Footprints Under the Window

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Minutes later, Frank and Joe were touring the interior of the one-story plant, which hummed with intense activity throughout its extensive interior. Technicians, intent on their work, scarcely looked up at the boys.

  The Hardys were impressed by the steady vigilance of the guards stationed in every department. “How could anybody take unauthorized pictures with them around?” Joe murmured.

  “Seems impossible,” Frank agreed.

  Next, the young sleuths walked through the grounds of the complex. At the isolated maintenance building they were stopped by a heavy-eyebrowed, mustached security guard. He apologized.

  “Sorry, boys. Didn’t see your badges at first.”

  After examining the steel fences, the Hardys went back through the main plant.

  Joe shook his head. “I can’t see a kink in this whole setup,” he remarked as they entered the design and drafting section. “This place is as tight as a drum!”

  “Sure looks that way,” said Frank. “Mr. Dykeman has—Joe, look! Up there!”

  At the end of the room a security captain and two guards had just seized a slender man in overalls. Draftsmen gaped in astonishment and the Hardys rushed to the scene. The technician was protesting violently.

  Grim-faced, one of the guards snapped, “I just found this in your work jacket, Pryce! You’ll have some explaining to do.”

  He held out a tubular, glass-capped object, then turned to a second guard.

  “It’s a camera!”

  CHAPTER XII

  “Stranger” Sighted

  “BUT I know nothing about this camera!” the technician protested. He tried to wrench free from the guards.

  The Hardys looked on tensely. Each had the same thought. Had the film they had found come from this odd-looking camera in the employee’s jacket? Was he in league with the spies?

  The security captain turned the device over in his hands. “Clever disguise. It looks like a tool. All right, Pryce. Come along!”

  “Somebody put it into my pocket!” the technician insisted. “This is all a horrible mistake!”

  Mr. Dykeman was summoned and given a full report. The intelligence agent inspected the camera, then nodded to the guards. Pryce was led away, still maintaining his innocence.

  The men went back to their drawing boards, and Mr. Dykeman beckoned the Hardys to one side. “Could be a big break in our case.”

  Frank whispered, “Do you think Pryce is the security leak?”

  “Good chance,” the agent replied. “But we’ll check out the camera for prints and see if we can find anything to indicate it held the film you boys found. Right now, we’ll interrogate Pryce. Keep everything you’ve seen here today strictly confidential.”

  “Will do!” Frank agreed. “By the way, sir, have you any word from Dad?”

  Mr. Dykeman shook his head. “But I’m sure he’ll be contacting us.”

  “One more question,” Frank said. “Do you know Mr. Orrin North?”

  “North—the shipping magnate? Not personally. I understand he’s prominent in town. Why?”

  The Hardys told the agent of North’s reward offer for finding Gomez. Mr. Dykeman seemed interested but puzzled. He looked at the boys keenly. “You suspect he has an ulterior motive?”

  “Yes, we do,” Frank replied promptly. “We’ll play along with his request and see what happens.”

  The boys said good-by and left. On the way to their car they saw the Corporated Laundries truck parked near the maintenance building.

  “Guess they have the concession here,” said Joe.

  At the gate the Hardys turned in their badges. They noticed the laundry truck behind them. It was stopped, inspected, and logged out.

  “Those security guards would find a needle in a haystack!” Joe commented as he turned into the street.

  “If one is in the haystack,” Frank quipped.

  On the way home the young sleuths excitedly talked about Raymond Martin, the suspected employee Pryce, and the secret Mirco-Eye project.

  “Some camera!” Joe remarked. “I’ll bet the Footprints gang will try anything to get it.”

  “Speaking of prints, I vote we return to Barren Sands right after lunch.”

  “Me too! That beachcomber may come back for another pickup. Let’s buzz Chet.”

  Aunt Gertrude had plates of sizzling hamburgers and crisp French fried potatoes ready for the boys at home. They grinned in anticipation and ate hungrily.

  “This hits the spot, Aunty!” Joe said.

  Miss Hardy unfolded her napkin. “Glad to hear that,” she remarked. “I suppose you two are up to your ears in more mysteries.”

