“That sword’s been stolen, by the way,” Joe added.
Warlord nodded. “So I’ve heard. Well, I felt Satoya would be interested in it, because when I looked at the blade while it was on display, I noticed the name Satoya inscribed on it. You see, while I was in Japan, I learned to read Japanese characters. And when you mentioned that dealer, Gorky, trying to sell him a samurai sword, it just seemed likely he’d be more interested in buying one that belonged to his own family.” The dancer rose from his chair and began to pace the floor. His manner seemed vaguely uncomfortable. “There’s something else I’d better tell you,” he said after a few moments.
“We’re listening,” Frank said.
“Last night I had an anonymous phone call.”
“What about?” Joe asked.
“That samurai sword. Apparently the person who called was the thief who stole it from the auction gallery—or maybe a fence. He offered to sell me the sword—for ten thousand dollars.”
Warlord’s startling news caught the Hardys by surprise. They stared at him, wide-eyed.
“How did you handle it?” Frank asked.
Warlord ran his fingers nervously through his mane of long black hair. “To tell the truth I didn’t know what to say. He only gave me a few moments to make up my mind, and I was afraid if I said no, that would be the last I’d hear from him. So I said I’d accept, and he named a time and place to complete the deal.”
“You bring the money, and he’d hand over the sword?”
“Right”
“When and where is this supposed to take place?”
“Midnight tonight at Seaview Park.”
“Did you intend to go through with it?” Joe put in.
The dancer shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what I intended. The whole thing’s been on my mind ever since I got the call. Guess that’s why I was glad to hear from you fellows again—so you could advise me.”
“If you buy stolen goods, that makes you as guilty as the thief,” Frank pointed out.
“I realize that. But I wasn’t planning on just keeping the sword and saying nothing. It wouldn’t be any use to me, anyhow, if I had to keep it hidden. I thought if I returned it to the auction gallery, they might be willing to sell it to me for a bargain price—I mean, to make up for the ransom money I’d already paid out.”
“You might find a lot of people would suspect you were the guy who swiped it in the first place,” Joe remarked dryly.
From the dismayed look on Warlord’s face, the boys could see that this possibility hadn’t even occurred to him. “So what choice do I have at this point?” Killian asked the Hardys.
“Use the payoff meeting as a chance to catch the thieves,” Frank shot back.
“They warned me I’d regret it if I tipped off the police—and not just myself, my whole dance troupe!”
“You agreed not to tell the police?”
“The caller made me swear it before he named the time and place for the exchange.”
“Leave it to us,” said Joe after a questioning glance at his brother, who responded with a nod. “That way you’ll be keeping your word, and Frank and I will try to set up a trap on our own.”
Warlord’s expression showed relief at getting out of his dilemma, and he readily agreed to the Hardys’ proposal.
“One more thing,” said Frank. “How would the thief or thieves have known you might be interested in buying that stolen sword?”
“The gallery’s public relations man had a publicity photo taken of me examining the sword,” Killian replied. “It turned up in a couple of newspapers, and the caption under the picture said I planned to bid on the sword when it was auctioned.”
“That would explain it, all right,” Frank agreed.
“Besides,” Warlord added, “everyone who’s seen my show knows that I use swords and knives in my dance act—and each one’s an authentic example of its kind.”
As the Hardys returned to their car in the parking lot, Frank murmured, “Oh, oh! Something must be up!”
A red light was flashing on their instrument panel. Frank switched on the specially licensed transceiver mounted under their dashboard.
“11-1 here,” he said into the hand mike.
“G calling!”
Something in the tone of the woman’s voice as it came over the speaker struck a note of alarm in the hearts of both Hardy boys.
“What’s wrong, Aunt Gertrude?” Frank asked.
“Sam Radley’s been hurt!” she reported. “I just had a call from Shoreham. He was found unconscious in the street there—with a head wound!”
12
A Meeting at Midnight
“Oh, that’s terrible news!” Frank exclaimed with an anxious glance at Joe. “Where is Sam now?”
