The car returned to the scene of the attack and the policemen entered the house, using a strip of celluloid to open the door lock. The place proved to be empty. Frank and Joe were asked to accompany the two officers to police headquarters and report to the chief.
Collig, a big, grizzled veteran of the Bayport force, listened intently to the boys’ story. “You think this whole caper was arranged by Spotty Lemuel, alias Lambert, to get hold of the glass eye?” he asked.
“Sure looks that way,” Frank said. “Assuming he was the one who conked Bill Braxton, he must have heard enough of the phone conversation to guess that we had the eye. He also knew we were already looking for him, so he gave that phony address to the motel manager in hopes we’d fall for it.”
Collig nodded. “That figures, all right.” He asked to see the glass eye and studied it for a moment. “Any idea why Spotty’s so eager to get this back?”
“Not yet,” Frank said, “but Dad got a lead that may give us the answer. We’d like to hang on to the eye till we find out for sure.”
“Okay. I’ll have to admit it’s got me stumped.” As the boys walked down the stone steps of headquarters, Frank said, “How about a milk-shake?”
Joe grinned. “You read my mind. I can sure use one!”
They drove several blocks to the Hot Rocket, a favorite eating spot of their high school crowd. A familiar yellow jalopy was parked outside.
“Well, well! Look who’s in there!” Frank said.
The chunky figure of Chet Morton, the jalopy’s owner, was seated in one of the booths. He was poring over a magazine and munching a hamburger.
“Hi, fellows!” he mumbled.
The Hardys gave their order and slid onto the seat across from him. Frank flipped up the cover of Chet’s magazine and saw that it was Muscle Man. A weight lifter with bulging arms and torso decorated the cover.
“Wow! You really are going in for physical culture!” Frank chuckled.
“And he-man food,” Chet said, as the Hardys milkshakes were served. “That stuff you’ve got is for sissies. From now on, I’m sticking to ground beefsteak, milk, raw fruits, and leafy vegetables. No more candy.”
He paused to flex a bicep and compare it to a photograph in the magazine.
“Boy, this is serious!” Joe said. “What’s suddenly made you so hip on body-building?”
“Just for that wisecrack, I’ll tell you,” Chet said proudly. “Meet the new Assistant Supervisor of Physical Training at Doc Grafton’s Health Farm!”
Frank and Joe stared in astonishment. “Assistant Supervisor of Physical Training!” Frank echoed. “Are you kidding?”
“Do I sound like it?” Chet bragged. “The chef there comes to our farm and buys all his vegetables. He told the doc about me and he offered me a job bouncing medicine balls to the guests and helping them work out. I start tomorrow morning.”
Joe burst out laughing. “Now I get it. You mean they hired you as an exercise boy!”
Chet scowled. “Well ... I’ll be helping Doc Grafton train the people who come there, so Assistant Supervisor is what the job amounts to. The doc used to be a real boxing trainer!”
Joe winked at his brother. “Can you picture Chet putting Zachary Mudge through the exercise bit?”
At Chet’s puzzled look, the Hardys told him of their eccentric visitor. They also briefed him on their new mystery, ending with the recent attack on them.
The chubby boy whistled. “Glass eyes! Strong-arm crooks on the loose! Not for me!”
Frank grinned. “We may have to call on your muscles for help!”
“Oh, I’ll be too busy for detective work,” Chet said hastily. Although not eager to get involved in any dangerous situations, he had often joined the brothers in their sleuthing, and was a loyal friend.
“If you start tomorrow morning, Chet, how come you aren’t home and asleep?” Frank asked. “Muscle men need their rest.”
“Aw, I got roped into picking up Iola and Callie after the movie,” Chet explained. “They went to the Bijou to see some creepy love picture.”
The Hardys perked up. Joe liked Chet’s sister, Iola, and her friend Callie Shaw was Frank’s favorite date.
“Uh—look, old buddy,” said Joe, “why don’t you stay put and study some more valuable health tips? Frank and I can pick up the girls and bring them back here.”
Chet looked up slyly. “Will you guys treat?”
