“Mr. French!” cried Joe in surprise.
The costume dealer’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. “You—you’re not—you’re here!” he stammered incoherently.
“Yes, of course, we are,” Frank responded. “Why are you so surprised to see us?”
“Why—ah—I’m terribly sorry, boys!” Mr. French looked nervously over his shoulder. “I—I see I’ve come to the wrong street—looking for High Avenue, and this must be High Street. So sorry! Good night!”
The tall man hurried down the steps to a car at the curb and drove away.
Joe turned to his brother. “There isn’t any High Avenue in Bayport. Mr. French must know that. He’s been in business here for years.”
As Frank closed the door, they heard footsteps at the top of the stairs and their mother’s voice asked softly, “What is it, Gertrude?”
“Burglars!” hissed their aunt. “I heard them talking.” She called down in a loud but shaky voice, “The police are coming! Go or I’ll call my nephews! Frank! Joe!”
“We’re down here, Auntie!” Frank informed her, stifling a laugh. “There are no burglars.”
After a second’s pause there came a weak “Well!” followed by “Humph! I might have known!”
“What’s the matter, boys?” Mrs. Hardy asked.
“Someone here who said he had the wrong street,” Joe told her, and switched off the porch light.
The next morning the boys ate an early breakfast. Afterward, Frank suggested, “Let’s try all the appliance stores to see if Sutton did buy the Super-X radio. We can see Mr. French later.”
Joe agreed and they set off. They went from shop to shop, but the story was always the same: The merchants did not stock the Yokohama Super-X radio—it was too costly to sell many sets. At last, however, a young clerk in a hi-fi equipment store said, “Yes, we have them. I’ll be glad to show you one.”
“We’re not here to buy,” Frank said. “We just want to know if you’ve sold any recently.”
“No,” the disappointed clerk admitted. “We don’t sell many. We thought we would—despite the high price—because the Super-X transistor has so many extra features—FM, short wave—name it!”
“Where do you get them?” Joe asked.
“We import directly from the Yokohama Radio Company’s distributors in Japan. The radios come in by ship and are unloaded on the Bayport docks.”
“Have you missed any from your stock lately?” Frank queried.
The clerk looked surprised, but answered readily, “No, but we were short one crate on the last shipment. My boss wrote to the distributor in Japan about it, but there hasn’t been time for a reply yet.”
The boys thanked the youth and returned to the street. They wondered about the clerk’s remarks concerning the foreign-made radios.
“If Sutton bought the radio, he didn’t buy it in Bayport,” Joe declared.
Frank said, “He may have stolen the whole crate that was supposed to go to the hi-fi store. Let’s cycle out to Shantytown. Maybe we can learn more about Sutton.”
The brothers hurried home and put on their beachcomber clothes. Then they hopped onto their motorcycles and sped along Shore Road. They hid their cycles in a grove of short, scrubby pines near the squatter colony.
“We’d better walk the rest of the way,” Joe said, “and act as casual as possible.”
Frank and Joe entered the camp cautiously. It was noontime and pale smoke rose from a few cooking fires near the water. The village was nearly deserted and the boys judged that Sutton’s shack was empty. The door was padlocked.
As Frank and Joe wandered among the huts, they noticed that each one had a trash heap of its own in the rear. Suddenly Joe darted to a pile in which something glinted in the sunlight.
“What did you find?” Frank called, and ran forward to look.
“Pop bottles!” Joe exulted, holding one aloft. “Fizzle soda!”
CHAPTER XII
The Desolate Island
JOE picked up another bottle from the rubbish heap. “It’s exactly like the one we pieced together last night,” he declared. “These prove the bank robbers are linked up with Shantytown!”
“It looks that way,” Frank conceded. “But—Fizzle soda may be sold around Bayport. As you said, we don’t know for certain that the robbers used the Sleuth. Somebody may just have ‘borrowed’ it for a joy ride.”
“Well, the bottles make it likely that the robbers are connected to this place,” Joe amended. “But let’s scout around some more.”
