The Clue in the Embers

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Dear,” Mr. Hardy said with a chuckle, “that’s what I’m calling about. Joe’s not here!”

  “But he left in plenty of time to meet you,” Mrs. Hardy said, worried.

  Mr. Hardy tried to reassure his upset wife, saying that Joe might have had trouble with the car. Then he asked, “Is Frank there?”

  Frank had just returned from his talk with Chief Collig. He came to the phone. “Hello, Dad.”

  “Do you know what route Joe was taking out here?” his father asked.

  Frank told him of the detour, adding that Joe would have had to use the lonely road past the Howard Museum. “Dad, we found one of those medallions and Joe had it with him. Maybe he’s been waylaid!”

  “I don’t like this. Take my car and start a search. I’ll grab a taxi here and investigate from this end.”

  “Okay, Dad. I’ll start right away.”

  Mr. Hardy collected his luggage and hurried from the building. Hailing a taxi, he briefly told the driver what had happened, then directed the man to the spot where he and Frank were to meet.

  They set off along the highway over which there was now a heavy mist. Inch by inch they searched the roadsides with the taxi’s spotlight, but there was no sign of Joe or the convertible.

  “My son should be meeting us at any moment,” Mr. Hardy said to the driver, “unless he found something.”

  At that moment the headlights of a car appeared from the direction of Bayport.

  “This must be Frank. Blink your lights at him,” Mr. Hardy said.

  The taxi driver flicked his headlights several times and the approaching car answered the signal.

  “Is that you, Dad?” Frank called as he pulled alongside.

  “Yes. Any luck?”

  “None. But I haven’t examined the last hundred feet of roadside.”

  “Then we’ll do that together,” Mr. Hardy called out. “Turn around and move on slowly. We’ll come directly behind you. Keep your eyes on the left side. I’ll watch the right.”

  At a snail’s pace, the cars headed out along the highway. Over fifty feet had been covered when suddenly Mr. Hardy saw the glint of a shiny surface in some high bushes.

  “Stop!” he told the driver. As the taxi backed slowly, the spotlight picked up the glint again. Revealed in the glare was the windshield of the boys’ convertible !

  “Blow your horn!” Mr. Hardy directed. The taxi’s powerful horn blasted several times. Hearing the signal, Frank returned to the cab in reverse.

  He backed the sedan behind the taxi, leaped out, and, with his father, thrashed through the brush. They quickly examined the convertible and the ground around it. There was no trace of Joe. But several sets of footprints were evident in the moist earth.

  “Joe must have been ambushed,” Mr. Hardy said angrily. “And they’ve either kidnapped him or left him nearby. We’ll scour the whole area.”

  With flashlights, the two walked along both sides of the road, penetrating the clumps of underbrush. A few seconds later Frank discovered the trussed-up figure of his brother. Joe was still trying to fight free from his bonds and the gag, but his efforts were futile.

  “Joe!” Frank cried out joyfully.

  He removed the gag, and with his pocketknife severed the cords from Joe’s wrists and ankles. Exhausted from his ordeal and his mouth as dry as paper, Joe could scarcely speak.

  When they reached the taxi, the driver grinned. “I’m sure relieved that you’re all right, boy. Whatever happened?” Realizing Joe could not talk, he reached under the seat and brought out a Thermos bottle of water.

  The water revived Joe considerably and he gave a sketchy account of the holdup but did not mention the stolen coin. Mr. Hardy paid the taxi-man, included an extra amount for his time and trouble, and the man drove off.

  “Now, Joe,” Mr. Hardy said, “I’m sure that there’s more to your story. Are you up to giving us the details?”

  Joe nodded, saying he felt much stronger. He told about the ambush. “And now they have the medallion!” he moaned. “We’ve got to get it back for Tony! One of the men had a mustache. He might have been the blowgun man or Torres. There’s just one other clue,” Joe added, and explained about the ping in the enemies’ motor.

  “We’ll notify the police at once,” Mr. Hardy declared. “There’s an outside chance we can pick up those thugs.”

