Mystery of the Samurai Sword

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “I’ve got the place staked out,” Sam added, “but there’ll be two suspects to watch—so I may need help. Could you and Joe lend me a hand?”

  “You bet!” said Frank. “Tell us where to meet you, and we’ll be there in a jiffy!”

  A short time later the two youths walked into a coffee shop across the street from the Seneca Motel. Radley was seated in a booth by the front window, nursing a cup of coffee.

  “Great work, Sam!” Frank congratulated the operative as the Hardys joined him.

  “Have either of them shown yet?” asked Joe.

  “Not yet, but it’s past noon, so they ought to be coming out soon to get something to eat. When I showed the desk clerk Krunkel’s mug shot, he told me they were still in their room.”

  “Any chance they could have slipped out when you phoned us?”

  “No way. I called you from that booth in the corner, which has a clear view of the motel.”

  The boys ordered hamburgers and wolfed them down with hearty appetites. They tensed with excitement as Radley suddenly exclaimed, “There’s our man!”

  A tall figure had just emerged from the motel. Sure enough, it was the hawk-faced man whom the Hardys had seen talking to Len Boggs after the motorcycle race! He made his way toward one of the cars in the motel parking lot.

  Radley flipped a coin to see who would follow him. The Hardy boys won.

  “Maybe it’s just as well,” Sam commented. “I think Krunkel might recognize me quicker than he would you two. But be mighty careful, fellows! This guy has no record of violence, but you never can tell.”

  “We’ll watch it, Sam,” they promised.

  Frank and Joe hurried outside and reached their own car just as Krunkel was pulling away in a sleek, silver-colored, foreign-made coupe.

  He headed for the road leading southwest out of Shoreham. It was not a main highway, so the Hardys had to keep a considerable distance behind their suspect to avoid arousing wariness, especially when he turned off on a wooded, dirt road.

  As a further precaution, Frank drove past the turnoff, then U-turned a little way farther on. Coming back to the dirt road, he nosed their yellow sporty-looking car slowly along the same route Krunkel had taken. Soon they sighted the silver coupe some distance ahead.

  “There it is!” Joe exclaimed.

  Apparently Krunkel had pulled off the road and gotten out. Frank maneuvered their own car in among some trees where it would be well concealed from view. Then the boys hastily closed in on Krunkel on foot.

  Krunkel’s destination turned out to be an old abandoned farmhouse. The house itself was a weather-beaten, ramshackle structure with a sagging roof and boarded-up windows, and the surrounding fields were overgrown with weeds.

  Creeping up through the tall grass and underbrush, the Hardys saw Krunkel shining a flashlight down a well.

  “What’s he looking for?” Joe hissed.

  “Search me,” Frank whispered back.

  Presently the tall, hawk-faced crook straightened up and returned to his car. As soon as they heard him drive away, the two boys rushed toward the well. Frank pulled out a pocket flashlight and aimed it downward.

  “Jumpin’ Jupiter!” Joe gasped as they saw what the beam revealed.

  At the bottom of the well lay a long, sheathed Japanese sword!

  18

  Gang Wheels

  The glimmering light revealed the sword’s beautifully decorated hilt.

  “It’s the real sword that Satoya lost during the war!” Frank declared. “It must be!”

  “Check,” Joe agreed. “There can’t be more than two that look that much alike. Wait a minute—!” He broke off suddenly and snapped his fingers. “Frank, I’ll bet Krunkel heard the news about that other sword turning up in Bayport—so he came to make sure this one was still here!”

  “That makes sense, all right,” Frank nodded. “All we have to do now is fish it out of the well.”

  “Wonder how Krunkel stashed it there and expects to get it up again?”

  “Dunno. He’s an expert cat burglar. Maybe he’s got some kind of folding ladder in his car. But my guess is one of us will have to go down on a rope.”

  “You’re right,” said Joe. “We’ve got some in the car. Let’s go get it.”