“What a chiseler!” Frank groaned. “But okay.”
“Then sure—go ahead.”
“What time does the show let out?” Joe asked.
“Ten-fifteen,” said Chet, and signaled the waiter for another hamburger.
Frank glanced at his wristwatch. “Twelve minutes. Let’s scram, Joe.”
The Bijou, a small neighborhood theater, closed its box office early and the marquee lights were already out. The Hardys found a parking spot down the street. Then they walked toward the theater.
As they approached it, a weird figure came dashing out the lobby. The man was clutching a tin box under one arm. His head was covered with a stocking mask. Over this was hooked a pair of comic-disguise glasses with bulging eyeballs that glowed in the dark!
“Good grief! Who’s that nut?” Joe gasped.
Almost at the same moment came a scream from somewhere inside the lobby. The boys dashed forward just in time to see the woman cashier rush out of the office, waving her arms hysterically. “Stop him, someone!” she shrieked. “He’s a thief!”
The masked man was already leaping into a car -a sleek, racy-looking blue hardtop. Before the Hardys could reach him, the engine roared and the car shot away from the curb.
“That was one of the Goggler gang!” Frank shouted. “Come on, Joe!”
The boys ran back to their convertible, jumped in, and sped in pursuit. They could see the hardtop’s taillights twinkling in the distance. Luckily the street was almost deserted.
“Radio the police!” Frank said, hunching over the wheel. Joe did so.
The hardtop shot through a red light ahead. Frank had to slam on the brakes as a car turned in front of him. Then he gunned after their quarry. Rounding a corner on screeching wheels, the getaway car sped eastward.
“He’s heading for the Willow River bridge!” Joe exclaimed.
The river gleamed in the distance as the boys entered a wooded park section at the town’s edge. Suddenly there was a deafening bang in front of them.
“A punctured tire!” Joe cried out.
The car ahead lurched and spun out of control, then careened into a ditch!
CHAPTER V
The River Spy
FRANK swung off the road and braked to a screeching halt. Both boys sprang out.
The blue hardtop was lying on its side, the wheels still spinning. Before the Hardys could reach it, the upper door swung open and the holdup man climbed free. But it was clear he was dazed or injured. He took a few staggering steps and toppled face forward.
The boys were at his side in a moment. The man moaned, then lifted his head painfully. The faint moonlight revealed a swarthy, hook-nosed face. Apparently he had jerked off his spectacles and stocking mask while driving.
“Are you hurt?” Frank asked.
“I ... I don’t know.” Wincing, the man struggled to push himself upright.
Frank hastily frisked him. “Grab his arm, Joe, and help me swing him over so I can search his other coat pocket.”
The boys noticed that the man was wearing gloves. As they maneuvered him into a sitting position, he screeched in agony. “Ow! ... My knee!”
“Sorry,” Joe murmured.
The boys propped the stranger as comfortably as they could against a nearby tree. Frank felt in his other pocket and found no weapon. Noticing the youths’ calm, expert manner, the holdup man snarled, “Who are you punks, anyhow?”
“Frank and Joe Hardy, if that makes any difference,” Frank replied evenly. “Our dad’s a private investigator.”
The man’s eyes
gleamed as if in recognition.
“I’ll watch him, Joe. Go give the police another call.”
“Right!”
But as Joe turned away, the man plucked at his trouser leg. “No! Wait!” the thief exclaimed desperately. “I’ll make a deal with you! This job didn’t amount to much—the cash box is in the wreck somewhere. But if you guys let me go, I’ll put you onto something big—really big! I’ll tell you who copped the Jeweled Siva!”
“The Jeweled Siva?” Joe paused in surprise.
“We’ll listen, but we’re making no deals,” Frank said. As the holdup man glared at them, Frank jerked his head toward the convertible. “Go ahead and make that call, Joe.”
His brother strode back to their car. The thief was groaning and clutching his knee. Frank glanced up the road to see if any other cars were approaching.
Without warning, one of his feet was yanked off the ground! Frank landed heavily on his back. “Joe! Help!” he yelled.
