The Mark on the Door

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER I - The Attack

  CHAPTER II - The Missing Witness

  CHAPTER III - The Strange Symbol

  CHAPTER IV - The Hostage

  CHAPTER V - Danger Path

  CHAPTER VI - Mysterious Vigil

  CHAPTER VII - Night Rendezvous

  CHAPTER VIII - Bullfight

  CHAPTER IX - The Trail to Baja

  CHAPTER X - A Villager Speaks!

  CHAPTER XI - Mountain Pursuit

  CHAPTER XII - The Search

  CHAPTER XIII - A Charging Donkey

  CHAPTER XIV - A Threatening Message

  CHAPTER XV - Tunnel Escape

  CHAPTER XVI - Face to Face

  CHAPTER XVII - A Hot Melee

  CHAPTER XVIII - Outwitting a Crew

  CHAPTER XIX - The Trapper Trapped

  CHAPTER XX - Helicopter Capture

  THE MARK ON THE DOOR

  IN their motorboat the Sleuth Frank and Joe Hardy search Barmet Bay for a dangerous stranger who has stolen a valuable boat. Suddenly, in the eerie fog, they spot the craft drifting aimlessly out to sea. What happens next starts the young detectives and their pal Chet Morton on an intriguing adventure that takes them to Mexico and into the comparatively unexplored desert and mountain regions of Baja California.

  The search for the meaning behind a mysterious symbol that terrorizes the people of an entire village, a daring escape from a submarine, perilous encounters with a band of renegade Indians, an unusual smuggling operation—all combine to make this one of the Hardys’ most exciting cases.

  Frank and Joe dangled precariously

  above the rocky chasm

  Copyright © 1995,1967,1961, 1934 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights

  reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam &

  Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

  THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-07627-9

  2008 Printing

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  CHAPTER I

  The Attack

  “LOOK! A periscope!” Joe Hardy shouted.

  “Are you sure?” asked his brother Frank, who was at the wheel of their motorboat.

  “You bet. Look over there!”

  The Hardys were skimming across Barmet Bay in the Sleuth, checking it out before going on a fishing trip to Maine with their father.

  Frank spotted the thin, tapered metal mast to starboard, generating a tiny wake as it moved through the water.

  “I see it now, Joe!”

  “Let’s take a closer look!” his brother cried.

  Frank turned the wheel and advanced the throttle as they sped toward the periscope, but suddenly it sank beneath the waves!

  Frank looked disappointed, and cruised around in a tight circle. “It must belong to the U.S. Navy.”

  “Maybe not,” Joe replied.

  The blond boy was seventeen, one year younger than dark-haired Frank. Both had learned from their detective father to be constantly on the alert.

  A better instructor in police matters was nowhere to be found. Fenton Hardy, a former member of the New York City Police Department, was renowned as a super-sleuth.

  Frank and Joe had become so preoccupied with the periscope that they failed to take notice of a speedboat approaching them from the rear. The craft made a close pass, then suddenly turned away so sharply that its stern skidded and struck the bow of the Sleuth. The boys hung on as sheets of water showered over them.

  “What does that cowboy think he’s doing?” Joe sputtered.

  Frank rammed the throttle ahead and raced off in pursuit of the other boat. The Sleuth gained at first, enough for the Hardys to glimpse the name Ira Q painted on the stern. But the pilot of the fleeing craft applied more power and pulled away.

  “That boat is too fast for us!” Joe shouted.

  “I know,” his brother agreed. “But I managed to get a good look at the guy behind the wheel. He looks Spanish. But the boat’s name isn’t.”

  “Ira Q? Never heard of it,” Frank said. “Maybe it’s a transient.”

  “Perhaps. Anyway, I’m sure that speed demon is heading back to shore,” Joe replied. “Let’s go in and make some inquiries.”

  “We’d better telephone the Coast Guard station and tell about that periscope, too,” Frank added.

  The boys arrived at their private boathouse and tied up the Sleuth. An examination showed that she had a dent in her side. Then Frank went to a telephone booth and dialed the Barmet Coast Guard Station.

