The Crisscross Shadow

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Was he hiding in the boathouse or had he just arrived there in a boat?” Joe asked.

  “He was just coming out of the boathouse when I got there,” Sam answered. “I didn’t see a boat, though.”

  The boys talked a few moments more with Sam, then said good-by, promising to watch for clues that might help on the sabotage case.

  On the way home Joe said, “I wonder where that boat disappeared to after the log was thrown at us.”

  “There are a lot of little coves and inlets along the shore that it could have ducked into without being seen,” his brother replied.

  “Maybe we ought to look along the shore,” Joe suggested.

  After an hour of fruitless searching the boys turned homeward.

  “Those fellows probably left town. They may have seen the Coast Guard pick us up. I’m sure that after they dropped Breck they went into hiding,” Frank pointed out.

  “I think our best bet right now is to follow up the clue of the moccasin,” said Joe. “It’s a clue to the real identity of Breck and might lead us to his pals.”

  When the boys arrived home they found dinner ready. During the meal they told their mother and Aunt Gertrude about Sam Radley’s condition and their suspicion that he had been after the same man they were.

  “I guess we’ll have to do Sam’s work,” Frank observed with a sidewise look at his aunt, knowing she would object.

  “Sam’s work, indeed!” she cried out. “You leave the saboteurs to the big detectives!”

  “Tall, you mean? I’m as tall as Sam.”

  “Now, boys,” Mrs. Hardy cautioned, hoping the banter would not get out of hand.

  “Solving crimes certainly gives them a good appetite for food and wit,” Aunt Gertrude declared as each was served a second helping of fricasseed chicken and dumplings.

  When they finished, the young sleuths leaned back with a sigh.

  “Aunt Gertrude,” said Joe, “sometimes I’d rather eat one of your meals than solve a mystery!”

  At that moment the telephone rang. Frank picked it up. It was Iola. “Callie and I have been looking through some more Indian books and we’ve come across something important.”

  “What is it?”

  “We’ve found the name of an Indian tribe that begins with an R!”

  Frank whistled in amazement. “Great work, Iola. What’s the name?”

  “The Ramapans.”

  “Ramapans?” Frank repeated. “Listen, we’ll be right over.”

  Twenty minutes later the Hardys arrived at the Mortons.

  “Iola and I decided to check some other books that Chet remembered were in the attic,” Callie explained. “We’d just about given up our search when we came across the Ramapans.”

  “That’s great,” said Joe. “Where are they located and what are they like?”

  He pulled out a notebook and pencil ready to take down all the information.

  “Well, the Ramapans are a small tribe. They live on a reservation about five hundred miles from here,” Callie replied.

  “Yes. Go on,” Frank urged eagerly as the girl paused.

  “They are skilled in making small trinkets and leather articles.”

  “Skilled in leatherwork!” Frank exclaimed.

  “I thought that would make you sit up and take notice.” Chet grinned. “Just come to Morton and Company for the best in detecting.”

  “Can you show us on the map where the Ramapans live?” Frank asked.

  Chet brought out an atlas and opened it. After turning several pages, he pointed.

  “Here it is. Not many people live around this region.”

  The Hardys recognized the area as rugged territory made up mostly of mountains and forest.

  “Say,” Chet called out suddenly, “that’s right around where the Pashunks used to live!” His face lit up with expectation. “Fellows,” he said, “I have a wonderful idea. Let’s go there and search for that buried treasure!”

  “Sounds good, Chet,” Frank replied. “But the Ramapans might not agree. They own the land where their reservation is located. And you’ve forgotten something else—school. How would you get time off from classes?”

  “And even if we could, how about the football games?” Joe asked. “Bayport High might get along without Frank and me, but our big center —no!”

  Chet beamed at the compliment.

  “Right now, we have a mystery to solve,” Joe said.

  “And we do have a good clue to the maker of the key case and the moccasin,” Frank added.

  The young people spent the rest of the evening poring over the story of the Ramapans, learning their history and customs. As the Hardys were leaving, Frank said:

  “I certainly hope we can put all this knowledge to some good use.”