  Frank and Joe hurried to the convertible as their father climbed into his sedan. Driving directly to headquarters, Mr. Hardy reported the incident. Chief Collig had the information teletyped throughout the state.

  Then he assigned a patrolman to accompany the Hardys as they continued their search. The group, in Mr. Hardy’s car, stationed itself at various main streets and incoming roads to listen for the engine with the strange sound. For an hour they patrolled the town without success.

  Then at an intersection near the waterfront Joe heard the peculiar ping. “That’s the car!” he cried out. “Let’s get’em, Dad!”

  Mr. Hardy turned around and sped after the car, which was heading west now.

  “He’s going at a pretty good clip!” the officer observed from the back seat. “You’d better open up and stop him!”

  As Mr. Hardy closed the distance, the driver in the other vehicle sensed that he was being pursued. He instantly gunned his motor and for a moment the Hardys lost sight of his car. But Mr. Hardy maneuvered skillfully and soon caught up to the speeder.

  “Pull over!” the police officer shouted as they passed him.

  The driver realized that he had no chance of getting away. He slowed down and came to a halt at the side of the road. He was from out of town and confessed that he had stolen the car. Joe whispered that he was younger than either of the men who had held him up and did not speak with a Spanish accent.

  As the police officer left the Hardys to drive his handcuffed prisoner to headquarters in the stolen car, the detective observed that they had helped the law, but as far as their own case was concerned, they would have to continue their search.

  “But that ping,” Joe reiterated. “I’m certain it was the identical sound. This guy was not driving at the time, somebody else was!”

  Frank felt that his brother’s observation should not be ignored.

  “I think we ought to follow that car to headquarters and find out to whom it belongs,” he declared.

  “You’re right,” his father agreed. “We’d better check up on the owner.” He drove back to headquarters.

  The prisoner was just being booked when the Hardys arrived. Chief Collig waved to them as they entered.

  “Thanks for helping us out,” he said with his usual warm grin.

  “Did you find out who owns the car?” Frank asked.

  The chief nodded. “It’s mighty popular—has been stolen twice tonight!”

  CHAPTER X

  A Shattered Window

  “THERE goes our lead!” Joe exclaimed woefully when the Hardys learned that the car thief had picked up the automobile in a downtown street where it had obviously been deserted by the two men who originally had stolen it.

  “But we’ll keep a close lookout for your Spanish-speaking friends,” Chief Collig assured Joe. “Let us know if you find out anything new, too!”

  The Hardys promised they would, then went home. “We know two people who are after the medallions,” Mr. Hardy mused. “Wortman and Torres. Possibly Valez, too. I suggest we get on the trail of Torres first.”

  “What about his patriotic society?” Frank asked. “Do you think that’s on the level?”

  Mr. Hardy shrugged. “It’s possible. But since he disappeared so mysteriously, it’s also possible that he’s after the treasure for his own benefit. Which would make him our archenemy number one.”

  “I wish we had something more concrete to go on,” Joe mused.

  “I know,” Mr. Hardy said. “But right now we can only speculate. I have a hunch that Torres and Valez are working together.”

  “I wonder if Torres is the man
who met Willie Wortman in the seaport and learned about Willie’s medallions.”

  “Could be,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “And Torres might have made up the fantastic story about the curse to frighten Wortman into giving him the coins.”

  “How do we start looking for Torres?” Joe asked.

  “Before I turn in I’m going to phone a detective friend in New York City. Maybe he can work on tracking him down from that end. But I have a strong suspicion that he might be right here in Bayport!”

  “Wow! What makes you think so?” Joe asked.

  “If Torres and Valez are working together, Torres might have come here to see how Valez is doing.”

  While Mr. Hardy made the telephone call, the boys went upstairs to their bedroom. “It’s good to have Dad back,” Joe said as he turned off the light a few minutes later. Frank agreed heartily and fell asleep.