  A man’s voice crackled from the receiver. “Coast Guard. Lieutenant Parker speaking.”

  Frank told him what he and Joe had seen.

  “Thank you for the information,” the lieutenant replied. “Since no sub is expected here, I’ll have one of our cutters start an immediate search!”

  The respect and cooperation extended to the Hardys was typical of all who knew them. Frank and Joe often worked with their father on his cases, and their ability in solving baffling mysteries had won the youths an enviable reputation of their own.

  After Frank had hung up, the boys made a reconnaissance of the piers and docks stretching along the shore of Barmet Bay.

  Presently Joe grabbed his brother’s arm. “I see the speedboat!” he said excitedly.

  “Where?”

  “At Sandy MacPherson’s place!”

  The boys ran to the dock of MacPherson’s Boat Rental Service, where Sandy, an elderly Scot, seemed to be talking to himself.

  “The brigand!” he stormed. “He bashed in the stern of me new boat! I’ve had the Ira Q but three days, and already it’s damaged! He’ll pay for this!”

  “Who?” asked Frank.

  “That Mexican fellow!”

  “We’re after him, too,” Frank said. “He damaged your boat when he ran into ours.”

  “What!” MacPherson exclaimed. “He’ll no get away with this!”

  “Calm down, Mr. MacPherson,” Joe pleaded. “You say the fellow was Mexican?”

  “Yes,” the proprietor answered. “Pancho Cardillo was the name he gave me. He seemed to know quite a bit about boats. So I paid no mind when he asked me to rent him the Ira Q.”

  “Did he give you an address?” Frank asked.

  “Yes,” MacPherson said. “He’s at the Hotel Bayport. That’s where he is.”

  “Thanks,” Frank said. “Joe and I’ll go there right away. This Cardillo fellow might suddenly get the idea to leave town.”

  After learning that Cardillo had driven off in a car, the boys hastened to their own convertible, which they had left near the boathouse. Frank headed for downtown Bayport. He parked in front of the hotel, then the young detectives darted into the lobby and approached the desk clerk.

  “May we have Pancho Cardillo’s room number, please?” Frank asked.

  “You mean Senor Cardillo,” the clerk replied. “He checked out just a few minutes ago. Paid his bill in pesos. Highly irregular. I had no alternative but to accept. Figuring out the exchange is always a nuisance.”

  Frank interrupted the clerk. “What address did he list in your register?”

  The man glanced at his card file. “Tampico, Mexico,” he answered. “And that’s all I can tell you. The gentleman paid his bill and hurried to a car that was waiting for him outside.”

  “Can you give us a description of the car?” Frank prodded.

  The clerk became irritated. “What do you fellows think I am—the FBI?”

  “Well, thanks any
way,” Frank said, and the boys hurried back to their own automobile.

  Night had come on quickly, but Frank and Joe decided to make one more inquiry about Cardillo’s car. If they had a description, Police Chief Collig could issue a bulletin to pick him up.

  “I’d like to get my hands on that wise guy, if only for Sandy MacPherson’s sake,” Joe said. “He works hard to keep his boats in good condition.”

  Frank brought the car to a stop in front of a telephone booth. “I’m going to phone Sandy now. Just by chance, he might be able to give us a description of the car.”

  Frank dialed the boatman’s number, but there was no answer. “That’s funny,” the boy remarked. “MacPherson doesn’t answer—and he lives in the rear of his office.”

  “Maybe he’s out on the dock and can’t hear the phone ringing.”

  “Perhaps,” Frank said. “Let’s drive back there.”

  In a few minutes the boys arrived at MacPherson’s dock. They noticed a dim, irregular pattern of light streaming through his office window, as if from a lamp that had been overturned. The boys hastened to the small building and peered inside.

  MacPherson was lying face down on the floor.

  “I think he’s unconscious!” Frank exclaimed.

  The Hardys rushed inside to help him. As they turned him face up, the boatman groaned. “That brigandl He was here again!”

  “What happened?” Frank asked quickly.

