“Hello,” she said, trying to seem calm. After a few pleasantries she asked, “Is Chet there?”
“No, he’s not, Laura. Isn’t he with Frank and Joe?”
Mrs. Hardy revealed with a sinking heart that Chet had left the house with her sons directly after breakfast and she had not heard from any of them since.
“It’s unusual for them not to telephone if they’re going to stay out late,” Mrs. Hardy said. “But I’m sure they’ll be home soon,” she added, in order not to alarm Mrs. Morton more than was necessary.
“Oh, I hope so,” Chet’s mother replied anxiously. “Those boys sometimes get into such dangerous situations. Please let me know the minute you hear from them.”
“I’ll phone you if I get any news,” Mrs. Hardy assured her friend.
She had barely said good-by when the telephone rang. It was Chief Collig.
“Mrs. Hardy,” he asked brusquely, “are Frank and Joe there?”
“No, Chief. Is anything wrong?”
“Then let me speak to Fenton,” Collig went on, pretending that he had not heard her anxious question.
“He’s not here, either. Oh, wait a minute,” she added, hearing a key in the lock. “Fenton’s just coming in the door.”
Mrs. Hardy called her husband to the telephone.
“Thank you, dear. Who is it?” he asked.
“Chief Collig.”
Mr. Hardy’s eyebrows lifted as he took the phone. “Yes, Chief?” As he listened to Collig, his few grew grave.
“Have you tried the hospitals?... They’re not there?... I’ll be right over.”
The news was disturbing. The officer had reported that the boys’ overturned convertible had been found in a ditch some miles out of Bayport. There had been no sign of either Frank or Joe, and no report of the accident.
Laura Hardy’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a cry. Aunt Gertrude began spluttering about her dire predictions coming true. “This detective work is too risky for boys.” As she took off her glasses to wipe them, her hands shook.
“When did you last hear from the boys?” Mr. Hardy asked his wife. Upon being told, his face clouded. “Well, I’m going to police headquarters.”
“You know something you’re not telling me,” his wife cried, grabbing his arm as he was about to go out the door.
“I have a hunch the car was stolen,” he replied. “I want to drive to the spot where it was abandoned and see if I can pick up any clues.”
Aunt Gertrude wailed, “Hurry! Hurry! They’ve probably been kidnapped!”
The detective was out of the house before Mrs. Hardy could voice any further questions, and rushed to headquarters.
Collig was not scheduled to be on duty, but when the report of the overturned Hardy car had come in, the chief had rushed to his office.
When Mr. Hardy arrived, he jumped up from his leather chair, his forehead creased with frown lines. “This really has me worried, Fenton.”
“Come on. Hop in my car,” the detective said.
They sped to the scene of the accident, about five miles west of Bayport. With flashlights, the two men carefully examined the rough ground for any sign of a clue. There were no footprints.
“That’s strange,” Collig grunted. “We haven’t had any rain to wash ’em away, either!”
Mr. Hardy did not speak. Slowly he walked back along the road in the direction from which the car had come. Reaching a spot about one hundred feet from the convertible, he played his flashlight over the area and found a set of footprints.
“Here’s your answer,” he called out. “Pretty daring person.”
It was the detective’s belief that the driver of the car had jumped and let it go on to wreck itself. Obviously he was neither one of his sons nor Chet Morton.
“It’s a real relief to know that,” Mr. Hardy concluded, “but it doesn’t find the boys. I’m going back to town now and start a search.”
Collig had his own plan of operation, so the men separated after their return to police headquarters. Mr. Hardy drove at once to 47 Parker Street and examined the house carefully. When it yielded no results, he continued on to various spots which he had had under surveillance in connection with the television thieves. But the outcome of his investigation was discouraging.
Tired and worried, he finally went home at eight in the morning. Refreshing himself with a hasty breakfast and some coffee, he asked his wife to pack some sandwiches, then started out again. Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude, who had slept only fitfully, asked what he intended to do next.
“I’m driving to the Mead house,” he replied, masking his concern. “I’ve an idea the boys found out something over there and are still sleuthing around the place.”
Mr. Hardy and Chief Collig examined the ground for clues
He did not tell the two women his real fears. By now he was convinced that his sons and Chet were in the hands of the very men he was trying to capture!
CHAPTER XVIII
Holding a Suspect
WITHIN an hour after Mr. Hardy had left home on his search for Frank and Joe, the doorbell rang. Hoping the caller would have good news, Aunt Gertrude dashed to answer it. A lean man in his thirties stood outside.
“Is this the Hardy house?” he asked, smiling, and took off his hat. Learning that it was, he added, “Are Frank and Joe at home?”
“No,” Aunt Gertrude replied.
“When do you expect them?”
“Suppose you tell me your name and why you wish to see them.”
“I’m John Mead.”
Aunt Gertrude reeled. She put one hand to her forehead and grasped the door with the other.
“You seem surprised to hear that,” the stranger remarked. “Is there something peculiar about it?”
“I—I—We thought you were dead!”
The caller laughed. “Me dead? I’m very much alive. What gave you that idea?”
