Mystery of the Samurai Sword

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Can you tell us if Mr. Satoya was planning to buy a certain samurai sword at the Palmer-Glade Galleries in New York?” Frank asked.

  From the momentary silence that followed, and from Oyama’s tone of voice when he finally replied, Frank got the impression that the Japanese was surprised by his question, and especially by the fact that the Hardys had found out about the sword.

  “Yes, that is correct,” Oyama confirmed. “It may even have been the most important reason for his trip to America.”

  “How so?”

  “Something must certainly have caused him to make such an unusual decision—and I am not sure that business reasons alone can explain it. Perhaps you do not realize what a drastic move this was for Mr. Satoya. Even at home in Japan, among his own people, he shuns all crowds and public appearances. Yet by flying to America, he was willing to expose himself more to the public eye than ever before.”

  “I understood he was coming over to discuss a business merger,” Frank said.

  “Yes. That is so. There is a chance the Road King Company may combine with our own motorcycle division. But if Mr. Satoya had wished, I am sure their officials would have agreed to visit Japan and talk with us, instead of Mr. Satoya coming here. For that matter,” the aide added, “I believe Mr. Kawanishi and I could well have carried on the negotiations under Mr. Satoya’s supervision.”

  “If that’s so,” Frank pointed out, “couldn’t he have sent someone over here to buy the sword for him?”

  Over the line, Frank could hear Oyama’s worried sigh. “Yes, that too seems sensible. I am afraid I do not know the answer.”

  Frank thanked the Japanese, then hung up and reported the conversation to his brother.

  “Sure doesn’t help us much,” Joe grumbled.

  Frank agreed and added, “We’ll just have to keep scratching for leads, that’s all.”

  New York’s skyscraper office buildings were letting out their employees for lunch, and both streets and sidewalks were crowded. Everyone seemed in a hurry. Frank and Joe enjoyed watching the sea of faces all around them as they made their way back to the parking garage.

  To avoid having their car jockeyed by careless attendants, the boys had purposely picked a garage which allowed them to park and lock up. But as Frank was about to insert the key in the lock, he let out a startled gasp.

  “What’s the matter?” Joe asked.

  “Take a look! The window’s been pried open, and the door’s unlocked!”

  The Hardys hastily checked for signs of theft and discovered that the glove compartment had been jim mied and its contents ransacked. But so far as they could determine, nothing had been taken. The trunk showed no signs of forcible entry.

  Frank and Joe looked around angrily for the parking attendant on duty. The cashier’s window was near the exit, well out of view of their car, but they saw a cigar-chewing man in coveralls coming down the next aisle.

  “Hey!” Frank called out. “Did you see anyone mon keying with our car?”

  “Nope. Why?”

  “It’s been broken into.”

  The attendant hurried over. When he saw what had happened, he scowled and snapped his fingers. “So that’s it! I spotted a guy snooping around here about twenty minutes ago and chased him out. He’s probably the one who did this.”

  “What did he look like?” Frank asked.

  “Some kind of Oriental wearing shades. A tough lookin’ mug, Japanese, I think.”

  8

  Invisible Men

  Frank and Joe exchanged slightly startled looks. Both felt sure that the parking attendant had correctly spotted the guilty party.

  “No doubt he was our man,” Frank told the attendant.

  “You want to report this to the police, or make an insurance claim? The garage is covered for any damage to a customer’s car.”

  The older Hardy boy shook his head. “It’s not worth bothering with. The only thing damaged is the glove compartment lock, which doesn’t amount to much—but you ought to be more careful about keeping out intruders.”

  The attendant scowled again, somewhat sheepishly this time, and removed his cigar long enough to clear his throat. “I know, I know. We try to, but there’s always creeps around, waitin’ to rip off anything they can get their hands on.”

  Joe was about to climb into the car when Frank said, “Wait a minute. We passed a drugstore on the corner, didn’t we?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Let’s go there before we take the car out. I’ve got an idea.”