  However, after hiking back to the spot where they had parked, they discovered the red radio signal light was flashing on their dashboard. Joe quickly switched on the transceiver and spoke into the microphone.

  “H-2 here. Come in, please.”

  “This is L calling,” said his mother’s voice. “You two just had an urgent call from your foreign client at the hotel. He wants to see you as soon as possible.”

  “Thanks, Mom! Will you phone him back, please, and tell him we’re on our way.”

  “Roger. Ten-four.”

  Joe hung up the mike and shot a questioning glance at his brother. “She must mean Satoya! Think we should take time to recover the sword first?”

  “Better not,” Frank voted. “It may be a tricky job and that call sounds urgent. I’m sure the sword will be safe if we leave it here for a while.”

  “Right! Let’s get going!”

  The Hardys crowded the speed limit on their way back to Bayport. At the Bayport Chilton Hotel, they phoned Satoya’s room from the lobby and were told to come right up.

  “I received a startling phone message about half an hour ago,” the tycoon informed the boys when they arrived in his suite.

  “From whom, sir?” Frank asked.

  “From my junior aide, Haruki Ikeda. He told me he has established contact with the gallery thief, and that he can get my real sword back for one hundred thousand dollars in ransom money!”

  The Hardys gaped in astonishment at this unexpected news.

  “Did he give you any details?” Joe queried.

  Satoya shook his head. “No. From the noises in the background, there seemed to be other people around, and he told me he could not speak freely.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I stalled him off by saying that I needed time to decide whether or not it was wise to deal with a criminal. So he said he would call back in a little while to get my answer.”

  Frank and Joe exchanged shrewd glances. As often happened because of their close relationship, the two brothers could almost tell what the other was thinking. Frank cocked a quizzical eyebrow, and Joe responded with a slight nod.

  “Look, sir!” the older Hardy boy said, turning back to Mr. Satoya. “When Ikeda calls, our advice is to tell him you accept the deal.”

  It was the tycoon’s turn to look astonished. “Are you asking me to trust a thief? What if his offer turns out to be a fraud?”

  “As a matter of fact, it probably is,” said Frank. “But if our hunch is right, we may be able to trap the thief, and get back both your sword and the money!”

  The telephone rang even before Frank finished speaking. Mr. Satoya frowned and plucked nervously at his wispy mustache, then scooped up the handset and answered.

  The short conversation that followed was in Japanese. When it was over, the tycoon hung up and turned to face the Hardys again.

  “As you have no doubt guessed, that was Ikeda. I have authorized him to draw out the ransom money in cash from the account which our company has opened at the local bank.”

  Although Satoya did not say so, both boys knew what he was leaving unsaid—namely that he was risking one hundred thousand dollars to back their hunch.

  It was not a very comfortable thought.

  But Frank replied confidently, “If you’ll come with us, sir, Joe and I have something important to show you. When you see it, I think you’ll agree the risk is worthwhile.”

  Satoya’s dark eyes were keen and cold, but he inclined his head politely. “Very well, young man. I shall do as you say.”

  Joe got into the back seat of their yellow car, leaving the Japanese tycoon to sit in front beside Frank. Soon they were on their way out of town.

 
As they retraced the route they had traveled not long before, the Hardys explained to Mr. Satoya where they were taking him.

  “Joe and I know where the Satoya sword is hidden,” Frank began. “So if the offer Ikeda phoned you about is on the level, that means the thief will have to go there to get the sword.”

  “And that’s when we’ll nail him!” Joe added zestfully.

  Mr. Satoya digested this news with a thoughtful frown. “Do I gather you already know who the thief is?”

  Frank nodded as he steered the car along the country road. “Yes, sir, I think we do.”

  “Yet at the hotel you implied the ransom offer was a fraud.”

  “I was simply referring to the story Ikeda told you.”

  “Perhaps you’d better explain that remark, young man.”

  “Well, sir, the only thing that seems fairly certain,” the elder Hardy boy reasoned, “is that whoever planned this whole caper must have known beforehand that you were coming to America, and that you wanted that sword at the Palmer-Glade Galleries.”

