The Sign of the Crooked Arrow

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Frank told the tall, sandy-haired investigator all he knew. Sam’s brow furrowed.

  “Incredible!” he remarked with deep concern.

  “Why would anybody shoot him with an arrow?” Joe wondered aloud.

  “Probably,” Sam replied, “to escape detection. An arrow will be harder to trace than a bullet. Where is the arrow?”

  “At police headquarters,” Aunt Gertrude said. “Fenton had it sent there immediately.”

  “We’d better take a look at it,” Sam said.

  He took Aunt Gertrude in his car, and the boys drove to headquarters in their convertible. On the way, Frank said to Joe, “You thinking the same thing I am?”

  “I’ll say!” Joe replied. “The arrow!”

  “That’s it,” Frank said. “First Sam picks up the words ‘crooked arrow’ at Mike’s Place, then we find the crooked arrow on the watch and tie clasp. And now Dad is shot with an arrow!”

  “It all adds up to a big question mark,” Joe declared. “Only one thing’s clear. Someone wants Dad out of his way.”

  The two cars arrived at headquarters about the same time. Aunt Gertrude, Sam, and the boys were ushered into the office of Chief Collig, who sat at his desk examining the arrow.

  “Hello there,” he said. “Awfully sorry to hear about your father, boys.”

  “Thanks,” Frank replied. “Any clues yet?”

  “None at all. My men searched the deserted house and found a trampled spot in the weeds where the culprit may have hidden, but nothing else.”

  “May I see the arrow, Chief?” Frank asked.

  Collig handed him a short thick shaft with a sharp steel tip. On the end, near the nock, were three white feathers.

  “This could kill a man!” Frank exclaimed.

  “Sure could,” Collig agreed. “Your father was mighty lucky.”

  “Look at those feathers,” Joe observed. “They’re all the same color.”

  “Aren’t they supposed to be?” Aunt Gertrude asked.

  “Two are usually the same color, such as red,” Joe explained. “The other, known as the cock feather, stands at right angles to the nock, and is of a different color.”

  “Then an expert archer must have shot this arrow,” Frank concluded. “He didn’t need a colored feather to show him which was the cock feather.”

  “Right,” Sam said. “And he didn’t mean to kill your father, just incapacitate him. Well, we’ve got to look for an expert archer.”

  “We could start on the Indians in town,” Frank suggested, giving Joe a significant glance.

  “There are only four in Bayport,” the chief told the boys. “We’ve checked them out already, and they seem to be upstanding citizens. But bear in mind that Indians aren’t the only ones expert with a bow.”

  “You’re right. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack,” Frank mused.

  “Do you mind if we look up the Indians, anyway, Chief?” Joe asked. “Perhaps one of them had a relative visiting, who would bear investigating.”

  “By all means, go ahead,” Collig replied and gave him a list of names.

  After bidding the chief and Sam good-by, Frank and Joe took Aunt Gertrude home for lunch. Then they started out to question the four local Indians. All were skilled at trades and had good jobs. None had visitors and none had ever handled a bow in his life.

  “Looks as if we’ve reached a dead end,” Frank said disappointedly.

  “What next?” Joe asked.

  “I don’t know yet. But we’d better forget about that camping trip with Chet. Let’s drive out to his place and tell him.”

  Joe nodded, and soon Frank pulled up alongside the porch of the Morton farmhouse, which was located several miles out of town. Iola, Chet’s pretty sister and Joe’s favorite date, greeted them with a smile.

  “Hi!” shouted Joe. “Where’s Chet?”

  “Behind the barn,” she replied.

  Frank parked, and the boys made their way to the back. They spied their stocky, good-natured friend crouching like a football lineman. Rushing at him was a big man, his muscular arms outstretched.

  Then, faster than the eye could follow, he grabbed Chet and flipped him up into the airl The boy landed on the ground with a thud. Frank and Joe rushed to his aid.

  “Oh, hi there,” Chet said casually and picked himself up. Then he introduced the young man who had thrown him. “This is Russ Griggs. He’s teaching me judo!”

  “We thought he was attacking you!” Joe said.