  Leaving the garage, they walked back down the block. When they got to the drugstore, Frank led the way inside and gestured toward the soda counter. “Order me a chocolate milkshake, will you, Joe? Be right with you. There’s something I want to check out first.”

  “Okay,” said Joe, thoroughly mystified.

  He saw his brother head toward a telephone booth at the rear of the store and leaf through the yellow pages of the directory.

  Presently Frank returned to the counter and slid onto a stool beside Joe. “Know what kendo is?” he asked.

  “Sure, it’s one of the Japanese martial arts like judo or karate. Only kendo is the art of swordsmanship—right?”

  “Correct. I figured there might just be a place in New York that teaches kendo, and it turns out there is. Want to go check it out? We might learn something about samurai swords that would help us on this case.”

  “Sure, great idea!” Joe was enthusiastic. “Even if we don’t learn anything, it sounds like fun!”

  After downing their milkshakes, the boys started out for the kendo studio on foot. It was on the West Side and could soon be reached by cutting across Central Park. On the way, they discussed the incident of the Japanese thug breaking into their car at the garage.

  “What do you suppose he was after, Frank?” asked the younger Hardy boy.

  “Maybe nothing special,” Frank guessed. “Could be he was just looking for anything that might clue him in to how much we know about this whole mystery.”

  “Which is practically zilch at this point,” Joe gloomed. “Another thing, it’s not likely he just happened to spot us going into that garage or coming out. Which means he must have tailed us here all the way from Bayport.”

  “Right.” Frank nodded. “And that tends to confirm Dad’s theory about the leak in Satoya’s own company.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “If that garage creep’s not American, and he’s involved in the Satoya case, then he must have come here from Japan because he knew in advance about Satoya’s trip. So he sure couldn’t have found out through any of Dad’s security arrangements over here. Someone in the Satoya Corporation must have hired him or tipped him off.”

  “That figures,” Joe agreed.

  The kendo studio was located on the ground floor of a converted storefront building. Inside, there was a sound of whacks and feet thumping the floor as students in masks and padded garb practiced with bamboo swords. A calm-faced, middle-aged Japanese gentleman in cotton jacket and loose trousers came over to find out what the boys wanted. On learning that they were the sons of the famous Fenton Hardy, he smiled and bowed.

  “Ah, so! My humble dojo is honored by your visit.” He introduced himself as Ryu Shimada. The boys learned that he was attached to the Japanese Mission to the United Nations, and conducted his school in kendo as a way of introducing this ancient art to Americans.

  Both Frank and Joe sensed at once that he was a man of honor who could be trusted implicitly. They told him about their work on the Satoya case. Then Frank asked his opinion about Mr. Satoya coming to the United States just to bid on a sword, despite his intense dislike of appearing in public.

  “Indeed, that does not surprise me,” Mr. Shimada replied. “His family belonged to the samurai, or warrior class, and in Japan it is said that the sword is the soul of the samurai. To such men, the sword is an object of veneration beyond price. Therefore he might go far to obtain a particular blade, especially
if it held any family tradition.”

  “What about the fact that the sword had just a plain army scabbard?” Joe asked.

  “Your informant was correct,” said Mr. Shimada. “Many fine antique blades were carried into battle during the war. Some were lost in combat when their owners were killed or taken prisoner. Others were sold as souvenirs during the American occupation of Japan. I am sure that many samurai swords have turned up in secondhand shops or among art dealers in this country.”

  But Mr. Shimada was surprised to learn that the sword still retained its original beautiful hilt that could not be removed.

  “This I cannot explain,” he said with a shake of his head.

  To give the Hardy boys the “feel” of kendo, Mr. Shimada had them try on the equipment worn by his students. It consisted of heavily padded gauntlets, a leather apron, slatted breastplate armor and a steel-grilled helmet. The latter looked like a catcher’s mask and was worn over a towel to keep perspiration from running down in the fencer’s eyes.

  The boys were required to kneel while the armor was being tied on. This was an important part of reigi, the discipline or etiquette of kendo.