  “I agree,” Satoya nodded.

  “We can probably count out your jet crew,” Frank went on, “and I guess your chauffeur is too faithful to be suspected.”

  “Yes, that is so.”

  “Which leaves only your aides as suspects.”

  “Of course,” the tycoon responded impatiently. “I have already told you that the traitor in my company must be either Kawanishi or Oyama.”

  “You’re leaving out somebody,” Joe reminded him.

  “You mean...?”

  “Ikeda, sir.”

  Satoya frowned again. “But as I informed you this morning, only my two senior aides would have known the data that was leaked to Gorobei Motors.”

  “But isn’t it possible,” Frank pointed out, “that someone else in your company may have gotten hold of the same information, either by tapping their phones or rifling their desks and files?”

  “Hmm.... Now that you put it that way, I suppose such a thing is possible.”

  “Anyway, there’s no use guessing,” Frank concluded. “If we’re lucky, we may soon know the ans—”

  He broke off suddenly, and Joe saw his brother staring keenly into the rear-view mirror.

  “What’s the matter, Frank?”

  “We’ve got company!”

  Almost at that same moment, Joe’s ears caught a rising engine sound. Turning his head, he saw a group of motorcyclists behind them.

  “Gallopin’ guppies! That looks like the Gung-Ho gang!”

  “You guessed it,” Frank gritted. “And something tells me they’ve recognized our car!”

  The Hardys were skilled auto mechanics and kept their car engine tuned for top performance. Frank made sure everyone’s seat belt was fastened, then stepped on the gas. He was too good a driver to take foolish chances, but Fenton Hardy had trained his sons carefully in evasive driving tactics, and the boys knew every street in the Bayport area.

  By dodging and circling back and forth through a network of back roads, Frank gradually managed to shake off their pursuers. Joe flashed his brother an approving grin in the rear-view mirror, and even Mr. Satoya murmured, “Well done, young man!”

  At last they reached the dirt lane to which they had trailed Krunkel. Frank parked in the same concealed spot they had used before. Then Satoya and the Hardys walked toward the deserted farmhouse. The sword was still in the well.

  The group hid but had not long to wait before an approaching car was heard. A compact green station wagon pulled to a halt on the now rutted, weed-choked path that had once been the entrance lane to the farm. A man got out of the car.

  It was Haruki Ikeda!

  19

  The Fearless Three

  At the sight of his crew-cut junior aide, Mr. Satoya gave an angry gasp and started to burst out of their hiding place in a clump of shrubbery and underbrush. But Frank restrained him.

  “Let’s see what he does first,” the elder Hardy boy whispered softly.

  Opening the station wagon’s tailgate, Ikeda took out what seemed to be a ladder of lightweight, flexible metal cable. He carried this up the lane and lowered it into the dried well shaft after hooking it securely to the lip of the well.

  As the hidden trio watched, they saw the slim Japanese maneuver cautiously for a footing, and then disappear from view as he climbed down the ladder.

  When he reappeared several minutes later, he was clutching the samurai sword! Ikeda wore a smug grin of satisfaction.

  This time there was no holding Satoya back. The gray-haired tycoon sprang to his feet, shouting angrily in Japanese. Frank and Joe jumped up and ran after him, seeing that there was no point in continuing to hide.

  Ikeda stood motionless for a moment, then his face took on an expression of dumbfounded dismay. But suddenly he seemed to pull himself together and dashed toward his station wagon!

  He was still clutching the sword as he reached his car and yanked open the door. Flinging the weapon inside, he slid behind the wheel and tried to gun the engine to life.

  In his eagerness to get away, he apparently flooded the engine, and twice it failed to start. Frank and Joe felt afterward that they might have reached the car in time to stop him.

  But just then the whine and roar of motorcycle engines caught their attention. The noise was rapidly swelling in volume, and a second later a horde of riders blasted into view between the scattered trees fringing the abandoned farm.