  Russ laughed. “Chet’s a pretty good pupil, but quite a load! We were just working on a movement against the back.”

  “We know a couple of judo holds,” Frank said, “but that last one you used on Chet was a beauty!”

  “It’s easy enough, if you’re fast,” Russ replied. “Here, I’ll show you how it goes.”

  Frank stepped forward and the man showed him the fundamentals of the hold, taking each step slowly.

  “Now try it on me,” he said.

  Hardly were the words out of his mouth when the husky Russ went zooming through the air like a rocket.

  “Hey!” he shouted to Frank. “I’m the instructor, remember?”

  They laughed, and the judo expert showed them a variety of other holds. Then he said good-by.

  After Russ had left, the boys gathered on the spacious porch. Frank and Joe quickly told Chet about their baffling case and of the attack on their father.

  “Shot by an arrow!” Chet exclaimed, and added, “Gosh, I’m sure sorry, fellows.”

  “We’ll have to postpone our camping trip,” Joe announced.

  “Oh, sure, I understand.”

  Presently the telephone rang, and Mrs. Morton called, “It’s for you, Frank.”

  He went inside, spoke a few words, and came back to the porch.

  “It was Slow Mo,” he said to Joe. “He’s dug up some new info and wants to see us.”

  “How’d he know you were here?” Chet asked.

  “Aunt Gertrude told him,” Frank explained. “We’d better go.”

  Frank and Joe drove off to Pleasantville. As they stopped in front of the garage, Slow Mo ambled out to meet them.

  “More funny business goin’ on around here,” he announced.

  “What happened?”

  “Some smart aleck tried to take that car last night,” he replied. “But I fooled him.”

  “How?” Joe asked.

  Slow Mo scratched his whiskers and grinned. “Well, he got in a window, but when he tried to open the garage doors my burglar alarm went off and scared him away!”

  “Good for you!” Frank said. “I didn’t know you had an alarm.”

  “Oh, I didn’t till a few days ago,” Slow Mo replied. He looked a little sheepish. “Never thought of it until all this trouble started over the black sedan.”

  The boys exchanged grins, then the three went into the garage and looked around. The mystery car was halfway across the floor. The intruder evidently had moved it before trying to open the garage doors.

  “Did you find any clues?” Frank queried.

  “Nothin‘,” Slow Mo said, “’cept the fellow must be a chicken farmer.”

  “What makes you think that?” Joe asked.

  “He left a feather on the seat of the car,” Slow Mo replied. He reached an oily hand into his pocket and drew out a smudged white feather.

  “Boy!” Joe exclaimed. “What a clue!”

  “A clue?” Slow Mo looked puzzled. “Never thought of that.”

  Frank and Joe thanked Slow Mo for the information and headed back to Bayport.

  “I think we have something here,” Frank remarked. “This feather sure looks like the ones on the arrow that wounded Dad.”

  After parking in front of police headquarters, the boys hurried inside. The chief was not there, but the sergeant in charge let them examine the arrow again. Frank compared the feathers.

  “Look, Joe!” he said excitedly. “They match!”

  “Then the gu
y who dropped this at Slow Mo’s may be the one who shot Dad!” Joe exclaimed. “We’ve got to find him!”

  At the mention of Mr. Hardy, the sergeant pricked up his ears. “Too bad about that latest news,” he declared. “I know how you must feel.”

  “Too bad about what?” Frank asked quickly.

  “Haven’t you heard?” the officer asked in surprise. “The arrow that shot your father was poisoned!”

  CHAPTER V

  Expensive Evidence

  WITHOUT waiting for another word, Frank and Joe ran to their car and drove to the hospital in record time. When they reached their father’s room, they found him very ill. Mrs. Hardy was by his side.

  “Your father was poisoned by that arrow,” she said a bit shakily. “The doctors are doing all they can.”

  Mr. Hardy was too weak to speak, but he smiled faintly at his sons.

  “You’d better go along,” Mrs. Hardy said presently. “I’ll phone the house if I need you.”

  Deeply worried, the boys drove home and telephoned the details of their visit to Sam Radley. Later, Mrs. Hardy called from the hospital that their father was somewhat improved, but that she would stay with him. The boys ate dinner with Aunt Gertrude and went directly to bed.