  The next morning at breakfast a special-delivery letter arrived from Chicago for Frank. “It’s from your friend Mr. Hopewell, who analyzed the missile for us, Dad,” Frank said to his father.

  “He writes that the South American Indians who make this unusual type arrowhead are known to be dead shots. Also, that this is the first of its kind he’s seen in the United States.”

  “No wonder Mr. Scath couldn’t identify it,” Joe remarked.

  The blowgun used to shoot such a missile, the letter explained, is considerably shorter than the usual seven-foot one.

  Joe grimaced. “That’s why I only got a glimpse of it,” he remarked. “It must have been small enough so that the fellow could hide it under his shirt when he started running into the woods. Read on, Frank.”

  “These blowguns,” Frank said, “are made by South American Indians of either a hollow reed or a length of ironwood bored through with a red-hot iron. Blowguns have crude sights, which are sometimes made of animal teeth. And the blowers often succeed in sending missiles with great accuracy up to distances of fifty to sixty yards.”

  “The man who fired at me certainly was a crack shot,” Joe commented.

  Aunt Gertrude, who had been silent up to this point, now burst out, telling her nephews once again that she thought they should drop the case as quickly as possible.

  “Don’t worry,” Frank assured her, “we have Dad around to keep us out of trouble.”

  Fenton Hardy smiled at this remark, then said, “Even if they give up the case, likely these men would still keep after them.”

  The boys agreed and Frank added, “We’re going over to Tony’s now.”

  At the Prito home Tony was taking the morning mail from the box.

  “Any news?” Joe asked him. “Any threats or missiles in your cereal this morning?”

  Tony smiled, shaking his head. “Come on in,” he said. “Glad you came over. I get pretty jittery around here wondering what’s going to happen next.”

  “I’m afraid that our news is going to make you more jittery,” Joe told him as they all went into the living room. He told Tony the details of the burglary, the ambush, and the loss of the medallion. “Terribly sorry I muffed everything, Tony.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. I guess what’s on the medallion is the important part. And you say you memorized it. No wonder Valez wanted me to—”

  Tony stopped speaking abruptly. Something came crashing through the window!

  “Look!” Frank cried, staring at an arrowhead that had struck the wall and now lay on the rug. “It’s exactly like the one that was fired at Joe!”

  “And there’s a note attached to this one, too!” Joe exclaimed. Frank picked up the object.

  “I’d guess it was meant for Joe and me,” Frank remarked. “The printing says, ‘Stop your detective work!’ ”

  Joe dashed out the front door. He was standing on the porch when the other boys came running out to search for the person with the blowgun.

  “We’re too late,” Joe said. “He’s gone!”

  “Wait a minute,” Frank said. “Judging from the angle at which the shot came in here, the man must have aimed from that lot diagonally across the street.”

  Near the wooded lot, a telephone lineman was at work on his truck. The boys hurried over to ask if he had seen anyone.

  “Yes,” the phone man replied, “I saw a man cutting through the lot.”

  “What did he look like?” Frank asked.

  “Short. A skinny guy with a black mustache.” The boys nodded to one another. The assailant might have been Torres or the Same man who had fired the first missile! And possibly he was one of the men who had waylaid Joe on the road to the airport.

  “Do you suppose Dad’s hunch about Torres being in Bayport is right and he’s a blowgun man too?” Joe asked.

  Something came crashing through the window!

  “Could be,” said Frank as Tony left to buy a new pane of glass.

  Joe remarked to his brother, “As soon as we get this window fixed, we ought to comb the town from one end to the other.”

  “Right,” Frank agreed.

  Tony, with the help of the Hardys, soon had the new pane in place. Then they sat down to plan further strategy in tracking down the owner of the blowgun.

  “Let’s start our investigating at the bus terminal on the east side and have some lunch down there,” Frank said.

  “Good idea,” Joe agreed, and Tony added, “Suits me fine.”

  The trio parked the car near the bus terminal, and had sandwiches in a nearby diner. Then the search began.