  Frank laughed. “Over our heads, I’d say.”

  “Ran into a mystery myself today,” Aunt Gertrude announced a bit smugly.

  “A mystery!” Frank echoed. “Where?”

  “Downtown, while I was shopping. I met Mr. Ricardo.”

  “Mr. Ricardo! You’re sure?”

  “Of course. I never forget a face.” She paused. “But that’s not all. Guess whose car he was getting into?”

  Joe groaned. “I give up. Whose?”

  “Mr. Orrin North’s,” she replied. “And do you know—Mr. Ricardo said he had never seen me before!”

  The boys plied their aunt for details. She told them the South American had seemed uncomfortable at her greeting, brusquely insisting she had made a mistake. The two men had driven off quickly.

  “The cheek of him!” she huffed. “And here I had thought he was so well-mannered!”

  “Then it was Ricardo we chased the other day!” Frank exclaimed.

  Aunt Gertrude went on indignantly, “I should have realized there was something suspicious when he asked me on the Capricorn about your father.”

  After lunch the boys traded ideas. “Two bits says this Ricardo is in the country illegally,” Frank ventured. “And another two says he’s from the Huella Islands!”

  “And North helped him disappear by smuggling him off the ship!” Joe exclaimed. “But why? Oh, there’s the phone.”

  Orrin North’s voice came harshly through the receiver when Joe answered. The shipowner asked if the boys had any news of the missing stowaway.

  “No.” At a signal from his brother, Joe added, “We have a hunch Gomez is from the Huella Islands—a refugee, maybe.”

  “Refugee!” North snorted. “I’m convinced he’s a dangerous criminal. You boys had better nab him, and quick!”

  Joe hung up, saying to Frank, “I was tempted to throw Ricardo’s name at him.”

  “Good thing you didn’t,” Frank cautioned. “We’d better not show our full hand. Now let’s call Chet and get out to Barren Sands!”

  The Hardys had decided to reach the area before two o’clock, the time the beachcomber had arrived the day before.

  Chet was waiting outside when the Hardys drove up and jumped into the car. Soon the three were heading south along the coast.

  When Chet learned of his friends’ trip to Micro-Eye, he looked at his pals in awe. “You really rate!” he exclaimed.

  Although curious about the project, he realized that the Hardys could tell him nothing further for the present.

  Half an hour later Frank parked the car in the lane leading to Barren Sands. The trio made their way swiftly through the tall grass onto the deserted beach. Soon they reached the spot where Callie had found the sea shell.

  “No circle of footprints today,” Joe said.

  “Let’s scout the rest of the beach,” Frank suggested.

  Farther along it, the boys stopped short. A double path of fresh, damp footprints, ending at the water, led to and from a circular pattern of prints!

  “Look!” Joe pointed to the circle. In the center lay a small spiral shell.

  “The same kind Callie found!” Chet observed. “Now what?”

  “Get out of sight before the beachcomber shows up,” Frank decided. He stooped and picked up the shell. “Come on. Let’s have a look!”

  The three
boys backtracked, brushing over their own footprints. They hid in a sandy hollow, screened by reeds and coarse shrubs.

  Frank took out his penknife. As the others watched closely, he carefully worked the small blade into the shell opening. Then he heard the crisp scratch of paper.

  “Something’s inside.”

  Slowly Frank extracted a rolled-up piece of white paper. Joe and Chet stood by breathlessly as he unfolded it.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Ragged Caller

  “IT’S a message!” Joe cried as Frank held up the paper from the sea shell.

  “What does it say?” Chet asked eagerly.

  Frank read the handwritten message aloud:“‘To Huellas—Finally got something:

  Santilla, Colombo’ ”

  Joe jumped at the first words.

  “The Huella Islands!”

  “But what could ‘Santilla’ and ‘Colombo’ mean?” Frank murmured. “They’re not the names Gomez inquired about at the immigration office.”

  “Beats me.” Chet shrugged. “Maybe they’re—”

  “Down! Get down—quick!”