  “The purpose of kendo, you see, is not merely to train a fierce fighting man,” Mr. Shimada said, then tapped his head and chest. “More important is its effect on mind and heart.”

  By teaching the student to overcome the “Four Poisons of Kendo”—fear, doubt, surprise and confusion—it also helped to develop character and self-control.

  “The training that your distinguished father is giving you in the art of detection,” he added, “has probably much the same effect.”

  Frank and Joe tried some of the basic attacks and parries of kendo, using shinai, or bamboo practice swords. They were shown how to leap forward and swing the sword in a fierce downward chop, then skip backward out of range, and also how to crouch and slash.

  The explosive kiai, or shouting, that accompanied these blows was meant to put spirit into the swordsman and shock his opponent off balance.

  “Like the rebel yell the Confederates used during the Civil War,” Joe chuckled.

  Both boys felt they had been through a real workout when they finally shucked their armor. Afterward, they listened with keen interest as Mr. Shimada and his pupils discussed other Japanese martial arts, such as kyudo or archery, judo, karate and aikido—as well as special weapons such as the naginata or curved-bladed spear, the bo stave and the iron fan.

  Frank and Joe pricked up their ears at the mention of a special class of warriors called ninja, who were experts at ninjutsu—the art of remaining invisible. They dressed all in black, and in olden times were often used as spies.

  “Do ninja still exist?” Frank asked.

  “Oh, yes,” the kendo master replied. “But their art was always so secret that no one can be sure how much of it was real and how much just hearsay. Some actually think ninjutsu involved magic. Others say it depended on trickery or hypnosis.”

  As the Hardys started back to the parking garage, Frank said, “Remember that sneak in black we thought we saw outside Pete Ogden’s house?”

  “I’ll say I do!” Joe exclaimed. “And you’re probably wondering the same thing I am—namely, if he could have been a ninja.”

  “Right now I’m ready to believe almost anything,” Frank said, “including the fact that someone’s tailing us.

  Joe shot his brother a startled look. “Are you serious?”

  “You bet I am! Don’t look now, but keep your eyes and ears open, Joe.”

  The boys entered Central Park just south of the American Museum of Natural History. As they crossed a wooden bridge, they paused to look down at the water of the lake. Joe used the opportunity to steal a cautious glance behind them.

  “Yes. I see the guy,” he muttered. “Looks Oriental, all right—and he’s wearing dark glasses, like the crook who broke into our car!”

  Beyond the bridge, the Hardys turned onto a paved walk which wound through the park. They discussed a plan of action as they strolled along. A dirt path led off among some craggy rocks. Frank and Joe took this path, and as it turned sharply through a sort of rocky gorge, they scrambled hastily up the slope and flung themselves flat.

  Moments later they heard footsteps approaching, and their Oriental shadow came into view. He had crew-cut dark hair and wore a loud checked sports coat.

  “Now!” hissed Frank, and the two boys leaped down at him! Each grabbed one of his arms.

  “Now, mister,” Frank gritted, “you’re going to tell us why you’re following us!”

  Instead of answering, their opponent fought furiously. He seemed as strong as a bull and was clearly adept at unarmed combat. Twisting and turning, he wrested his arms free, using them like flails.

  Joe thought he saw an opening and swung at the man with a hard right hook. But the man was no longer there. Joe’s fist merely sailed past his jaw and hit Frank on the side of the head, sending him sprawling backward!

  An instant later Joe himself caught a sword-hand jab in the pit of the stomach. As he crumpled, gasping for breath, he saw the Oriental flee from the gorge!

  9

  Lurking Shadows

  Frank was the first to recover. Scrambling to his feet, he dashed after their unknown enemy. But the Oriental had a long head start. By the time Joe rejoined his brother, the man was already out of sight. He was either lost from view among the trees and rocks, or else had managed to blend in among other park strollers and loungers without attracting attention.

  “Oh, rats!” Frank fumed. “We had the guy in our clutches and let him go! He might’ve given us a clue to whatever happened to Mr. Satoya!”