  “Remember, we’re to meet every half hour on the through street at the west end of the block we’re searching,” Frank reminded the others as they started off on their separate ways.

  Three times the boys met, without any report of success. Then, heading north, toward the more thickly populated area of Bayport, Frank was startled to see a possible suspect approaching on the same side of the street. He was short, slender, and had a black mustache. When Frank got a better look at the man, he was fairly sure that he was the one who had shot the arrowhead at Joe.

  But in the same instant the man had evidently recognized Frank. He whirled and disappeared down an apartment-house cellarway!

  Frank dashed up the street after him. But just before reaching the apartment house he stopped. Had the man fled through the building? And was he armed? Suppose his enemy was aiming a deadly arrowhead at that very moment, ready to let it fly at him!

  CHAPTER XI

  A Near Capture

  FRANK realized that he was exposed to the deadly aim of the blowgun marksman and quickly darted out of range, hiding behind a parked car. He ducked low to lessen the chance of being hit by his concealed enemy, and dashed across the street to take refuge in a doorway.

  “Hey, Frank!” a familiar voice rang out as the young detective crouched, waiting for the mustached man’s next move. “What are you doing—playing hide-and-seek?”

  “Chet!” Frank cried as his stout friend ambled across the street toward him. “Hurry!”

  “What’s up?” Chet asked as he joined Frank in the shadow of the doorway. He told his friend that he was on his way to buy some horse feed.

  Frank quickly related what had happened. Then he asked Chet to run to police headquarters two blocks distant. “Tell them to rush a patrol car to 48 Weller Street!”

  Without even a backward glance, Chet hurried away. Frank kept his eyes glued to the building entrance but saw no sign of the fugitive. Minutes passed. Grimly Frank thought, “Did Chet get to the police safely?”

  Then the welcome wail of a siren sounded as a radio car streaked around the corner. As it pulled up, Frank dashed from his hiding place.

  “The man’s in there!” he cried to Sergeant Murphy, who was in charge of four policemen. They leaped from the car. As everyone ran toward the house, Frank described the suspect. “And be careful,” he warned. “He’s got a deadly aim!”

  “Cover the back entrance!” Murphy tersely commanded two of the officers. He instructed a third policeman to stay with Frank out front, then he and the fo
urth man dashed into the building.

  The small crowd that had gathered to watch the action started to disperse when Sergeant Murphy and the other officer emerged from the building without a prisoner.

  “Sorry, Frank,” the sergeant said, “but we’ve found no trace of a black-mustached man. We checked every apartment. The superintendent tells me that no one in the building matches your description.”

  Murphy called back the other patrolmen. Frank, smarting with disappointment, thanked the police for their effort. The officers pulled away.

  “I’m still not satisfied that blowgun guy is not in there,” Frank told Chet. “Let’s watch the place for a while.”

  They took up a position in a diner from which they had a clear view of the apartment house.

  “Do you really believe he’s still in there?” Chet asked, munching on his third jelly doughnut. “We’ve been here half an hour.”

  Without taking his eyes off the entrance, Frank replied, “If we wait long enough we may see him.” Ten more minutes passed. Frank began to think about his brother and Tony. They would be waiting at the crosstown avenue.

  “Chet!” he suddenly gasped. “There he is now —what a break!” He pointed to a short, slender man leaving the front door of the building.

  “But you said he had a mustache!” Chet exclaimed. “This man doesn’t!”

  “He must have shaved it off,” Frank replied.

  “And he’s wearing a different suit. But there’s no question in my mind that he’s our boy!” Quickly Frank opened the diner door and motioned for his friend to follow.

  “What are we going to do?” Chet asked.

  “Trail him!” Frank replied in a low voice. Keeping a safe distance behind, the boys followed the man as he strode down the block. They stopped when he entered a hardware store.

  “Listen, Chet,” Frank said quickly. “He won’t recognize you. Drift over to the store and see what’s going on.”

  Frank ducked behind a large tree as his pal pretended to be looking at the display in the store window. Soon Chet hurried back excitedly.