The Secret Panel

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “And that’s where the statue was!” Mr. Howard put in. “A rare, hand-carved Oriental piece I paid a lot of money for. He took it, that scoundrel, and I want it back!”

  “We understand how you feel,” Frank said. “But we’d appreciate it if you could just give us a little time to track down the thief. Chances are your property will be found, once we locate his hideout.”

  “Well, it all depends how long it will take. Let me know when you find him.”

  “We certainly will, sir. And thanks for the information.”

  Next, they called on Mrs. Sommers. The woman appeared upset about the loss of a ring which had been taken from a bureau.

  “It was very valuable to me,” she told the boys, “for sentimental reasons. A family heirloom. The insurance company will pay for it, but money can never replace it.”

  Frank asked her about Batton. She could not help them, either. He had changed the lock in her absence. A woman who lived next door had talked to him and told Mrs. Sommers that he had been there.

  “Could we speak to your neighbor?” Frank asked.

  “She went to visit her son in Missouri two days ago.”

  Frank and Joe thanked her and left, disappointed. They went to call on Mrs. Eccles, but were equally unsuccessful.

  “One thing is clear,” Frank told Joe on the way home. “Batton must be in with the television gang, but had his own thing going on the side.”

  “But why?” Joe asked. “I would think belonging to that outfit would be profitable enough.”

  “Who knows? Maybe he needed the money now and couldn’t wait for the equipment to be sold and the booty divided.”

  “You suppose he tried to get into our house just to see if there was any dough lying around?”

  “No,” Frank said thoughtfully. “I have a hunch that he only took the job with Whittaker to get a duplicate key for our place.”

  “For the gang?”

  “Right. You know what we should have done?”

  “What?”

  “Photographed the fingerprints on Dad’s filing cabinet. Ours and his will be there, of course, but there may be strange ones, too!”

  “Like Batton’s for instance?”

  “Could be.”

  “How are you going to make sure they’re his?”

  “We’ll go back to Mr. Whittaker’s shop and check out things Mike Batton has handled, take prints, and compare them!”

  “Good thinking!” Joe praised. “Let’s do that right away.”

  The net result of this work was a surprise and added a new complication to the mystery. The man who had rifled Mr. Hardy’s files was not Mike Batton!

  CHAPTER XIII

  The Picklock

  “MORE trouble.” Frank sighed. “However, we’ve proved one thing. We probably have the fingerprints of the person who kidnapped Miss Johnson.”

  “Right you are,” Joe agreed. “Let’s take them over to Chief Collig right away.”

  Frank quickly wrote a note to his father, telling him about their new discovery, then they delivered the prints to police headquarters.

  When they were in their car again, Frank said, “Now for our next job. We’ll drive out to the Mead house and see if Chet’s dory’s there.”

  “Good idea. But let’s stop and get Chet.”

  They expected to find their stout chum either in the apple orchard or at the Morton refrigerator, but he was at neither place. No one was at home but Mrs. Morton. She seemed surprised to see the Hardys.

  “I thought you’d be over at the fair,” she remarked.

  “What fair?” Frank asked, puzzled.

  “Oh, didn’t you know about the county fair at Harlington? Chet, Iola and her friends drove over quite a while ago. I understand there are to be all sorts of amusements.”

  Frank and Joe looked at each other. “We don’t really have time—” Frank began.

  “Oh, it won’t take long to look for Chet,” Joe said. “Come on, Frank. Let’s go!”

  “Okay.” The boys hurried to the convertible and sped away. Soon the outlines of a Ferris wheel came in sight.

  “Quite a show,” Joe remarked as he and Frank got out of the car. Just inside the entrance gate a man standing on a platform was announcing loudly:

  “Ten dollars, I said! Ten dollars ! Easiest way in the world to earn ten dollars! All you have to be is smart!”

  The barker held up a large padlock. “You just have to open this. Sure, it’s a trick lock. But it’ll cost you only a dime to try. Step this way, gentlemen!”