  “It’s the Gung-Ho gang!” Joe cried, recognizing the mounted hoodlums for the second time that afternoon.

  The same thought was going through both boys’ minds. Somehow the gang must have picked up their trail after Frank thought he had given them the slip, and now the Hardys and their companion were in for trouble!

  Obviously the first tactic of Len Boggs and his street punks, Frank realized, would be to try and run them down.

  “Come on! Head for the farmhouse!” he cried to Joe and Mr. Satoya.

  The trio reached the farmhouse porch only yards ahead of their pursuers. Frank kicked open the door that was hanging by a single hinge, and they plunged inside!

  Len Boggs, leading the motorcyclists, tried to chase them right up the porch steps and into the house. But the rotten structure collapsed under the weight of his heavy bike!

  There were moments of confusion. Boggs was scarlet with fury as he extricated himself and his motorcycle from the debris.

  Realizing that their machines were no longer of any use for purposes of attack, the Gung-Ho’s dismounted and began smashing their way into the farmhouse through every possible opening. Most of the gang swarmed in through the windows, after ripping away the boards. Several others gained entry through the long-since stairless back door.

  As a seasoned warrior, Mr. Satoya calmly took charge—somewhat to the Hardys’ surprise—and suggested that the boys stand back-to-back with him to repel their attackers, though not too close together. Instead of the famous British square, favored by the oldtime redcoats when surrounded and outnumbered, the three formed a human triangle, each several feet away from the others.

  Frank and Joe were astonished at the elderly Japanese gentleman’s fighting ability. It was clear that he was expertly trained in the martial arts. The boys were too busy swinging their fists or throwing occasional karate kicks to do more than throw him a hasty glance from time to time, in case he required help.

  From the looks of things, no such help was likely to be needed. Mr. Satoya coolly whirled and weaved and ducked with the smooth precision of a ballet dancer—and at every move, another attacker seemed to go flying!

  Frank and Joe grinned, recognizing his slick evasive technique as that of aikido, by which the attacker’s own momentum is turned back against himself.

  The Hardys relied more on old-fashioned American punches to discourage their opponents, and these seemed to work equally well.

  One by one, the panting Gung-Ho’s seemed to lose heart and fall back to let others do the figh
ting. At last they were actually watching, more like spectators than participants.

  Moments later, as Frank uncorked a hard right that sent an attacker spinning back against the wall, one gang member exclaimed admiringly, “Hey, man! These dudes are good!”

  When Joe also decked an opponent with his fist, and Mr. Satoya sent another man flying over his shoulder, the gang suddenly burst out laughing and applauding.

  The Hardys could scarcely believe their eyes and ears. They and their elderly companion had fought the Gung-Ho’s to a standstill, and now they were getting cheers instead of blows. Like Horatius defending the bridge of Rome with his two friends, by their spunky fight they had actually won over their enemies!

  “If you can’t lick ‘em, join ’em!” one motorcyclist chuckled and stuck out his hand toward Frank. “Put‘er there, pal!”

  Frank hesitated a moment, suspecting a trick, but then grinned and responded to the offered handshake. “Suits me.”

  Other gang members crowded around to join in the handshaking and smoke the figurative peace pipe.

  “Hey, Pop!” one said to Satoya. “Where’d you learn all those trick judo throws?”

  “Aikido, actually,” the Japanese tycoon corrected. “I learned it in a martial arts doio in my native land, many years before you were born, young man. If you too wish to learn the art, perhaps that can be arranged. My company may soon open a plant here in the Bayport area. When this happens, I shall give orders for an instructor to be sent over as part of the staff. He will teach you young men to be true samurai—not dangerous jackals or bullies.”

  The Gung-Ho’s took his reproof with good-natured respect and heartily applauded the announcement. Mr. Satoya was clearly pleased. He seemed more at ease with these high-spirited, roughneck gang members than he had in the polite surroundings of the Bayport Chilton Hotel.

  “What did you guys jump us for, anyhow?” Joe asked.