The thief sprang up and raced toward the bridge.
“Stop him!” Frank scrambled to his feet and both boys sprinted after the fleeing holdup man.
But the fugitive reached the bridge far ahead of them. In one swift movement he hoisted himself to the steel railing and dived headfirst into the water.
The Hardys reached the spot moments later. By now, the moon had clouded over again and the river was shrouded in darkness. Nothing could be heard except the lapping of the water against the bridge piers. The boys were furious at themselves.
“We would have to fall for that hurt knee gag!” Joe stormed.
“I sure fell,” Frank said in disgust.
The police soon arrived and a search was made along both banks, but without success. Then the boys went to headquarters to check over the mug shots, but the thief’s picture was not among them. By the time Frank and Joe got back to the Bijou, the show was long over. Eventually they found Iola and Callie with Chet at the Hot Rocket.
“Joe! Help!” Frank yelled
“Well! At last!” lola, a slender, dark-haired girl, greeted the Hardys with an eager smile. “Instinct tells me you two got involved in that movie holdup!”
“How’d you guess?” asked Joe.
Chet groaned. “I knew it! Send these two on a perfectly innocent errand and they get mixed up with a gang of crooks!”
“Not a gang.” Frank smiled. “Just one—and he got away.”
“Sounds exciting! Tell us about it!” begged Callie, a pretty brown-eyed blonde.
The Hardys related what had happened and apologized for leaving the two girls stranded. “You’re excused.” Iola giggled. “It didn’t take us long to locate my brother!”
“Listen, I should be in bed by now, getting my rest,” Chet complained.
“Okay,” Joe said. “But at least give us time for a hamburger if we’re going to foot the bill.”
When the brothers reached home, their mother and Aunt Gertrude had already retired for the night. But Fenton Hardy was going over some case reports in his study. Frank and Joe told him of their exciting adventures.
“You boys have had a full night,” Mr. Hardy commented. He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully and added, “It’s odd that a member of the Goggler gang should rob a small movie theater.”
“How come, Dad?” Frank asked.
“That gang has pulled some of the biggest jobs in this part of the country—bank stickups and jewel thefts. A petty crime like this is something new for them.”
“Do you suppose that deal he offered us was on the level—to tell us who stole the Jeweled Siva?” Joe put in.
“Hard to say,” the investigator replied. “It almost sounds as if he’d broken with the gang and was out for vengeance. Incidentally, I’ve been asked to take on that Jeweled Siva case.”
The boys were elated. But their father told them he would be unable to handle the case until he found the swindler, Ace Pampton, whom he had been engaged to track down.
“Pampton’s trail led here to Bayport,” Mr. Hardy went on, “but I found out this evening he hopped a plane for St. Louis, so I’m going there myself on the first flight tomorrow morning. Suppose you boys go to see the owner of the Jeweled Siva and get all the preliminary facts.”
“Do you mean it, Dad?” Joe said eagerly.
“Certainly. That would be a real help. The owner’s an elderly woman named Mrs. Lunberry. She lives at a little place called Brockton up Willow River.”
“Great! We’ll go there on the Sleuth first thing tomorrow,” Frank promised.
By eight o’clock the next morning the Hardy boys were steering their motorboat out of Barmet Bay into the mouth of the river. As they neared the bridge, the brothers saw a tow truck hoisting the movie thief’s getaway car out of the ditch.
“Let’s see if there’s any news of the holdup man,” Frank proposed.
Joe swerved toward shore and they moored the boat to the bridge abutment. A police detective named Reilly was supervising the hoisting operation.
“Find any clues?” Frank asked.
Reilly shook his head. “The cash box was in the car with the money spilled out, but I guess you fellows know that. No fingerprints.”
“We noticed the thief wore gloves,” Joe remarked.
“His gun must’ve been lying on the seat—it fell out the window when he tipped over,” the detective added. “It was under the car.”
“Lucky break for us, I guess,” Frank said. “Have you traced the car yet?”