  The following morning their mother had an encouraging report on Mr. Hardy. This buoyed their spirits considerably.

  “Joe,” said Frank, getting up from the breakfast table, “we’ll have to think of a new approach on how to locate those holdup men.”

  “You’re right,” Joe agreed. “Tell you what. Let’s go down to Mike’s Place and ask people in that area for the time. Maybe—just maybe—we’ll find another wrist watch with a crooked arrow or a lead to the thieves who use that question as a gimmick.”

  The Hardys drove to the street where the restaurant was located and parked their car. Then they began the tedious job of questioning the passers-by. As the hours wore on, the answer was usually a polite “twelve-thirty,” “one-fifteen,” “three forty-five.” Still the boys persisted.

  About four o’clock, Frank, across the street from where Joe was standing, stopped a short, husky fellow who wore a cap pulled low on his forehead. Instead of giving him the time, the man growled, “Get out of my way!”

  Frank stepped toward the man, who suddenly cocked his arm. A heavy fist flashed. Before the boy could duck, the blow caught him on the point of the chin. Stunned, he staggered backward against a building!

  “Stop him!” Joe shouted as the man dashed down the street.

  But the few people who had witnessed the scene merely stared, letting the stranger escape.

  “I’ll get him!” Joe cried, racing to his brother’s side. “Meet you at the car,” he told Frank, who by this time had regained his balance.

  The squat man was a block ahead when Joe spotted him snaking among the pedestrians.

  The boy gained yard after yard, leaving a trail of gaping onlookers. Presently he found himself only a block away from Jenk’s Tobacco Shop!

  Hearing Joe’s footsteps close behind, Frank’s attacker put on an extra burst of speed. A moment later he dashed into the tobacco store. When Joe ran through the doorway, his quarry was leaning against the counter, puffing madly.

  “What’s the idea of hitting my brother?” the boy demanded, clenching his fists.

  “Your—your brother’s too nosy,” the short man wheezed. “Tried to look at my watch—and I don’t even have one on.”

  Joe glanced at the man’s wrists. There was no watch. But he noted a section of slightly untanned skin on his left arm as if one had been worn recently.

  “You had a watch on,” Joe retorted. “What did you do with it?”

  Jenk, who was standing behind the counter, looked at Joe. “That fresh kid again,” he said menacingly. “You got an unhealthy interest in the time. Why don’t you chase along home?”

  Stunned, Frank staggered backward

  Joe had all he could do to keep from taking a punch at both men. But he knew he would be no match for Jenk and the stranger.

  “Okay,” he said, and walked out.

  But he had no intention of dropping the matter. The fact that the chase had led to the tobacco shop was too good a clue to abandon.

  Joe hurried to the place where the boys had parked their car. Frank was waiting.

  “Find out anything, Joe?” he asked. “I thought maybe something had happened to you.”

  His brother quickly brought him up to date.

  “We’ve got to investigate Jenk’s place thoroughly,” he said. “I have a feeling he’s connected in some way with the Bayport holdup gang.”

  “It’s a sure bet Jenk won’t give us any information,” Frank reasoned. “He’s seen too much of us already.”

  “I’ve got it!” Joe exclaimed. “We’ll send Chet!”

  “Good idea,” Frank agreed with a laugh. “Jenk wouldn’t suspect him. He looks too innocent.”

  In a few minutes the telephone rang at the Morton farm. Chet answered.

  “Hi, Frank,” he said cheerfully. “What’s new on the case?”

  “That’s why I called,” Frank began. “We’ve got a little job for you.”

  “Oh, oh!” said Chet. “I knew this was coming!”

  Frank quickly outlined what he wanted his chum to do. Chet did not sound enthusiastic.

  “What’s the matter?” Frank asked. “Scared?”

  “Those are pretty tough guys in that end of town,” Chet protested.

  “You can handle them,” Frank replied. “What about those judo lessons?”

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot.” Chet laughed nervously.

  “Okay,” Frank said, “then it’s a deal. See you tomorrow morning at ten at our house. Joe and I want to stop at the hospital first.”