  The next afternoon, between the end of classes and football practice, he and Joe dropped in to see Police Chief Collig and ask if there was any news from the Southport police about Breck and the man in the blue sweater.

  “Nothing good,” the officer replied, leaning back in his swivel chair. “They’ve disappeared. An alarm has been sent out for them. Don’t worry, boys,” he went on encouragingly. “Those two will turn up again, and when they do, they’ll be arrested.”

  Frank looked at his watch. “Well, it’s time to get over to football practice. Thanks for the information, Chief.”

  During the next two hours they worked hard, under the watchful eye of Coach Devlin. Finally, when the sun was setting over the empty stands, he dismissed the squad.

  The Hardys trotted to the showers side by side.

  “You know,” Joe said, “I’d like to follow up the key-case clue in the Ramapan country right away. We might fly up there for the weekend.”

  “That wouldn’t be enough time to make a thorough investigation,” his brother pointed out. “How about Christmas vacation?”

  “Gosh, Frank, I’d hate to wait that long to call on the Ramapans. But maybe we’ll figure out a way.”

  When they arrived at school the next morning, a crowd of boys and girls were gathered around the main entrance. The Hardys hurried up, curious to find out what was going on. Usually students lingered outside only briefly, then went to their classes. Seeing their friend Biff Hooper in the group, Frank and Joe walked over.

  “Hi, Biff!” Frank greeted the rangy fullback. “What’s all the excitement?”

  “Have a look for yourself,” Biff replied, pointing to a sign tacked on the entrance.

  The boys edged over for a closer look, but knew from the animated conversations what it said.

  “Because of a breakdown in the heating plant, all classes and sports have been suspended. You will be advised over the radio when school will reopen.”

  “Pretty neat, eh?” Biff said delightedly. “Now I’ll have time to work on that sailboat I’m building for next summer.”

  Joe’s face broke into a wide grin. “One guess, Frank, what we’ll do with the time.”

  “Go up to the Ramapan country!”

  “Right. Let’s tell Chet. He’ll probably want to come along and hunt for that buried treasure!”

  Their stout friend, who never reached school until the very last minute, arrived at that moment in his rattling jalopy.

  “What! No school! Do I want to go!” he exclaimed when he heard the news. “Yippee!”

  CHAPTER VIII

  A Desperate Attempt

  “OKAY, Chet. Let’s go to the station and find out about trains,” Frank suggested.

  The agent informed them that a through train for Lantern Junction, the nearest village to the Ramapans, stopped at Bayport at eleven o’clock.

  “Don’t be late!” Frank warned Chet as he dropped them at the house. “Remember, we don’t have all day to make that train—just a couple of hours!”

  “Say, whose treasure is this, anyway?” Chet called. “I’m practically at the station now!” And his ancient car lurched and clattered down the street.

  Reaching home, Frank and Jo
e told their mother and Aunt Gertrude about the heating-plant breakdown and their plan to visit the Ramapans.

  Mrs. Hardy was somewhat taken aback by their announcement of the proposed trip. But she resolved not to voice the anxiety she felt.

  “Take plenty of warm clothes,” she advised. “It’s very cold up there at this time of year. And I’ll get some money for you.”

  “If I were the school principal, I’d give you plenty of homework so you couldn’t go gallivanting!” Aunt Gertrude said.

  “Zingo! I’m glad I never had you for a teacher, Auntie!” Joe cried.

  He fled upstairs before she could reply, Frank following. They had barely started pulling out ski clothes when their aunt came into their room.

  “Shoo!” she ordered. “I’ll do the packing. Go get your bags!”

  “We will,” Joe agreed cheerfully. “There’s no better packer in Bayport.”

  At that moment Mrs. Hardy entered the room. “Here’s a letter for you,” she said, handing it to Joe. “A boy brought it.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” He studied the envelope for a moment.

  “Who’s it from?” Frank asked.