“It was stolen from a new-car storage lot. The company is Izmir Motors over in Ocean City.” Reilly gestured toward the tow truck which bore the name of the same firm. “The license plates were stolen too.”
The car was a brand-new Torpedo V-8.
“Too bad it had to get banged up that way,” Joe said, admiring its sleek lines.
As the Sleuth proceeded upriver, Frank noticed a shiny green sedan parked on the road overlooking the shore. Farther on, he saw it cruising along slowly. As their boat passed a grove of trees, he was surprised to find it parked again.
“That car must be tailing us!” he exclaimed.
As Joe gunned the Sleuth toward shore for a closer look, Frank snatched up binoculars. The car sped off and he had time to spot only the first part of the license number—DZ 7.
“That’s odd,” he muttered, lowering the glasses.
“What’s odd?”
“Joe, it may be just a coincidence, but that job was a brand-new Torpedo V-8!”
CHAPTER VI
Oriental Curse
“Dm you get a look at the driver?” Joe asked.
Frank shook his head ruefully. “I was trying to focus on the license, but got only part of it—DZ 7. I think there was a man at the wheel waiting, and another fellow jumped in.”
Puzzled, the Hardys continued upriver. Forty minutes later they reached the little village of Brockton and tied up at the public boat landing. A little boy with a sunburned nose who was fishing off the dock with a bamboo pole scowled at them.
“Can you tell us where Mrs. Lunberry lives?” Frank asked him with a smile.
“That gray cottage over near the woods.” The lad indicated the direction with a jerk of his head and kept on scowling. “You guys realize you just scared off a big fat bluegill?”
Joe grinned. “Sorry, pal. Next time we’ll keep our big fat boat out of your way.”
The Hardys strode to the cottage. Their knock was answered by a silver-haired, elderly woman, bent and careworn.
“We’re Frank and Joe Hardy,” Frank explained. “You called our father about the Jeweled Siva.”
“Oh, yes! Come in, come in!” she replied. “Will Mr. Hardy be able to take the case?”
“Not yet. But he asked us to get the facts.”
Mrs. Lunberry invited the boys to sit down. Frank and Joe glanced about the small living room. The furnishings were comfortable but meager. They noticed well-worn books, some antique-looking pottery, and framed photographs of people apparently in outdoor
foreign scenes.
“I can imagine what you’re thinking,” said Mrs. Lunberry as she seated herself on the faded chintz-covered sofa. “You’re wondering how someone as poor as I am ever happened to own such a priceless object as the Jeweled Siva. Well, there’s a long story attached to it.”
“We’d like to hear it,” Joe murmured.
“My late husband, Clarence Lunberry, was an archaeologist,” the woman began. “He went on expeditions all over the world, to dig among ancient ruins. Often I went with him.”
“Did he bring the Jeweled Siva back from one of his expeditions?” Frank asked.
“Yes, from a remote jungly part of India called Tripura. He had heard of a lost temple there and after many hardships he found it. The temple had fallen into ruins, but a beautiful little jeweled carving of the god Siva was still inside. The natives told him a curse would fall on anyone who disturbed the figure, but Clarence ignored their warnings and got permission to take the idol with him.”
“The curse didn’t come true, I hope,” said Joe.
Mrs. Lunberry shook her head sadly. “Indeed, it did. Two members of the expedition died—one from malaria and one from being mauled by a leopard. Clarence himself had all sorts of bad luck after that. He was crippled in an accident and had financial troubles, but he always refused to give up the Jeweled Siva.”
The widow said that she had kept the figure after her husband’s death. But with her funds almost gone, she had finally been forced to put it up for sale. The tiny idol had been on display in the shop of an art and antique dealer named Fontana in New York City.
“Won’t Fontana’s insurance company pay you for the loss of the figure?” Frank queried.
“Ordinarily the company would pay for such a theft, but not in this case,” Mrs. Lunberry replied. “You see, when I arranged to let Mr. Fontana handle the sale of the Siva, a business contract was drawn up to cover our agreement. But I know little about such things and I was slow in getting the papers signed.”
A Figure in Hiding Page 3