The two boys, hands in pockets, strolled casually among the shacks. Although they looked closely at the few squatters hanging around, they saw no one they recognized. Disappointed, the brothers circled back to the trash heap.
“We’re getting nowhere,” said Joe, disheartened.
Suddenly Frank’s body tensed. “Sh! Listen! Hear that?”
“All I hear is the ocean.”
“Someone is groaning!”
Still listening intently, Frank turned and looked all around him. The nearest building was a gray, windowless shack with a closed door. Abruptly he strode toward it, Joe behind him.
Reaching the handleless door, Frank gave a tentative push and it swung open. Warily he stepped inside and blinked for a moment in the darkness.
“Joe! Quick!”
A man lay huddled on a cot. His face and the blanket he clutched were smeared with dried blood, and he moaned and heaved for breath.
“The man’s unconscious,” said Frank as he took the limp wrist for a pulse. “Find water, Joe. Maybe there’s some in the jug on the table.”
Joe looked into the container. “We’re in luck!” He soaked his handkerchief and bathed the injured man’s face. As the blood and dirt came away, the boy gave a gasp of surprise.
Hank Sutton!
“He’s badly hurt,” Frank observed. “Cuts and bruises on the head, and shock. Might be fractures, too,”
“I’ll call the police ambulance,” Joe volunteered. “We passed a house about a mile down the road. They must have a phone.”
“Hurryl” Frank urged. “I’ll stay here.”
Joe sprinted for his motorcycle. While he was gone, Frank searched the dim hut for clues to an assailant, but found nothing.
Soon an ambulance, its red lights blinking, was speeding toward Shantytown. A police car followed. When they passed the house where Joe had telephoned, he zoomed after them.
At Shantytown he led an intern and two stretcher-bearers across the sand to the hut where Frank waited with the injured Sutton.
“How is he?” asked the doctor quickly on entering. “Is he conscious yet?”
“No, he’s delirious,” Frank said. “He keeps mumbling something over and over—a man’s name.”
“Whose?” asked Joe eagerly. He had appeared in the doorway, with Chief Collig behind him.
Frank looked up at them with a frown. “Alf Lundborg‘s, I’m afraid.”
“So he took his revenge on Sutton,” the chief concluded. “That’s bad.”
The intern hustled everyone out of the way. Expertly the injured man was transferred to the stretcher and borne across the sand to the waiting ambulance.
Chief Collig and the boys trailed along. “We’ll have to pick up Alf,” the chief remarked. “He had the perfect motive for assaulting Sutton.”
“Just the same I don’t believe he did it,” Joe declared stoutly.
“Sorry, fellows,” the chief said regretfully as they reached the road, “but regardless of the suspicions against Sutton, I have no choice.”
Frank and Joe walked sadly back to the pine grove, mounted their motorcycles, and rode home. They ate lunch quietly, puzzling over the case.
“What now?” Joe asked glumly. “All we did this morning was to get Alf in trouble.”
“Great detectives we are!” said Frank, disgusted. “How about walking downtown? I have another idea.”
“About what?” “The Fizzle soda. Since the perso
n who had a bottle of it was in our boat—the bald fellow or someone else—he was in Bayport. Maybe he did buy some here.”
The two set off and strode briskly along the sidewalk. At the first grocery store they turned in. “Do you carry Fizzle soda?” Frank asked.
“No, I don’t.”
The young detectives went into all the drugstores, markets, and lunch counters along their way. Always they asked the same question, and received the same answer. Nobody sold Fizzle soda.
At last they entered a downtown sweetshop which was a meeting place for many of their friends. “Hi!” called Tony Prito from a booth where he was seated with Jerry Gilroy.
“Hello, fellows,” Frank greeted them. “We’ll be over in a minute.”
Meanwhile, he asked the soda clerk about Fizzle, but received a negative answer. “Only place I’ve ever seen it anywhere around these parts is Northport. I live near there.”
Northport again!
Frank and Joe walked over to their friends.
“Any news of Chet and Biff?” Tony asked.
“Nothing but a postcard,” Frank answered.
“What do you think really happened to them?” Jerry asked worriedly. “Did they go off on a mission of their own? Or were they kidnaped?”