By this time Gertrude Hardy had steadied her nerves. She had heard enough about the mystery her brother and the boys were trying to solve to know that the person who stood before her might be one of the suspects in the case. She was hesitant about inviting him into the house; yet she was fearful of letting him go.
As calmly as possible she finally asked him to come inside. Calling loudly for her sister-in-law, she escorted John Mead into the living room. The boys’ mother hurried in.
“Laura, this is Mr. John Mead,” Aunt Gertrude announced.
Mrs. Hardy felt faint, but she tried not to show it. The three sat down. It immediately became evident to the caller that the two women were very nervous.
“My coming here seems to have upset you,” he said. “Last Monday I met Frank and Joe Hardy on the road. I had trouble with my car and they kindly helped me out.”
The women nodded.
“I just returned and am on the way home. So I stopped by to thank them again and invite them over to the house. It’s an interesting old place and I thought they’d get a kick out of it.”
He stopped speaking, expecting one or the other to say something, but both Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude remained silent. They were staring at a ring he wore on his right hand. This was the first time they had seen the strange Y symbol. Suddenly Mrs. Hardy realized that the awkward pause had been rather long.
“Oh—ah—yes,” she said. “The boys told us about you. But they’re not at home now and I don’t know when they’ll be back.”
Aunt Gertrude again brought up the subject of how they had heard that John Mead, who owned the house on the bay, had died five years ago in a car accident.
“I see what you mean.” The caller smiled. “He was my uncle.”
“Your uncle!” Mrs. Hardy cried. “We thought he had no relatives.”
“I suppose everyone thought that,” John Mead went on. “To tell you the truth, my uncle was a rather eccentric man and people knew little about him. He was not married, and my father and I were his only relatives. We lived in England most of our lives.
; “About five years ago I received a strange note from Uncle John. He wrote that he was sending me a box and would explain its contents later. He wanted to be sure of my receiving the gifts before telling me what they were.”
The visitor explained that the box had contained the ring he wore and some odd-looking keys. That was all. He had written to his uncle at the Bayport address saying the package had come, but he had never gotten a reply.
“Apparently Uncle John died before receiving my letter. But I didn’t know this until much later. It seems no will was found, but my father had once told me my wealthy relative was leaving everything to me. Recently I arrived in this country and came here to Bayport last week to see my uncle’s estate.”
Though the stranger seemed honest, the two women were still suspicious. While Mrs. Hardy continued the conversation, Aunt Gertrude quietly left the room and went upstairs to telephone police headquarters.
Chief Collig, still out on a personal search for Frank and Joe, was not available, but the sergeant on duty promised to send a plainclothesman at once.
During Miss Hardy’s absence from the living room, the boys’ mother inquired about the condition of the Mead mansion. She remembered her sons talking about the fact that the electricity had been turned on and off at various times.
“Since the house has been abandoned for so long, I’m sure all the utilities are shut off,” she said, looking at the caller intently. “How did you live there when you arrived?”
“I didn’t stay very long,” Mead replied, “and I didn’t bother turning it on. Just used a flashlight on my brief tour through the house. I do hope the generator is still in working order. My father told me about it.”
He then went on to describe the intricate locks his uncle had devised, and his own discovery of the various secret mechanisms.
“That’s one of the things I thought your boys would enjoy looking at,” he concluded.
A few minutes later the doorbell rang. Aunt Gertrude hurried to admit the plainclothesman. Quickly she whispered her suspicions to him, then brought him into the living room. She introduced the police officer as a friend, preventing Mrs. Hardy from asking questions by a conspiratorial glance.
“Well, I’d better be going,” John Mead said. “Please tell Frank and Joe I’d like to see them soon.”
As he started to leave, the plainclothesman blocked his way. “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” he said.
For several minutes the detective quizzed the Englishman, but learned nothing from him other than what he had told the two women. Finally John Mead became irritated.
“You’d think I was some sort of criminal!” he burst out. “I know this is a detective’s home, and you probably think everybody who comes here is a suspect of some kind, but I can’t see why I warrant such treatment!”
“Well, if you must know, you are a suspect!” Aunt Gertrude exclaimed.
“What?” John Mead looked as if someone had struck him. He recovered in a moment, however, and demanded to know what she meant. Mrs. Hardy tried to calm her unexpected visitor.
“Please sit down again, Mr. Mead,” she said. “We’ll tell you the story.”
“This man is a detective,” Aunt Gertrude explained. “If you try any funny business—”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mead replied. “Funny business indeed, but on your side! I insist upon knowing why you are virtually holding me a prisoner!” His eyes blazed angrily.
“That ring you are wearing bears the insignia of a gang of thieves!” Miss Hardy cried excitedly. “How do we know you’re not one of them?”
John Mead turned pale. Nervously he insisted he was not a thief, and that he had received the ring by mail from his uncle years ago.
“Your story could be true and it could not,” the plainclothesman spoke up. “But if you’re going to the Mead house I’m coming with you.”
“And we are too!” chorused the women.