“They’ve taken him to Shoreham Hospital,” Miss Hardy replied. “The police recognized him as your father’s top aide, so they called here. But so far I haven’t been able to reach Fenton and give him the bad news. That’s why I called you boys.”
“Good! I’m glad you let us know, Aunty. Joe and I’ll drive to the hospital right now and see how Sam is. Over and out!”
Frank switched off the set and hung up the mike. Then he gunned the engine and maneuvered smoothly and swiftly out of the parking lot. Soon they were pressing the speed limit over the Shore Road, en route to the nearby town of Shoreham.
“Do you suppose this is connected to the Satoya case?” Joe asked his brother.
“I don’t know. I’m not sure what kind of assignment Dad had him working on.”
At the hospital they were directed to the emergency room. Sam Radley had already regained consciousness. The boys found him sitting up on the examining table while a doctor bandaged his head.
“Wow! What a relief!” Frank exclaimed. “We weren’t sure what had happened, or how seriously you were hurt!”
Joe added, “What did happen, Sam?”
“Got conked.” The detective grinned wryly. “Fortunately I seem to have a hard head.”
Frank gave the medic a questioning glance. “How is he, Doctor?”
“Nothing too serious, apparently. Just a bruise and a slight scalp laceration. Bit swollen now, but that’ll be down by tomorrow morning. However, I want him to stay here at the hospital overnight, to make sure he’s suffered no concussion.”
The doctor allowed the Hardys to talk to Sam Radley for a few minutes before he was taken to one of the hospital wards.
“Any idea who hit you, Sam?” Frank inquired.
“No name, if that’s what you mean—but I’ve got a general idea.”
Although Radley was the only investigator who worked regularly for Fenton Hardy, there were other operatives whom the sleuth employed from time to time as the need arose. Sam told the boys that their father had asked all his associates to keep their eyes open for any possible Yakuza, or Japanese gangsters, in the area.
“I spotted a guy here in Shoreham with all the ear-marks,” the private detective went on. “Tattooed arms, flashy clothes, amputated finger joints, the works. So I started tailing him.”
“Where’d he go?” Joe asked eagerly.
“To a cafe down on the waterfront. And he met a man there, an American, from the looks of him, anyhow.” Sam paused for a moment, his brow creasing in a thoughtful frown.
“Did you recognize him?” Frank prompted.
“I don’t know. And that bothers me a bit.” Sam hesitated, still frowning. “He looked familiar, but I can’t place him. Anyhow, the two of them gabbed for a while, then the Yakuza got up and left. And I followed him—which turned out to be a mistake.”
“How do you mean?”
“I figure he may have suspected he was being shadowed, so he told the American to keep watch. Or maybe the American saw me follow him out of the cafe, and took action on his own hook, or tipped off one of the Yakuza’s pals. Whichever it was, the Japanese led me down a narrow street near the wharves. Next thing I knew someone jumped me from behind!”
“Did y
ou get a look at the person who attacked you?” put in Joe.
“Nope.” Sam Radley shook his head in disgust. “Not even out of the corner of my eye. He just grabbed my coat long enough to slow me down, then let me have it with a blackjack, or whatever it was he hit me with. All I remember after that is waking up here in the hospital emergency room.”
Sam speculated that his assailant might have been hiding in a doorway as he passed.
Frank and Joe started back to Bayport in a somewhat grim mood. Both were disturbed over the attack on Sam Radley. Partly to get their minds off the subject, Joe switched on the radio and tuned in the police frequency.
The first calls were routine and not very interesting. Then the boys heard the dispatcher say, “Car Seven, proceed to 119 Ardmore Avenue, corner of Dean Street. Investigate report of an escaped monkey.”
“Escaped monkey?” The man responding from the scout car sounded startled.
“That’s right. It got loose from a pet shop.”
There was a burst of static and a blurred mutter of voices. Then the man exclaimed, “That must have been what we saw!”
“What do you mean ‘what you saw’?” the dispatcher queried irritably.