  Frank nudged Joe. The first customer to ascend the stairs was Chet Morton!

  The crowd roared with laughter as Chet struggled with the padlock. He seemed determined to win the ten dollars.

  “Hey! You better quit before you bust,” cried one of the bystanders. Chet was bent double and was very red in the face.

  “It’ll cost you more than ten dollars for a doctor!” another man shouted.

  Frank and Joe were grinning from ear to ear. They knew their friend thought he could open the padlock because he had heard so much about locks and keys lately. But Chet finally gave up and turned away to buy some peanuts.

  “Who’s next?” called the barker. He pointed his finger directly at the Hardys and added, “You look like a couple of bright fellows. How about coming up here?”

  “I sure could use ten dollars,” Joe replied, and pushed his way through the crowd.

  He struggled with the lock, but to no avail. Disgusted, he handed it back, and Frank ascended the platform.

  As Frank, too, failed to open the lock, a tall man about thirty-five years old elbowed his way through the crowd and came up the steps.

  Without saying a word he took the lock in his hand, held it near his ear, and shook it. Then he closed his two hands over the lock, worked at it a few seconds, and it opened! The barker stared in blank amazement. Apparently he had not expected anyone to succeed.

  “Gimme my money,” demanded the stranger.

  The barker stared in amazement when the padlock opened

  Reluctantly the carnival man handed over a ten-dollar bill. Frank nudged Joe, and suggested they speak to the picklock.

  “Maybe he’s on the level, but I don’t like his looks,” Frank commented.

  “Neither do I.”

  Several people had gathered around the man, but he walked away rapidly and the crowd turned back to watch the next contestant. Frank and Joe ran after him on the pretext of complimenting him on his feat.

  “It sure was a swell exhibition.” Joe grinned. “I bet that faker never intended to pay out any money.”

  The tall man did not reply. He kept on walking toward the entrance gate.

  “It’s my guess you’re a locksmith,” Frank spoke up. “You must be a good one.”

  Still the stranger did not speak.

  At that moment Chet came running after them. “Hi, fellows!” he yelled.

  Frank and Joe were in a panic. They did not want their friend to give away their identity, in case the picklock was connected with the gang they and their father were trying to apprehend.

  Frank fell back a step, turned, and put a finger to his lips. Chet caught on at once.

  But this precaution did not help for long. As they reached the parking lot outside the exit gates, Iola, Callie, and Helen Osborne ran straight into the group. Smiling affably, Iola called out, “Well, if it isn’t Frank and Joe Hardy!”

  The man ahead of them muttered something and dodged behind a parked automobile. In a moment he had zigzagged his way out of sight. Frank and Joe dashed after him, but with the confusion of cars coming and going, the wily stranger managed to escape.

  “Too bad he got away,” Joe said. “But in a way I’m glad this happened. Otherwise we might not really have suspected him. Now I could almost bet he’s mixed up with that television gang.”

  Frank examined the ground nearby. In a minute he was down on his hands and knees, inspecting a heelprint plainly visible in the dust
.

  “If I’m not mistaken, we’re in luck,” he said. “Look here! This guy’s heelmark is just like the one we photographed at 47 Parker Street.”

  Joe dropped to his knees, too, and checked out the print. He agreed with his brother.

  Just then the girls caught up to them.

  “Don’t you ever take time out from sleuthing?” Helen teased. She was dark-haired but not as slim as Iola, and shared Chet’s interest in food.

  “Sure we do,” Frank replied, grinning, as he and Joe got to their feet. “But only if there’s nothing cooking!”

  “Hey,” Chet said, rolling his eyes, “that reminds me. What say we meet in the new drugstore downtown for some chow? I’m starved.”

  “Okay,” the Hardys agreed, and started toward their convertible.

  “I’ll take the girls and meet you in a little while,” Chet called, heading for his jalopy.

  About fifteen minutes later they walked toward the sandwich counter in the drugstore.

  “Chet will treat you all to a full-course dinner,” Joe announced with a wink when they sat down.