They thought it best not to mention the fact that Mr. Hardy was out there searching for the boys. Moreover, they were so worried about Frank and Joe they wanted to find out if there was any news.
Mead looked from one to the other, then shrugged. “Come along, then. I have nothing to hide!”
The plainclothesman drove the four in a police car. When they reached the Mead house, they found Mr. Hardy and two policemen still trying to find a way to get into the mansion. The detective was surprised to see his wife and sister, and even more so to meet John Mead. He questioned him closely and decided his story was plausible.
Mead, meanwhile, had realized the seriousness of the situation and was very cooperative.
“We have reason to believe there’s trouble inside the house, and that my sons are being held prisoners here,” Mr. Hardy explained. “I was just about to break in. Do you have a key?”
“Yes. I lost one, but I have three more for the other doors.”
The detective led the way to the back door of the mansion and Mead opened it.
“It took me quite a while to find out how to get in,” the Englishman explained.
Mr. Hardy nodded. “It’s a strange setup.” Inside, he clicked a wall switch and the lights went on.
“That’s odd,” said Mead. “I thought—”
“Someone else knows about the generator,” Mr. Hardy explained. Then he turned to the others. “The two officers and I will make a thorough search of the house. You’d better wait here.”
The three went off and returned after a while, reporting that they had not found a trace of the boys.
“You may as well go home,” Mr. Hardy told his wife and sister. “Thomas here,” he added, referring to the plainclothesman, “can take you back. I’d like Mr. Mead to stay. We’ll look around again.”
After the women had left he gave Mead a sketchy account of the mystery on which he was working. He revealed the part Lenny Stryker had played in it, the kidnapping of Martha Johnson, and how the only clue to the boys’ whereabouts lay in the secret panel.
“All trails lead to this house,” he concluded. “Think carefully, Mr. Mead. Did your uncle ever mention a secret panel to you?”
Mead shook his head, dumbfounded. He had no idea the mansion contained anything of a secret nature other than the hidden locks on the doors and windows, but he could well imagine that his eccentric relative might have built a hidden room.
“Uncle John was very withdrawn, my father told me. Perhaps he had a secret room where he worked. But I never heard of one.”
Mr. Hardy was inclined to believe that the Englishman was telling the truth. Nevertheless, he signaled to one of the policemen, whose name was Mac, to keep close watch on him and see that he did not escape.
Then the detective went outside with the other officer and surveyed the house carefully. They decided that architecturally the most likely place to build a secret room would be off the library.
Before they went back inside, they moved the cars so they would be concealed. Then they began a careful examination of the carved paneling in the library.
Mr. Hardy called his sons’ names a few times, but there was no response.
“If they were somewhere near here, wouldn’t they hear us?” Mac asked.
“Not necessarily. They could be gagged. Or the panel could be soundproof. Joe heard a groan once, but at that time he was not in this room, and the panel could have been open.”
Mr. Hardy focused his attention on the fireplace and the walls on either side of it. His eves wandered, and it was not long before he located the oak tree with its movable leaf.
Before he could investigate the metal disk beneath, Mac, who stood near the hall door, detected a slight sound. Instantly he signaled the others to put them on guard. Turning off the light, Mr. Hardy and the two policemen ducked behind the heavy draperies, pulling Mead with them.
The front door opened and closed again. Footsteps sounded along the hallway. Finally a man came stealthily into the library and walked toward the fireplace. The
four watched intently in the dimness.
Was the intruder going to open the secret panel?
CHAPTER XIX
Closing In
THE man who had entered the Mead home carried a large package under his arm. He hid it inside the fireplace and turned away.
The detectives and John Mead watched him tensely. To their disappointment he did not touch the paneled wall; instead, he walked back toward the hall.
At that instant Mr. Hardy leaped from hiding and pinned the man’s arms behind him. Startled, the stranger tried to wrench himself free, but was confronted by the policemen. One of them turned on the light.
Mr. Hardy stared closely at the prisoner. From the description Frank and Joe had given him, the man could be Mike Batton, the dishonest locksmith.
“Okay, Batton, calm down,” Mr. Hardy said.
“How do you—?” the fellow began, then stopped short and turned to the policemen. “Take your hands off me!” he cried.
“What are you doing here?” John Mead demanded.
“I could ask you the same question,” Batton replied with a sneer.
“Open that package!” Mr. Hardy ordered him.
At first Mike only stared back insolently and did not obey. When he was told the police were looking for him and it would go still harder with him if he did not cooperate, he changed his mind.
He pulled the string from the bundle by the fireplace. Several bracelets, rings, and necklaces rolled out.
“Where did you get this jewelry?” Mr. Hardy asked.
“I’m not telling.”
Under further questioning, though, Batton admitted that he had stolen it because he needed money to pay a large gambling debt.
“I know a guy who buys stolen gems,” he said. “Soon as he shows up, he’ll pay me a lot of money for them.”
“He’s coming here? When?” Mr. Hardy inquired.
Batton suddenly looked frightened and did not answer.
“Put him under arrest,” Mr. Hardy said to the police, and advised the prisoner of his rights. “Now give me the key you used to get in here!” he demanded of him.
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