  “I don’t know,” Joe replied. “There’s no return address and the handwriting’s not familiar.” He ripped open the plain white envelope. As he read the message, his eyes widened in surprise. He gave the letter to his brother. Frank’s eyebrows shot up at the warning it held: Don’t meddle. Stay home if you value your life. R.

  “What is it?” Mrs. Hardy asked.

  “Yes, something mighty peculiar’s going on, judging from the look on your faces,” Aunt Gertrude added.

  Frank read the note aloud. The women gasped, and instantly asked the boys to cancel the trip.

  “But, Mother,” Frank said, “I’m sure Dad would want us to carry through. If we told him someone was trying to get his secret papers and didn’t follow it up, he wouldn’t think much of us as detectives.”

  “Of course,” Joe said, “if you and Aunt Gertrude are afraid to stay alone—”

  “Such talk!” Their aunt bristled. “Didn’t I chase that burglar away singlehanded?”

  Finally, consent to the trip was given and the packing went on. Frank and Joe left the room. Out in the hall Frank whispered:

  “I guess that Breck or York must have been spying on us and heard our plans.”

  “Yes, and those fellows really mean business.”

  Frank set his jaw. “Now that we know we’re dealing with a gang that’s desperate, it’ll be all the more exciting tracking them. What say we take this note to Chief Collig and have it analyzed for fingerprints, et cetera. We haven’t time to do it ourselves.”

  “Okay. Let’s get moving. We don’t want to miss that train.”

  When the boys arrived at police headquarters, the desk sergeant greeted them. “Chief Collig’s in his office. Go right in.”

  Frank handed over the letter and told about their coming trip.

  “This is serious,” Collig declared after reading the message. “I warn you boys to be on the alert every minute.”

  “We’ll do that,” Joe promised.

  Pointing to the envelope, Frank asked, “Don’t you think a lab check of this letter would be in order, Chief Collig?”

  “Right you are, Frank. Come on. We’ll do it right away,” he replied, beckoning them toward the police department’s crime laboratory.

  A check of the fingerprints on the letter did not tally with those of any known criminal, and there were no identifying marks to tell from whom the letter had come.

  “It’s not a whole sheet, and it’s written on heavy paper, we know that much,” Chief Collig determined. “I’d say it was cut from a long, narrow sheet.”

  Frank picked up the letter. “I wonder—” he began slowly, “I wonder if it could be legal paper.” He held one edge of it to the light. “Yes, it is!” he exclaimed, seeing the semblance of a blue line where the paper had been cut.

  “Fine deduction, Frank,” the chief complimented him. “But what person who uses legal paper might be mixed up in this business?”

  “Miles Kamp!”

  “Of course!” the officer agreed. “He’s Wylie Breck’s lawyer!”

  Picking up his telephone, Chief Collig said. “Sergeant, I want two men detailed to watch Miles Kamp. Shadow him day and night and give me a full report on everything he does.”

  He replaced the instrument in its cradle and turned to the Hardys.

  “I think we’re getting somewhere at last, thanks to you. That note tipped the gang’s hand.” He looked at his watch. “Don’t miss your train. And good luck,” he called.

  The boys stopped at the house just long enough to collect their bags and say good-by to their mother and Aunt Gertrude.

  The railroad platform was crowded, but they had no trouble finding Chet among the throng. He was surrounded by enough luggage for a month.

  “That’s rugged country, and a fellow can’t be too well equipped,” Chet insisted.

  The three made their way to the edge of the platform when they heard the whistle of the approaching train. Chet leaned over the track to try to look around a bend beyond the station.

  “Here she comes, fellows!” he cried, catching a glimpse of the engine.

  The train came closer. As it turned the bend, a shrill scream from the street cut the air.

  At the instant that everyone’s attention was diverted, the Hardys suddenly felt themselves shoved toward the track by strong hands. They struggled against the pressure but were thrown off balance.

  “You will horn in where you have no business, will you?” a rasping voice muttered in Frank’s ear.