  At Joe’s whispered warning they all ducked low. “Wh-who’s coming?” Chet quavered.

  “Sh! Sandy, the beachcomber.”

  Cautiously the boys peered from the hollow. The ragged figure was scuffing along the beach past their hiding place. Occasionally he stopped and looked back over his shoulder.

  The boys watched intently as the man started up the slope. Reaching the top, Sandy feverishly combed through the sand near the circle of footprints.

  “It’s—Where is it?” he shouted, looking frantically in every direction.

  Finally the beachcomber scrambled down the incline. He stopped for a moment as if trying to decide where to search, then headed for the hollow. Frank quickly pocketed the shell and the boys crouched, motionless.

  They could hear the man muttering as he drew near, and the sound of bushes being slapped angrily aside. Presently the muttering ceased.

  Frank raised himself stealthily and looked out. Sandy was hastening up the beach.

  “Come on! Let’s see where he goes!”

  “Whew, that was close!” Puffing hard, Chet climbed out of the hollow behind the Hardys.

  Bent low, they ran forward, keeping shielded from view by clumps of high grass. Suddenly the beachcomber veered up the beach toward the road, and the next moment dropped out of sight behind a dune. Seconds later the boys heard a car start. They raced to the top of the dune and saw a red-and-white hardtop pull away from the side of the road and head in the direction of Bayport.

  “There he goes!” Joe cried out.

  The three dashed to the convertible. Frank took the wheel and spun out of the lane after the hardtop. He kept far enough behind so its driver would not suspect pursuit.

  “That’s a jazzy wagon for a beachcomber to own,” Joe remarked. “He must get good money for his sea-shell pickups.”

  “I’ll bet he’s heading straight to the person who hired him,” said Frank. “And that person must know something about the Huella Islands.”

  “And the spy plot!” Joe finished. “This note clinches it.”

  Chet was skeptical. “That beachcomber doesn’t seem smart enough to be a spy.”

  “Maybe he isn’t,” Frank replied. “Could be he doesn’t even know what’s in the shells.”

  “You mean the gang is using Sandy as they probably did Raymond Martin,” Joe said.

  Frank nodded, keeping his eyes on the red-and-white car. Soon it turned into the street which ran to the center of Bayport. The trail led through the business section of town and finally into a wealthy residential area. To the boys’ surprise, their quarry turned into the drive of a hedge-bordered estate.

  Frank, now a block away, pulled to the curb and the boys hopped out. Joe pointed to a gold-lettered sign at the front of the driveway which read “North Manor.”

  “Orrin North’s home!” he exclaimed.

  Excitedly the trio hurried along the quiet street and stopped at the estate’s winding drive. They saw the unkempt beachcomber rush to the front door of the brick mansion.

  The boys ducked back and peered around the hedge. The door was flung open and the angry face of Orrin North appeared. “You—you fooll” he rasped. “I told you never to come here!”

  He irately surveyed the grounds, then pulled the man inside and slammed the door.

  “For Pete’s sake!” Joe exclaimed. “North is tied in with the spies!”

  “Apparently the shells are delivered to him at some other place,” said Frank. “Wonder where.”

  The boys crept up to the house. The first-floor windows, high off the ground, were shut.

  “Shall we take a peek in?” Joe proposed.

  “Better not risk it—we can’t overhear anything,” Frank replied.

  Chet agreed. “Come on, fellows! They might spot us.”

  “Wait!” Frank whispered. He went over to scrutinize a jumble of footprints in the soil beneath a side window overlooking the drive. The others joined him.

  “They’re probably our prints,” Chet said.

  “No, they’re not. Look at those cracks near the front of the sole, Joe. They’re just like those of the intruder at our house!”

  “You’re right! Think they’re North’s?”

  “No—unless he sneaks around his own house,” Frank murmured. “Whoever left these was trying to get in through that window.”

  The Hardys were baffled. “Which means,” Joe said, “the person who took Dad’s papers must also be up to something in connection with North. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Figure it out later,” Chet said nervously. “Let’s go!”