  “Cardillo came back! He wanted me speedboat. I told him no. That devil said he would take the Ira Q, anyway.”

  “Easy now,” Frank told the distraught man. “Then what happened?”

  “I told him he’d have to step over me to get to it. He must’ve had friends with him, because I was suddenly hit from behind!”

  Sandy MacPherson rose shakily and rubbed his head.

  “Call the harbor police, Mr. MacPherson!” Frank said quickly. “Joe and I’ll take the Sleuth and search for your boat. There’s a chance it still may be out on the bay.”

  “Watch out for fogl” MacPherson said. “It’s forecast.”

  “We will,” Frank assured him.

  The boys drove to their boathouse, untied the Sleuth, and sped out onto Barmet Bay. Joe manned a portable searchlight, and swept the beam back and forth across the water.

  “MacPherson was right about the weather forecast,” Frank observed. “Fog is beginning to move in.” Joe used the portable light intermittently so as not to be dazzled by its glare.

  Nearly an hour passed. By now the Hardys were far out in the bay. They were about to turn back when Joe directed the beam of his searchlight slightly off the port bow.

  “I’ve spotted something!” he exclaimed. “It looks like a boat!”

  Frank swung the Sleuth toward the object. It presented a ghostlike image through the haze.

  “It’s the Ira Q!” Joe yelled triumphantly.

  “Nobody’s aboard!” Frank responded.

  The boys guided the Sleuth alongside the craft. Joe was about to board it when three men suddenly sprang from behind the gunwale. One struck Joe on the head with a blow that sent him crashing back into the Sleuth. A split second later two of the men clobbered Frank. He slumped unconscious.

  CHAPTER II

  The Missing Witness

  “WHAT—what happened?” Joe moaned as he regained consciousness.

  Frank, still groggy, had already managed to get himself to his feet. “We were jumped by three men hiding aboard the Ira Q.”

  “Cardillo must’ve been one of them,” Joe surmised.

  The boys reached into the salty water and bathed their bruises. Then they scanned the dark sea.

  The mist had thickened and there was no sign of the Ira Q. Before they could start their stalled motor, the Hardys heard the piercing sound of a foghorn. It was followed by shouts.

  “Ahoy! Ahoy! Is anybody out there?”

  “Must be the harbor police!” Joe said.

  The boys yelled in reply. Soon the running lights of the police boat loomed out of the fog. A small radar antenna revolved atop a mast on the cabin roof.

  “You must be the Hardys!” an officer cried. “MacPherson said you were out here! We found his boat!”

  The boys glanced over the stern of the police craft. In tow was the Ira Q.

  “Did you find anyone aboard?” Frank asked.

  “No. The boat was abandoned. We almost ran it down!”

  Frank and Joe were mystified. Where could the three men have gone?

  After telling the harbor police officers what had happened, the Hardys followed them back to MacPherson’s dock. Sandy, along with Police Chief Collig, greeted them.

  “What’s all this about?” Chief Collig asked, and was promptly brought up to date on the Cardillo case.

  “There’s not much to go on,” the chief commented. “But I’ll alert my men. Chances are those scoundrels will show up again.”

  The boys thanked the harbor police, berthed the Sleuth for the night, and drove home.

  They were met at the door by their mother, a slim, attractive woman. “We’ve been worried about you—out in this fog,” she said. “Oh, look at those awful bruises! What happened?”

  “Nothing serious, Mother,” Frank told her. “Joe and I just tangled with some crooks and came off second best.”

  “Crooks? Criminals, you mean!” The voice was that of Aunt Gertrude Hardy, a tall, angular woman who breezed into the room. “Good gracious! I hope you’re not involved in another mystery!”

  “Hello, Aunt Gertrude,” Frank said with a grin. “Don’t worry about us. We can take care of ourselves.”

  “Indeed!” Aunt Gertrude sniffed. “What about those bruises on your heads?”

  “We just forgot to duck,” Joe quipped.

  “Oh! Teen-agers!” Aunt Gertrude scolded. “Your mother and I have been keeping a fine dinner warm. Come on. Sit down.”