“We don’t know,” Frank confessed. “But there haven’t been any ransom notes.”
“It’s dull around here without the fellows.” Tony sighed. “We were going on a nice camping trip.”
“Chet and Biff told us about it,” said Joe. “Frank and I have an idea maybe they’re being hidden on one of the coast islands.”
“Could be,” Tony said. “I remember Biff mentioned Hermit Island—the one owned by a queer old recluse who lives on it.”
“He mentioned that to us, too,” Joe recalled. “I wonder if that old man has seen any sign of Chet and Biff?”
“Say!” Tony’s face suddenly lighted up. “Why don’t we get your boat and go out for a look at Hermit Island? It’s early enough yet. How about it?”
“Good idea!” Jerry exclaimed.
“Right!” Frank said enthusiastically.
Joe was already on his feet. “Come on! Let’s go!” To Frank he said, “The mystery of Mr. French’s mix-up last night can wait.”
Jerry and Tony paid for their ice cream, and the four hurried out to Jerry’s car. A short drive brought them to the Hardy boathouse.
“Let’s take both our boats,” Tony proposed. “We might need them—if we find Chet and Biff.”
They piled into the Sleuth and Frank steered the craft down to the dock where Tony kept the Napoli. Just as the two boats were ready to cast off, Callie Shaw and Iola Morton walked out onto Tony’s dock.
“Oh, are you boys going for a ride?” Callie asked. “May we come along?”
“Gosh, Callie,” Frank said doubtfully, “this isn’t exactly a pleasure cruise. We’re bound for Hermit Island to look for Chet and Biff.”
“Oh, then you have to take us,” pleaded Iola. “After all, Chet’s my brother.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Please, Frank.”
“Iola’s right,” Joe agreed. “The girls want to find Chet and Biff as much as we do.”
“Okay,” said Frank. “Pile in, then!” Iola cheered up at once and the Hardys helped the girls into the stern of the Sleuth.
The boats moved swiftly out the harbor, with Frank leading the way in the slightly faster Sleuth. Before long, the shore islands came into sight, with their white, drifted sand, scrubby vegetation, and huge, barren rocks.
Hermit Island, a big craggy pile, loomed out of the water higher than all the others. It was attractive but wild looking.
“Too rough on this side to land,” Frank called over to the Napoli. “Good beach on the lee shore, though, I believe. Follow me!”
The search party rounded the island. After the girls had stepped onto firm sand, the four boys tied their mooring ropes to trees at the edge of the beach. All went ashore and gazed at the lonely spot.
“This is a spooky place,” commented Iola, looking around her uneasily.
“It does give one the creeps,” Callie agreed.
The boys laughed but felt they should proceed carefully. With Frank and Joe in the lead, they set off on a faint path that wound along the shore at the base of the steep, rocky hill which formed the heart of the island. Above the searchers loomed jagged cliffs, cut here and there by deep ravines, thick with pines and coarse grass.
At times Joe cupped his hands and shouted, “Hallooo ... Bi-iff ... Che-e-t!”
There was no answer. “Looks hopeless,” Joe commented.
At last the path began to rise steeply. The four boys moved upward much faster than Iola and Callie. Finally the girls dropped behind. The boys continued on, clambering and puffing, forgetful of everything but the tough terrain they were fighting.
Suddenly a sharp scream rang out from below. “Callie!” cried Frank, whirling.
CHAPTER XIII
The Threatening Figure
TUMBLING and sliding, the four boys rushed pell-mell down the steep path to Iola and Callie. The girls clung together in fright.
“What is it, Callie?” cried Frank.
Speechless, the girl pointed upward. From the top of the bluff a wild-looking old man with a long, dirty white beard was pointing a shotgun at them.
His clothes were torn, and he wore a battered felt hat. The weird figure stood motionless, silhouetted against the blue sky. The afternoon sunlight gleamed on the barrels of his weapon.
“He must be the hermit,” muttered Joe.
“Git off my island!” came the strong, deep voice of the old man. The shotgun jerked threateningly. “Git, I say!”