  Before the boys could move, footsteps came from the rear. The three friends darted behind some ornamental evergreens in front of the house. A moment later the beachcomber shuffled down the driveway to his hardtop.

  “Let’s grab him!” Joe whispered impulsively.

  Frank shook his head. “Not yet. We don’t want to alert North we suspect him.”

  After Sandy had left, the young sleuths waited, wondering if Orrin North would emerge. Half an hour went by with no sign of the shipowner, so the boys returned to the convertible.

  “What next?” Chet asked.

  “The sea-shell note,” Frank replied. “We must find out who Santilla and Colombo are.”

  “I’ll make a wild guess,” Chet offered. “They’re men North wants kidnapped and shipped to the Huella Islands!”

  “Not bad,” Frank conceded. “One of the names could even be an alias for Gomez.”

  Joe took up the speculation. “Or the words ‘To Huellas’ could mean the note itself is to be sent there.”

  “In which case, the names might refer to people now on the islands,” Frank reasoned. “If we only knew who wrote the note!”

  “Maybe Mr. Ricardo,” Joe ventured. “Another puzzle—do those names belong to spies or refugees?”

  The Hardys decided to report to Mr. Dykeman and drove directly to Micro-Eye. Chet waited in the car outside the gate while the Hardys hastened into the agent’s office. They showed him the shell, handed over the note, and gave complete details, including their suspicions of the man called Ricardo.

  “Good work!” the agent said, returning the shell to Frank. “I’ll have the note analyzed.” He frowned. “We have records of every South American refugee in the Bayport area, but Santilla and Colombo don’t ring a bell.”

  “Then unless they’re in hiding here—they may still be on one of the islands,” Joe suggested.

  “Yes. Unluckily, the dictator, Posada, is not cooperative with United States Intelligence—we’ll have a rugged time finding out.”

  “Are you going to question Orrin North?” Frank asked.

  “Not at present. I suggest you boys play it cooL We’ll keep a tail on him, in hope that he’ll lead us to the whole spy nest if he is guilty. But North will be doubly alert, since he knows someone else picked
up the shell.”

  Joe asked about the suspected Micro-Eye employee, Pryce. Dykeman shook his head.

  “The camera discovered in his jacket took the pictures on the film found in the torn piece of Martin’s raincoat. Certain defects on that roll showed up on a fresh film we ran through. But Pryce still claims he knows nothing and we gave him a thorough grilling.”

  Dykeman added that the camera had revealed no fingerprints. “Of course Pryce could have worn gloves. Then, again, the camera could have been planted.”

  The agent had shocking news for the Hardys: Raymond Martin had disappeared.

  “Disappeared!”

  “Yes, in Cayenne. Martin was kept under surveillance, but nevertheless he vanished from a small hotel yesterday after he checked in.”

  “Spies in Cayenne may have seized him when they found out about the torn raincoat,” Frank said.

  The Hardys spoke of their planned flight to Cayenne with Jack Wayne. “We’ll try to uncover some clues to Martin and to his captors.”

  “Fine. You may find out more than our department could, since you can pose better as tourists. Meantime, I’ll circulate a description of Ricardo. He’s here illegally, I’m sure, and for no good reason.”

  Back at the car, Frank handed the sea shell to Chet. “Thanks!” He grinned. “Callie and Sis will be happy.”

  On the way home Joe voiced another idea. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the Huella Islands are headquarters for this Footprints gang.”

  Frank agreed. “I have another theory, too. We’re pretty sure North smuggled Ricardo in—so he may be smuggling in spies from Cayenne, too.”

  Chet shifted uncomfortably. “Golly, fellows. You still want to go there?”

  “You bet!” Joe replied. “And to the Huellas, if possible.”

  Chet heaved a sigh. “I smell trouble already.”

  That evening Frank and Joe packed. Aunt Gertrude hovered about them, offering a constant stream of advice and warnings.

  “Don’t worry, Aunty,” Joe assured her. “We four will stick together down there.”

  Frank in turn offered his aunt a suggestion. “Aunt Gertrude, maybe you’d like to visit your friend Mrs. Berter while we’re gone, and compare notes on your trip.”