“That’s impossible,” Chief Collig said flatly. “He’s dead!”
Frank and Joe looked at each other in astonishment. “Then he’s a mighty spry dead man,” Joe declared.
Chief Collig shook his head. “The hermit died last fall and the Coast Guard brought him back to the mainland for burial. He had no one to leave the island to, so it belongs to the state.”
“Wow!” Joe cried out. “Then the man we saw isn’t the real hermit and had no right to order us off.”
“Right,” Chief Collig agreed. “It’s state property. Anyone can go there. My jurisdiction doesn’t cover it. Report this man to the Coast Guard.”
“We will, if he bothers us again,” Frank stated.
After leaving the police station, the young detectives walked along Bayport’s main street toward Mr. French’s costume store.
“That phony hermit wasn’t joking,” Frank said. “He wanted us off the island and no fooling. What do you think he’s up to?”
Joe stopped short and said excitedly, “What if Chet and Biff were taken to Hermit Island?”
“Then this faker might know about the kidnaping. Is he in on the game, too?”
“The old guy could be holding them prisoner,” Joe went on. “That’s why he chased us away! He didn’t dare risk having us looking around.”
“Hermit Island isn’t very far away from Shantytown,” Frank said. “The rubber mask we found could have floated out from one place as well as from the other, depending on the tide.”
“But how about the pieces of the boys’ costumes the police found among the shacks?” Joe asked, perplexed. “How do they fit in with the Hermit Island theory?”
“Chet and Biff could’ve been transported to the island from Shantytown,” reasoned Frank.
As he spoke, the brothers came to the costume shop. “I hope Mr. French is here,” Frank said. “We’ll ask him why he—”
The boys suddenly gasped and stared in amazement at the big display window of the store. In it were a gorilla and a magician costume!
“The same kind of suits we were wearing the night Biff and Chet disappeared!” Frank cried out.
“Yes,” Joe agreed in high excitement. “And that was the night of the bank robbery!”
CHAPTER XIV
Signal Three
“THERE’S something queer about this costume store,” Frank said positively. “Maybe the bank robbers got their masks here!”
“And Mr. French came to our house in the middle of the night to tell us about it, then lost his nerve,” Joe added.
“Why are the same costumes in this window as those we wore?” Frank wondered. “Are they a signal to somebody?”
“There’s one way to find out,” Joe replied. “We’ll ask Mr. French himself.” He pushed the heavy glass door.
It was locked. Peering inside the store, the boys saw that it was deserted. A shaft of light from the back room pierced the late-afternoon shadows within. Joe banged on the heavy glass with his knuckles but no one came.
“Let’s try the back entrance,” Frank muttered.
An alley separated the costume store from the next building. The boys slipped along this cobbled passageway to a dingy yard behind the shop. Quietly they stepped up to the rear door. Voices could be heard inside.
As Joe raised his fist to knock, Frank grabbed his arm. “Wait! Listen!”
A man’s voice droned on indistinguishably, then snapped out a single, sharp word.
“Kidnap!”
Breathless, Frank and Joe strained to hear more.
“You fools!” said a new voice derisively.
A third speaker broke in harshly. The phrase “no second mistake” rasped out clearly.
“... signal three ...” came another snatch.
The Hardys listened intently but were unable to catch any more of the conversation.
Silently Frank beckoned Joe into the alley. “I have a hunch!” he said. “Chet was wearing a gorilla suit just like mine. What if he and Biff were kidnaped in place of you and me?”
Joe’s eyes widened with excitement. “Then the kidnapers are the bank robbers—and they would still be out to get us!” he exclaimed. “That’s what they meant by ‘no second mistake’!”
Frank nodded. “They’re probably holding Chet and Biff because they’re afraid to let them go!”
“But why were they after us in the first place?” Joe asked, puzzled.
“I don’t know,” Frank admitted. “But I have a plan. Come on! We must act fast!”
The boys ran from the alley and hailed a passing taxi. When they reached home, the brothers found that their father had just returned and was in his study. Fenton Hardy listened in concern and amazement to his sons’ discovery.
“How I’d like to pick up those thugs and question them!” he exclaimed. “But that would only tip them off.”
“And we haven’t enough evidence to hold them,” Frank added.
Mr. Hardy frowned. “The best we can do is put a police tail on them and hope to find out more that way.” He reached for the phone.
“Wait, Dad!” Frank pleaded. “I have a scheme. Joe and I will go back to the shop. We’ll let them kidnap us. Then Collig’s men will really have something on the gang and can nab them.”
“I don’t know,” their father considered. “It’s plenty risky.”
“Please, Dad,” Joe urged. “The faster we crack the case, the sooner we’ll find Chet and Biff.”
Fenton Hardy was concerned for his sons’ safety, but was proud of their willingness to risk capture for the sake of their missing chums.
“All right,” he agreed. “I’ll alert the police. We’ll station ourselves outside the store. As soon as the gang tries to take you away, we’ll close in!”
“Good,” said Frank, satisfied.
As their father dialed headquarters, he checked his watch and said to Frank and Joe, “Give Collig and me twenty minutes from now to get set. Then go into the store.”
The boys sped downtown on their motorcycles, parked near the costume shop, and slipped down the alley. The men were still talking inside the back room of the store. The brothers waited, eyes fixed on their wrist watches.
“Now!” Frank whispered at last. “Let’s take the chance that ‘signal three’ means knock three times!”
The boys walked to the back door and Frank gave three hard raps.
