank. “First, he was staying at the hotel when the Zeus typewriter was stolen; second, he could be a thief, or in league with one; next, he advises patients, mostly elderly widows, on stock investments; and last, for a doctor who ought to be on the job he’s a pretty elusive person—doesn’ t have a nurse or an answering service.”

  “I agree one hundred per cent,” said Joe. “Let’s call on him right now!”

  Aunt Gertrude held up her hand. “Not yet,” she said. “I guess you’d forgotten that the Forsythes, our new neighbors, are coming over to tea.”

  The brothers groaned, then apologized. The other boys left and in a short time Mr. and Mrs. Forsythe arrived with two children, a boy of ten and a girl of eight. Frank and Joe, though chafing under the delay, were polite and friendly.

  A light supper was served at six. As soon as the meal of sandwiches and ice cream was over, and the Forsythes had left, Frank and Joe set off for Dr. Montrose’s house. They would surprise the man and not give him time to hide any telltale evidence.

  “If he’s not at home,” Frank said, “we’ll look around the grounds and see if we can learn anything to connect him with the mystery.”

  As on their previous call, the Hardys found the chain across the entrance driveway, so they parked on the public road. The boys walked up the path through the wooded approach and rang the doorbell. No one answered.

  After ringing several more times, with no response, Frank muttered, “Looks as though he’s not at home.”

  “Or else just not seeing callers,” Joe added.

  Disappointed, the boys made their way around the outside of the house, looking for discarded letters or other possible incriminating clues. As they passed a pair of tall French windows opening off the first floor, Joe seized his brother’s arm.

  “Wait!” he whispered. “I think someone’s in there!” He pointed to one of the windows.

  Frank also caught a fleeting glimpse of a tall figure moving about inside. The two boys silently went up and peered through the glass. The next instant both stiffened as a steely voice behind them rang out:

  “Why are you two spying here?” The boys whirled about. There stood Dr. Montrose, wearing a hat and scowling accusingly. But his harsh look turned to a smile of welcome as he recognized them.

  “Why, Frank and Joe Hardy!” he exclaimed. “This is a surprise! What brings you here? Is your aunt ill again?”

  “Oh, no, she’s better, thank you,” Joe replied. “We came here to ask you about something. When you didn’t answer the bell, we decided just to look around.”

  “I see. Well, come inside,” the doctor urged cordially.

  As the two boys accompanied him into the house, they glanced at each other, thinking, “He’s not acting like a guilty person!”

  Dr. Montrose clicked on a light and laid his hat on the table in the wide hall. He invited them to follow him into a parlor and sit down.

  Frank and Joe glanced around, trying not to appear too curious. The atmosphere was musty, as if the whole house needed an airing, and the gilt-trimmed plush furniture looked old and very worn. Th
e windows were hung with heavy red draperies.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why we were looking in the windows,” Frank said to the doctor. “The fact is, when no one answered our ring we assumed you were out. But we thought we saw someone inside.”

  “It surprised us,” Joe added, “because we understood you live alone.”

  “That’s right.” Dr. Montrose nodded. “No one else is here.”

  Joe purposely put on a puzzled look. “That’s strange,” he insisted. “I’m positive I caught a glimpse of a person moving around. You don’t suppose it was a burglar?”

  The doctor laughed, evidently undisturbed. “It was probably only an illusion caused by the shadows. Well, perhaps I’d better look around—just to make sure.”

  Frank seized the opening. “We’ll help,” he offered. “It might be safer with three of us, if there is an intruder.”

  “Hmm, certainly. That’s very kind.”

  Both boys thought they now detected a certain reluctance in the doctor’s manner. Nevertheless, he led them through the various rooms on the first floor. Apparently the mansion had not received a thorough house cleaning in a long time. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and much of the furniture was still draped with white dust covers. The once-expensive carpeting was threadbare and soiled.

  After checking the huge, old-fashioned kitchen and peering into the butler’s pantry, Montrose led them back to the sweeping spiral staircase in the main hallway.

  “We’ll take a glance upstairs,” he murmured.

  The dried-out wooden steps creaked underfoot.

  “Boy, this place seems a million years old!” Joe whispered to his brother.

  The searchers looked into all the bedrooms, one by one, and then into two enormous antique bathrooms with tubs mounted on ball-claw feet. The white tile floors were chipped.

  Next the doctor mounted a narrow rickety staircase that led upward to the attic storage rooms. Frank and Joe followed. The musty staleness that assailed their lungs caused them to cough.

  “I dare say we could do with some air conditioning up here,” Dr. Montrose apologized with an affable smile as they reached the hot, stifling loft.