  “Are you kidding?” Chet protested. “I spent most of my money on rides.”

  “You’re safe, Chet.” Helen laughed. “We’re not hungry, anyway. Had too many hamburgers at the fair.”

  “I’m thirsty, though,” Iola said, a twinkle in her eye.

  In the end all the girls decided to have sodas, and the boys ordered sandwiches.

  They had almost finished their refreshments when Frank nudged Joe. “That tall man at the counter over there!”

  Joe gasped. “The picklock from the fair!”

  “Sh!” Frank said. “You see what he’s buying? Bandage and antiseptic. He might lead us to Lenny Stryker and Martha Johnson!”

  “How are we going to work it?”

  Frank turned to the others. “Listen,” he said tensely. “All of you keep on eating and look down. Don’t act surprised at anything you see in the next few minutes. Chet, you’ll have to take the girls home.”

  “Sure, Frank. What are you up to?”

  “We’ve got to trail that guy over there. Joe, after I leave the store, you follow me in the car!”

  CHAPTER XIV

  Time to Act !

  AMAZED, but without question, the Hardys’ friends obeyed Frank’s instructions.

  He quickly crossed the drugstore to a counter of novelties. Without thought to size or color he selected a cap, a pair of sunglasses, and a small mustache. Hastily paying for them, he put on the disguise and dashed for the front door.

  Reaching the street, he posted himself just around the corner. A moment later the picklock, carrying his package of bandage and antiseptic, appeared and walked rapidly up the street. Frank followed.

  As the man paused by an automobile, Frank wondered if he could possibly get into the back without being noticed. Luck was in his favor, because the man suddenly decided to go to a nearby stand and buy a newspaper. Frank quickly opened the rear door and crouched down on the floor of the car.

  The stranger returned, got in, and drove off without seeing him. Frank’s heart pounded wildly. He hoped Joe was following him, but he did not dare raise his head to find out.

  At the next street intersection the driver pulled up to the curb. A man, who evidently had been waiting for him, jumped into the front seat. When Frank ventured to look up, he caught his breath. The newcomer was none other than the man who had sold Chet the battered dory!

  “I thought you’d never make it, Jeff,” he said to the driver. “Did you have any trouble?”

  “No. But I certainly ain’t goin’ to be the errand boy no more. Too dangerous. If you want the job, Griff, you can have it.”

  “Oh, stop moanin’.”

  “Which way are you goin’?” Griff asked, as the car evidently reached the outskirts of Bayport. He put his arms up on the back of the seat to settle himself more comfortably. Suddenly from the corner of his eye he caught a movement in the back.

  “What in the name of—?” he exploded.

  Jeff slammed on the brakes, demanding to know what the trouble was. He, too, turned around. By this time Frank had pulled himself up to the back seat. Deciding his only chance now was to put on an act, he grinned stupidly at the two men.

  “Don’t mind me,” he said in a high shrill voice. “I love to ride. And wadda you think? Nobody ever asks me!”

  The two men looked at each other, then back at the “moron” in their car.

  “Aw, go on,” the boy pleaded. “And go real fast, too. I like to go fast!”

  Jeff’s eyes closed until they were mere slits. His jaws snapped shut. “Get out!” he hissed.

  “Why, what’ve I done?” Frank whined. “You wouldn’t put me out when I’ve only been ridin’ five minutes.”

  The man named Griff was inclined to be lenient, but Jeff would not have it. “Out!” he said, and leaning back, opened one of the rear doors. Griff, taking the cue, gave Frank a shove and he landed at the side of the road. Then the car roared away.

  Frank leaped to his feet. Seconds later Joe came along in the convertible. Frank jumped in beside his brother and they raced after the fleeing automobile.

  At a crossroads the boys lost time trying to decide which way the suspects had gone. Tire tracks indicated they might have taken the road which led directly to the bay, so Joe followed it to the end.

  “I’m afraid they got away,” he said in disappointment as they neared the water. Just ahead was the public dock of the Bayport Steamship Company, and some distance from shore was an outgoing ferry.