  Chet arrived at the Hardys’ a little early and managed to pack away a second breakfast.

  “You’re supposed to be reducing,” Frank reminded him.

  Chet grimaced. “You’d better humor me if you want me to do your dirty work for you,” he declared. “Say, how’s your dad?”

  “Much better, thanks,” Frank replied. “He sure gave us a scare, though.”

  As the three boys started off a few minutes later, Frank outlined their plan.

  “Joe will keep an eye on the front door,” he said, “I’ll station myself in the delivery alley at the back.”

  “And I?” Chet asked apprehensively.

  “You go inside,” Frank continued, “and see if you can spot anything to do with a crooked arrow. Also, try to find out if Jenk’s selling anything besides tobacco.”

  “M-maybe you’d better go in,” Chet said a bit shakily, “and I’ll stand guard.”

  “Why, Chet,” Joe said with a straight face, “you’re not going to back out, are you?”

  “All right, all right,” Chet gave in.

  Frank parked the car a block from the scene. Joe stood in a doorway almost directly across the street from the shop and Frank concealed himself behind three tall ashcans in back of the building. Chet, summoning his courage, entered the store. All had agreed to meet ten minutes later in a diner down the street.

  But they did not have to wait that long. Frank heard the back screen door of Jenk’s shop bang shut. Poking his head around one of the cans to get a better view, he saw the same short, muscular-looking man who had socked him the previous day! The fellow stopped momentarily, glanced quickly around, then quietly slipped down the alley.

  Hardly had the man disappeared when the sound of angry words and scuffling issued from the shop. Frank could hear Jenk growl in a low tone and Chet reply in a high-pitched voice.

  “Let go of me!” Chet cried. “If you don’t I‘ll—I’ll—”

  A crash followed and the screen door flew open. A blurred figure bounced into the alley, rolling nearly to the ashcans.

  “Chet!” Frank whispered, standing up from his hiding place. “What happened?”

  “Tell you later,” Chet puffed. “Let’s get out of here
!”

  Frank led the way, with Chet limping behind. They soon came to the diner where Joe was waiting. He told of having seen the man enter the store just before Chet did.

  “That’s right,” said Chet. “Jenk was waiting on him when I stepped in. Called him Bearcat. They didn’t notice me.”

  “Did you hear anything?” Frank asked quickly.

  “Bearcat said ‘Got any arrows?”’ Chet related. “Jenk handed him a small package, but I didn’t get a good look at it.”

  “Arrows!” Joe gasped. “Go on. What happened next?”

  “Bearcat said, ‘I’ll be at Mike’s,’ and went out the back door,” Chet replied. “Then Jenk saw me. When I said I wanted some cigars for my dad, he got mad. Threw me out before I had a chance to protest. Said kids were a pest and I was too young to be buying cigars, and—well, I guess I interrupted something that made him sore.”

  “It’s something to do with arrows, that’s for sure,” Frank declared.

  “Whatever these arrows are, they’re small,” Chet said. “And where is Mike’s?”

  “Just a couple of blocks from here,” Frank replied. “It’s a cheap restaurant by the waterfront— the place where Sam picked up the words ‘crooked arrow.”’

  “Let’s go!” Joe urged.

  “No,” Frank warned. “You and I were hanging around there yesterday and might arouse suspicion. Chet, are you game? If you’re not back in fifteen minutes, we’ll come after you.”

  “Now listen, guys. I’ve no great desire to be kicked out again—”

  “Come on, Chet. This may be our only chance,” Joe pleaded. “We’ll wait for you here.”

  Chet grumbled, but did not let his friends down. Slowly he walked down the street, apprehensive about the man called Bearcat.

  Soon he stood in front of Mike’s Place. Several tough-looking men walked in and out.

  “Guess I’d better act the part,” Chet thought, summoning his courage. He quickly unbuttoned his collar and thrust his hands into his pockets. Then he walked boldly into the restaurant.

  At first he could barely see anything in the place, which was dimly lighted and filled with cigarette smoke. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he scanned the faces of the men sitting at the various tables. None resembled the short, muscular suspect he sought.