“A man running down the street with a monkey on his head!”
“What?”
“We saw this guy running down the street with a monkey on his head,” the officer repeated. “He did look kind of excited, and we wondered what was going on, but....”
“For crying out loud!” the dispatcher sounded angry. “What did you think was going on—that the monkey was prospecting for coconuts?”
“No. We figured the animal was the fellow’s pet, and they were just having fun, or else he was taking it out for exercise, something like that.”
“Listen! Next time you see someone with a monkey on his head, find out what’s going on, understand? Now get moving and round up the critter before it attacks someone else!”
“Roger.”
Frank and Joe were shaking with laughter as they neared the outskirts of Bayport. Before driving to their house on Elm Street, they stopped off at the Morton farm, where they found their chubby friend, Chet, squaring off against lanky Biff Hooper in the barnyard.
“What’s this? A grudge match?” Frank asked, noting Chet’s intense scowl of concentration. Although he spoke half jokingly, he was ready to step between the two youths instantly if the fight turned out to be real.
“No, haven’t you heard?” Biff asked, not taking his eyes off his pudgy opponent.
“Heard what?” Joe asked.
“Chet’s taking up the martial arts,” Biff explained. “He’s showing me the fine points of karate or kung fu or wing ding or something.”
“Think I’m kidding, huh?” Chet retorted. “Well, watch this, wise guy! It’s a combination. First a feint, then a move backward to draw you off balance, then a series of blows to finish you off, using a mixture of two different Oriental fighting styles. On guard!”
Chet took a couple of quick, shuffling dance steps and flailed out with both arms before leaping backward out of range. The next instant Biff’s long left snaked out in a fast jab, and their plump chum landed flat on his back!
“No fair!” Chet grumbled loudly as he scrabbled back up on his feet. “You weren’t supposed to get that close!”
“How do I know what I’m supposed to do?” Biff retorted. “I’m just defending myself.”
“Then do it right, meatball!”
“Meatball, eh? Look who’s talking!”
The Hardys, who had a hard time to keep from howling with laughter, hastily intervened before the exhibition could, indeed, turn into a grudge match.
“Listen, you guys!” Frank said. “How’d you like a chance to show off your fighting styles tonight?”
“What’s up?” Biff asked.
“A ransom stakeout. Joe and I are going to try and catch a thief. If he makes a run for it, we may need help in stopping and subduing him.”
The Hardys explained about the anonymous call Warlord had received, offering to sell him the stolen samurai sword, and the meeting that had been set up at Seaview Park.
“Count me in!” Chet exclaimed. “Boy, this’ll really give me a chance to show you how they do it in the Orient. If this guy makes one false move, I’ll have him hollering uncle so fast that his head’ll swim.”
“Great! But don’t take any chances,” Frank cautioned. “If the man’s armed, or comes with pals who may be armed, none of us makes any move. Just watch for a signal from me.”
Biff was as eager as Chet to lend a hand in the nocturnal trap baiting.
That night, after a final phone check with Warlord to coordinate their movements, the Hardys picked up Chet and Biff in their car. Then, shortly after 10:30, the boys headed down Ardmore Avenue. It connected with a cinder road that wound through the full length of Seaview Park.
The park itself was a pleasant wooded stretch, bordered on one side by the coastal highway and on the other by the water. Officially it closed at eleven every night, but there was no gate or roadblock. Youngsters and dating couples often sneaked in later by moonlight or stayed after the official closing time.
Frank, Joe and their two friends parked the Hardys’ yellow car out of sight among some trees. Then they found a comfortable spot where they could sprawl and listen to music on Biff’s transistor radio or tell yarns to pass the time.
At about a quarter to twelve, they took up hiding places around the point where the meeting had been set up. It was a short dirt turnoff which ended in a parking site near two or three picnic tables.
Shortly before midnight, they heard the low hum of a car engine and saw a glow of headlights. They were doused as a sleek white car pulled to a stop on the parking site.