  “Stop!” Frank cried out.

  But the plea was useless. Their arms flailing the air, both boys went tumbling off the platform directly into the path of the oncoming train!

  CHAPTER IX

  Conflicting Reports

  THE train bore down on the Hardys who were sprawled across the track. Men shouted. Women screamed and covered their eyes. Brakes shrieked.

  Instinctively Frank rose and jumped back. But Joe was stunned, the breath knocked from him. Chet was the first onlooker to make a move. Quickly he leaped from the platform, lifted Joe, and lunged out of the path of the train as it rushed by them!

  “Oh! Thank goodness!” someone cried out.

  Still trembling, Frank and Joe stood stock-still, unable to believe they had been saved. Then Joe looked at Chet and murmured:

  “Thanks, pal.”

  As the train came to a stop, everyone excitedly began to talk at once. What had happened? Had the surge of the crowd pushed the boys onto the track?

  “No,” Frank answered, recovering his wits. “We were shoved.”

  Just then the conductor rushed up. After a brief explanation, Frank asked him to hold the train for a few minutes.

  “I want to find the men who caused all the trouble,” he said.

  The conductor nodded, and announced:

  “There will be a five-minute stop. All passengers for this train please remain on the platform.”

  The Hardys and Chet hurriedly asked persons on the platform whether anyone had seen the men responsible for pushing the boys onto the track. But none of the crowd had noticed anyone running away from the scene. They had been looking toward the street to see who had screamed.

  “I guess it’s no use,” Frank declared. “Those guys have probably skipped out.”

  When the three boys were seated in the train, Chet remarked, “Do you think the person who screamed had anything to do with the shove?”

  “Yes,” Frank answered. “The whole setup was planned.”

  “The writer of that note meant business!” Joe exclaimed.

  “What note?” Chet inquired. When he learned of the warning, he whistled and asked, “Who do you figure signed himself R?”

  The Hardys shrugged, saying the initial most likely stood for Ramapan, but might have been borrowed by someone not connected with the tribe.<
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  “Hm!” said Chet, cupping his face in his hands. “We may be running right into danger. Maybe—”

  “You don’t mean you want to go back and not look for the treasure!” Joe exclaimed in mock disgust.

  “Well, not exactly, but you fellows have a habit of getting me into tight spots.”

  Frank said grimly, “Those platform pushers will have their hands full if they try to pull any more funny business.”

  “Let’s forget about the mystery for a while and enjoy this trip,” Chet interposed half an hour later.

  “Okay,” Joe replied. “I’ll switch on the radio.”

  He snapped open the small portable set he was carrying and adjusted the dials to a program of hit tunes.

  As they sat watching the countryside speed by, they listened idly to various programs. At last a newscast came on.

  Suddenly Frank sat bolt upright. “Listen to that!” he exclaimed.

  The announcer’s voice came clearly.

  “—serious case of sabotage in Chicago. An important government project has been bombed by saboteurs, leaving the place in ruins.

  “Fenton Hardy, the famous investigator, is on the scene at this very moment. When interviewed, Mr. Hardy said that he is following up scattered clues, but that so far none of the culprits has been captured. And now for news on the international front—”

  Frank clicked off the set. “The gang has struck again!”

  Chet’s face wore a puzzled look. “I thought your dad was supposed to be in California. Now he turns up in Chicago.”

  “That is strange,” Joe agreed, frowning. “He must have flown there in a big hurry.”

  “But I’m sure Mother just heard from him in California,” Frank insisted. “As soon as the train arrives, we’re supposed to call home. Let’s ask her about it.”

  The train was now moving along more slowly, ascending the rugged mountainous country where the Ramapan community was located. At last the big Diesel pulled into Lantern Junction.

  The Hardys and Chet were the first to alight and hurried to the telephone booths in the station. Joe put in a long-distance call to Bayport while Chet called a local hotel for reservations.

  “Hello, Mother,” Joe said. He decided not to mention the episode at the Bayport station. “Have you heard from Dad since we left?”