  “Sorry I decked you,” Joe apologized. “That punch was meant for our attacker.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. He was one tough cookie. At least we’ll be able to identify him if we ever see him again. Did you notice his tattoos?”

  “I’ll say I did! Oriental dragons and evil spirits sticking out of both sleeves; they probably run clear up his arms. And did you notice his little fingers?”

  Frank nodded grimly. “You mean what’s left of them. They were both missing the top joints!”

  Back home in Bayport that evening, the boys described the attacker to their father. From Fenton Hardy’s expression, it was clear that he recognized the description at once.

  “The fellow must have been a Yakuza!” he declared.

  “What’s that?” Joe queried.

  “A Japanese gangster. They’re almost a separate caste over there. The crew cut and dark glasses and loud clothes sound typical. So do the tattoos and especially the amputated finger joints.”

  “How come, Dad?”

  “It’s a ritual,” Mr. Hardy explained. “Whenever a gang member does something wrong in the eyes of his leader, he is required to cut off a finger joint. This proves that he is still loyal and shows that he regrets his mistake.”

  The younger Hardy boy shuddered. “Sounds sick to me!”

  “I warned you two! You were asking for trouble when you went poking around New York looking for bloodthirsty Oriental criminals!” Gertrude Hardy scolded. She was hovering within hearing distance as she finished setting the dinner table.

  “If you mean the art gallery thieves, Aunt Gertrude, there’s no way of telling whether or not they were Orientals,” Frank pointed out.

  The tall, thin woman sniffed scornfully. “Who else would want to steal a Japanese sword?”

  “Quite a few crooks, I imagine, if they knew it was worth twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  “Don’t argue with me, young man! Just come to dinner!” Miss Hardy disappeared into the kitchen to bring out the roast, muttering darkly, “Tattooed gangsters! Chopped-off finger joints! Next thing we’ll be getting poisoned fortune cookies in the mail!”

  After dinner, Frank and Joe found time to glance through the evening paper. Joe had the front section, which carried stories about Takashi Satoya’s baffling disappearance, and also the break-
in theft of the samurai sword from the Palmer-Glade Auction Galleries.

  “Hey, get a load of this!” Joe muttered to his brother.

  “What?” said Frank, scarcely looking up from the comics page.

  “Remember that klutz who bumped into us when we went to see Warlord?”

  “Humber? Sure, what about him?”

  “There’s an interview with him in the paper.”

  Frank put down the comics page with an expression of interest. “What’s he got to say?”

  “He thinks there may be a connection between Satoya disappearing and the gallery theft—because the stolen sword belonged to the Satoya family!”

  “Hey! Let’s see that!” Frank exclaimed, springing up from the sofa. Taking the newspaper from his brother, he ran his eyes hastily over the story that Joe was pointing to.

  Apparently Humber had been interviewed as an expert on swords because of his own collection of exotic weapons.

  “I would not care to speculate on why the sword was stolen, or who may have engineered the theft,” he was quoted as saying, “but the timing and coincidence are certainly interesting!”

  “Boy, Humber’s taking a chance, making a crack like that!” Frank remarked thoughtfully.

  “You said it,” Joe agreed. “Almost sounds as if he’s accusing Satoya. The Satoya Corporation might decide to sue Big Mouth!”

  “He’s probably banking on Satoya being too publicity shy to take him to court. Or maybe he just likes to hear himself talk, and let his mouth run away with him.”

  From the pompous tone of the interview, Humber did indeed sound as if he enjoyed basking in the limelight, however briefly or unimportantly.

  “We still ought to check this out,” Frank said soberly as he handed back the paper to his brother.

  “Right.” Joe nodded. “If he knows something we don’t know, the sooner we find out the better!”

  Mr. Hardy had gone out again after dinner to resume his own investigative work, so the boys were unable to ask his advice. Frank, therefore, took the most direct approach. He called the wealthy collector for an appointment.