“We’d better do as he says,” Frank advised.
He took Callie’s arm. Joe grabbed Iola’s. The six young people scooted for the beach.
As they followed the path, the Hardys and their friends could see the strange man darting from rock to rock along the top of the bluff above them. He did not let them out of his sight. When they reached the boats, Frank and Joe quickly helped the girls safely aboard the Sleuth.
Joe took the wheel while Frank cast off. The Sleuth and the Napoli were run just out of shotgun range, then throttled down while their passengers took another look at their adversary. The old man stood in the same threatening attitude on the hilltop.
“You know,” Frank noted, “for an old fellow he has a powerful voice.”
“He’s plenty spry, too,” Joe added. “Did you see how he jumped across those rocks? He’s nimble as a goat!”
“And did you notice his shotgun?” Frank asked. “It was very well cared for; not like his beard and clothes!”
“There was no nonsense about that gun,” Joe agreed. “I’d like to know what the man’s trying to keep us away from!”
“Maybe he just wants to be left alone,” Callie suggested.
“After all, he is a hermit,” added Iola.
“Whatever he is,” declared Joe, “I’d like to get a closer look at him sometime.”
Joe put on power and the Sleuth shot forward over the water. The Napoli trailed close behind.
As the island dropped astern, Frank remarked, “I can still make out the hermit. He’s standing motionless on that hilltop.”
The two speedboats crossed the wide expanse of Bayport harbor and came to rest at Tony’s dock.
“Say, you fellows don’t have any transportation down here,” Jerry recalled. “Shall I pick you up at your boathouse?”
“No, thanks,” Frank replied. “Joe and I came out to do some sleuthing. We’ll walk. We have a few stops to make.”
“Okay, we’ll give Iola and Callie a lift, then.” They helped the girls ashore and Frank and Joe waved good-by.
After locking the Sleuth in her berth, Frank and Joe walked to the center of town. “Let’s stop at headquarters,” Frank suggested as they approached the familiar stone building. “Maybe there’s some new word on Sutton.”
The boys found
Chief Collig in conference with Lieutenant Daley.
“It’s all right. Come in, fellows,” the chief invited. “Daley’s been over at the hospital. Sutton has regained consciousness.”
“What did he say?” Frank inquired eagerly.
“He claims he doesn’t know who beat him up,” replied Lieutenant Daley. “Says he was hit from behind and never saw his attacker.”
“But that can’t be true!” Frank protested. “The bruises I saw were mostly on his face.”
“Oh, he knows who did it, all right,” Lieutenant Daley agreed. “Only he’s covering up for somebody. Why should he try to protect that big fellow he tried to frame last night?”
“How about Alf?” Joe broke in. “What’s his story?”
“We have Lundborg in a cell,” Lieutenant Daley answered. “Of course he denies any part in the beating.”
“We can’t hold him much longer,” put in Chief Collig. “There’s no evidence against him.”
“Of course not! Alf wouldn’t beat up a fellow half his size,” Joe declared.
“Then why did Sutton mumble Lundborg’s name in his delirium?” the chief countered.
“Sutton had a grudge against Alf. It must have been on his mind,” Frank suggested.
“That could be,” Chief Collig conceded. “How have you two boys been making out? Any new dues on Chet or Biff? We have none.”
“No, we haven’t,” Frank answered. “We went out to Hermit Island on a hunch this afternoon, but had no luck there, either.”
“Do you know anything about that hermit, Chief?” Joe inquired.
“A little,” the chief returned. “Remember him, Daley? Queer old bird. Somebody left him the whole island in a will. He said it was just the place he wanted, to get away from the crazy world!”
“Yes.” The tall lieutenant chuckled. “He moved out there for good some years ago. Never let anybody land on his island.”
“We found that out. He chased us off pretty fast this afternoon,” Joe said.
“Wha-a-t?” drawled the lieutenant, turning for a good look at the boy.
“Who are you kidding?” Chief Collig grinned.
“What’s so funny?” Joe asked. “He threatened us with a shotgun.”
The Missing Chums Page 7