“Warlord,” Joe hissed to his brother, who was crouched in a crevice between two rocks.
Soon afterward, the putput of a motorboat drifted over the water. It died away abruptly, as the engine was shut off, but moments later the boat could be heard pulling alongside the shore embankment. Apparently its operator had allowed the craft to coast toward the park.
At that moment there was a loud commotion from a tree a dozen yards away, where the Hardys’ chubby friend was perched among the branches.
“Something’s wrong with Chet!” Frank exclaimed.
13
Masked Riders
In the shadowy moonlight, the Hardys could clearly see the tree in which Chet was hiding. Its branches were swaying violently.
“What is going on?” Joe gasped.
“Help!” their fat chum yelled in fright.
Before either of the Hardys could respond, there was an explosive crack as one of the tree limbs snapped under its heavy load. The next instant, Chet tumbled down into view!
Frank and Joe hesitated no longer. They knew their stakeout would be ruined, but they ran to help their friend. Warlord was jumping out of his car at the same time.
“Chet!” Frank cried. “Are you all right?”
Their roly-poly pal struggled painfully to his feet and dusted off the seat of his pants. “D-D-Don’t ask me!” he stuttered. “I was attacked by some wild animal up in the tree!”
“Wild animal?” Joe gaped at Chet, not quite sure he was serious.
“You heard me!” Chet retorted. “Boy, it was really savage! Is my face all clawed up?”
“Not a scratch as far as I can see!” Joe declared.
“Well, stop staring at me as if I were nuts! I’m telling you th—”
Whatever Chet was about to tell his baffled audience was drowned out by the sudden roar of a motorboat engine being revved into action.
At the same instant something plopped out of the tree onto Chet’s head. It was a live monkey!
Chet screeched in fright and hopped about, clutching wildly at his excited furry rider!
Frank and Joe did not wait to watch the uproarious spectacle. Half amused, half furious at the wreckage of their carefully laid plans, the
y turned and darted down the park’s wooded slope toward the water’s edge.
Too late! The motorboat they had heard was already speeding off into the darkness. Its pilot cautiously hugged the shadow of the hillside in order to avoid being silhouetted in the moonlight. The Hardys could not even tell whether the boat held more than one occupant.
“Great!” Frank fumed. “So much for our stakeout!”
“Not only didn’t we catch the thief,” Joe added in disgust, “we didn’t even get the sword back!”
“Never mind. Maybe the whole thing was a con job anyhow, just to help someone get his hands on ten thousand dollars.”
“Guess you’re right.” Joe did his best to emulate his brother’s example and swallow his disappointment. “Blowing our stacks won’t do us any good.”
The Hardys headed back up the slope toward the meeting place. Biff had joined forces with Warlord to try and pry the chattering monkey loose from its perch on Chet’s head.
A passing policeman, who had heard the noise, hurried into the park to investigate.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded suspiciously. Then he did a double take as he recognized Frank and Joe. “Hey! You two are the Hardy boys, aren’t you?”
“That’s right, officer,” Frank replied. “We’re working on a case for our dad. We had a trap set for a suspected thief, but then another fugitive showed up and spoiled everything.”
Grinning, he pointed at the monkey, who was now nestling contentedly in Biff’s arms, scratching itself and staring at the circle of faces watching it.
“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle!” said the policeman. “You mean that’s the one that escaped from the pet shop?”
“Must be,” said Joe. “The last time it was seen, I believe it was heading down Ardmore Avenue, which leads right into the park.”
“People’s heads must be its favorite mode of transportation,” Frank added with a chuckle. “That’s how it was proceeding on Ardmore Avenue when last observed.”
“Next time it tries hopping up and down on my noggin,” Chet steamed, “I’m going to tie a knot in the little creep’s tail!”
“Relax, and knock on wood, pal,” said Joe, patting Chet on the head. “That’s probably what confused the poor critter. It thought that round thing on top of your shoulders was part of the tree!”
Mystery of the Samurai Sword Page 7