  “You mean the car went on that ferry?” Frank asked.

  “Yes.”

  While Frank removed his disguise, Joe inquired at the office about the ferry’s destination. The boys’ worst fears were confirmed. They could not possibly circle the bay to the ferry’s next stop before the boat would dock and the suspects’ car vanish.

  In disgust the boys returned home and tumbled into bed early. A sound night’s sleep refreshed them, and in the morning they were ready for action again. As they were dressing, Frank suddenly snapped his fingers.

  “Say, Joe,” he said, “maybe those men never went on that ferry after all. What say we go back there and look around?”

  “Smartest idea you’ve had in a week!” Joe dodged the pillow Frank hurled at him.

  The boys hurried downstairs. They were disappointed to learn that their father had remained out of town overnight, and had left word that he would not return home until midmorning.

  Frank and Joe had hardly seated themselves at the breakfast table when Chet came through the doorway from the kitchen, glaring at them irately.

  “Chet! Aren’t you up kind of early?” Joe gibed.

  The boy ignored the question. “I’m here to collect four dollars and thirty cents,” he announced, without smiling.

  “Wow!” cried Joe. “It sounds like a damage suit.”

  “Well, you might call it that,” Chet said. “Anyway, you fellows have to fork over the money.”

  “And why?”

  “You forgot to pay for your meal last night. On top of that you invited the girls to have sodas, and” —Chet pointed his finger accusingly—“and you left me the check!”

  Frank and Joe burst into laughter. “So that’s it?” said Joe. “Why, you ungrateful wretch! We left you with three of Bayport’s most beautiful girls. What’s four dollars and thirty cents compared to that?”

  “It was a fine idea,” said Chet, “only I didn’t have enough money with me. Had to borrow from my sister. And did she kid me! Well, hand over the cash!”

  “How about a compromise?” Frank asked, winking at Joe. “We’ll pay two-thirds. In return for the rest you can have breakfast here and then go with us to nab that boat thief you’re after. His name’s Griff.”

  Chet’s eyes opened wide. He forgot his troubles at once, and demanded to be brought up to date on news of his case. Upon hearing the account of Frank’s adventure the
evening before, Chet was eager to start off at once on the trail of the thief. Even Aunt Gertrude was amused at his refusal of a second helping of fried apple rings and corn bread.

  By nine o’clock the three friends were on their way in the convertible. Frank made no stops until they came to a red traffic light some distance out of town. The signal began to hum peculiarly as it changed to green.

  “Another singing light!” Joe exclaimed. “Maybe ten minutes’ drive from here—”

  “Now listen, fellows,” Chet interrupted, “you promised we’d hunt for that man Griff—”

  “Okay,” Frank said, and turned right.

  Two minutes later they reached the public dock where the Hardys had lost the men the evening before. The boys jumped out and began to search in the roadway for clues.

  Joe was the first to notice a narrow dirt road which branched off to the left along the water’s edge. Judging from tall patches of grass growing in it, the road was not used often. But there was a set of freshly made tire tracks.

  “Come over here!” Joe called excitedly, and pointed out his discovery. “These may mean something. Let’s follow them!”

  The three hopped into the car. Almost unconsciously Joe glanced at his watch, for he had become accustomed to timing their ten-minute rides from the “singing” traffic lights. Now he subtracted two minutes. Where would they be in eight more?

  The road twisted and turned, finally coming out on the highway. Here the tire marks Frank had been following became intermingled with others.

  Joe was excited. “Go on, Frank!” he cried. Two minutes later Joe called a halt and pointed.

  “At last,” he yelled, “we’ve solved it!”

  “Solved what?” Chet demanded.

  Words tumbled from Joe’s lips. Just ahead was the Mead mansion, and they were ten minutes’ drive from singing light number three!

  “Remember when we were checking the fuse box and you got a shock that knocked you cold?” Joe asked Frank.

  “Sure do.”

  “When I was in the library I heard a groan and raced back to you in the kitchen, thinking something had happened to you.”