  Gertrude Hardy, unmarried sister of Mr. Hardy, had come to live at her brother’s home. She was fond of her nephews, but thought that detective work was too dangerous for them.

  The boys’ mother smiled affectionately. “Yes. Come eat. Aunt Gertrude made you an apple pie for dessert.”

  Frank and Joe had just finished their second helping of pie when Fenton Hardy arrived home.

  “Hi, Dad!” Frank said cheerfully.

  “Hello, boys. You look well-fed.”

  “How was your visit to New York?” Joe asked as they went into the living room.

  “Fine,” replied the tall, middle-aged detective. “I’d have been home earlier, but I had to take the train. The airport was fogged in.”

  Mr. Hardy, youthful looking for his years, greeted his wife, then sat in a large wing chair.

  “Wait till you hear what happened to us today,” Joe said. He recounted the stories about the periscope and the Ira Q.

  “Very mysterious,” Mr. Hardy remarked. “And you say you saw the periscope in the bay? Maybe it had something to do with Cardillo.”

  Joe frowned in disbelief. “Do you think that’s possible?”

  “We’d have an awful time proving it,” Frank said, “unless the Coast Guard comes up with something.”

  “What about the Sleuth?” their father asked. “Was it badly damaged?”

  “A dent, that’s all,” Joe replied. “But not serious enough to keep us from our fishing trip.”

  The detective leaned forward, slapped both his knees, and looked disappointed. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to go.” He sighed. “I must start working on the New York case right away.”

  “Oh nuts!” Joe exclaimed.

  “Can you tell us about your case?” Frank asked.

  Mr. Hardy’s brow creased. “It seems that a group of scoundrels has been peddling worthless stock in New York and New England. It has been sold in the name of a Mexican firm called Costa Químico Compañia. That’s Spanish for Coast Chemical Company.”

  “I read something about that fraud,” Frank interrupted. “Didn’t s
everal Bayport people buy some of the stock?”

  “Yes. Like others, they were extremely gullible people who can be talked into a fast deal.”

  Mr. Hardy told the boys that the authorities were not certain as yet how the fraud was being worked. However, the Securities Exchange Commission had filed indictments against three men in New York.

  “But to get a conviction,” the detective explained, “the authorities are depending on the testimony of Elmer Tremmer, a Bayport bookkeeper, who kept records for the swindlers. Tremmer’s not too bright, but he’s honest. It’s believed he was innocently involved in the fraud.”

  “What’s the problem?” Joe questioned. “Won’t he cooperate?”

  “On the contrary,” Mr. Hardy said. “I’m told he was eager to testify. Four days ago he went to New York and checked in at a hotel. He was scheduled to appear at a preliminary hearing the following day. However, Tremmer disappeared shortly after his arrival and hasn’t been seen since. My job is to try and find him.”

  “Do you think he was kidnapped?” Frank asked.

  “Perhaps,” his father replied. “Or scared off.”

  After Mr. Hardy finished outlining his new case, it was late and the boys went to bed. Early the next morning they received a telephone call from their buddy Chet Morton.

  “Hi, Chet!” Joe said. “This is a great honor—your getting up so early to phone us.”

  “Stow the funny talk. I called to ask if you and Frank are going out in the Sleuth today?”

  “We didn’t plan to, but we can. Why?”

  “I’ll tell you later. It’s a surprise!” Chet announced excitedly. “Meet me at your boathouse in an hour, and you’ll witness the marvel of the century!”

  As the Hardys drove off to the rendezvous, Joe said, “What do you think Chet is up to?”

  “He probably has some new hobby,” Frank replied. “Whatever it is, we can be sure of one thing. It’ll be good for a laugh.”

  Chet, plump and jovial, lived on a farm outside Bayport. He was always experimenting with one hobby or another. Many were short-lived, but once in a while they were useful for the Hardys in solving a mystery.

  The young detectives arrived at their boathouse just as Chet came rumbling along in his father’s farm truck. On the rear of it was an odd-shaped contraption hidden under a tarpaulin. Chet pulled up and hopped out.