Immediately the voices became silent. A lock clicked and the door swung a few inches inward. A man’s face peered out at the boys. He was the speedboat pilot with the slicked-back hair—the one Mr. Caine had identified as Ben Stark!
Frank and Joe gave no sign of recognition. Stark’s eyes, however, widened in astonishment.
“I know the store is closed,” Frank said to him, “but we need something desperately. We’re the Hardy boys. May we come in?”
Stark’s expression changed from amazement to oily politeness. “Of course, boys!” he answered, and swung the door wide. “Come right inside!”
Frank and Joe passed into a dim storeroom, lighted by a single bulb overhead. On one side, two tough-looking men they had never seen before eyed them in stunned silence. Ben Stark closed the door and stood with his back against it.
“So you are the famous Hardy boys!” he said, smiling widely. “Of course I’ve heard of you, but I don’t think we’ve met before.”
Stark looked hard at them, but the boys’ expressions betrayed nothing. He indicated his companions. “This is Mr. Moran and Mr. Duke,” he said. Moran nodded. Duke, a lanky, pale-faced man, merely stared.
“Haven’t I heard that you’ve been working on a new case?” Stark asked. “What do you suppose has happened to your missing friends?”
Recognizing the attempt to pump them, the young sleuths played along.
“They must have drowned,” Frank replied sadly. He made no reference to the postcard in Chet’s handwriting.
For a moment Stark looked puzzled. Then he said with exaggerated sympathy, “Isn�
�t it strange there’s been so much excitement in town lately? Even a bank robbery!”
“That won’t be a mystery for long,” Frank boasted to test the man’s reaction. “My father, Fenton Hardy, has it practically solved. The robbers had better watch out!”
Ben Stark’s oily smile faded. He looked hard at his two companions by the wall. Catching the signal, the men left their places and casually drew nearer to Frank and Joe. Both boys sensed the coming attack and summoned all their will power to appear nonchalant.
“By the way, where’s Mr. French?” Joe asked, glancing casually around the room. There was no answer.
The next instant the three men lunged forward and leaped on the brothers!
Boxes tumbled from shelves in the struggle, and the single light bulb swung crazily from the ceiling. Frank pretended to be fighting off his assailants, but finally he allowed his arms to be pinioned.
Joe, meanwhile, had been thrown against a bank of shelves and had fallen to the floor as though stunned. Panting, the men quickly bound, gagged, and blindfolded the two young detectives.
“Now,” gloated Stark, “if your old man and the police don’t call off the hunt for the bank robbers, they’ll never see you again!”
Frank and Joe listened intently, hoping to learn more, but the men said nothing further.
A door slammed. There was a short, silent wait. Then they heard a car engine running in the yard behind the store.
“Okay!” came Stark’s voice. “Coast is clear!”
Frank and Joe were lifted up, carried a little way, then dropped on the floor of the automobile.
Tensely the two boys waited to hear police whistles and Chief Collig barking orders. But the car began to move, rolling swiftly out the alley, and away.
“What happened to our plan?” Frank wondered. “Where’s Dad?”
“We must have gone in too soon,” Joe thought, dismayed. “The police couldn’t get here in time!”
As the car drove on, Frank and Joe recognized the sounds of heavy traffic all around them. Gradually the vehicle picked up speed. The engine purred steadily, and the tires whined along on what could only be open highway.
Presently the car swerved, bumped over uneven ground a short distance, and stopped. In the sudden silence the blindfolded youths could hear the sound of surf on the beach.
“We’re near the shore,” Frank reasoned. “Shantytown perhaps. The time it took getting here seems about the same as when we came before.”
The car doors were opened. Again the boys were lifted and carried. A minute later each of them felt a jarring pain as he was dropped on a wooden floor. Rough hands ripped away their blindfolds.
Although tightly bound, the Hardys struggled to sitting positions. They were in a small board shack. A little light came through a tiny window high up in one of the walls.
Ben Stark and Moran were going out the door. Stark looked back. “Keep your eyes open, Duke,” he ordered sharply. “Those kids are slippery.”
“Don’t worry,” the pale-faced man replied insolently.
After his two companions had left, he went to a water bucket in one corner, dipped in a tin cup, and drank thirstily. Then he sat down in a wooden chair and tilted back lazily against the wall.
Frank and Joe listened anxiously for sounds of rescue. They could hear the sea, but nothing else.
Carefully they looked over their prison. The shack was crudely built out of broken crates and old two-by-fours. Long, sharp points of nails stuck through the wall near Duke’s chair. At the rear of the room was a little squat wood-burning stove.
Cramped and helpless, the boys could only wait. As night came on, Duke stood up and lighted a kerosene lantern hanging on the wall. Then he sat down and tilted back his chair again.
“Might as well face it,” thought Frank. “Rescue isn’t coming.” He looked at Joe with silent urgency, and his eyes said plainly, “It’s up to us!”
CHAPTER XV
Outwitting a Suspect
ALTHOUGH bound and gagged, the Hardys exchanged messages. Frank’s glance slid to their guard, tilted back in his chair against the wall. Then he looked at his brother.
Joe nodded slightly to show he understood and looked toward the lantern. The glass was turning black with soot and the room was in deep shadow.
“Lucky it’s dark in here,” he thought, “because we’ll have to get these ropes off without being seen.”
Frank’s eyes fastened on the long nails he had seen sticking through the wall near the chair legs. If only he could get his back to those sharp points!
Cautiously he inched toward the wall. Duke, who appeared to be asleep, did not stir. Joe also moved. Bit by bit, the brothers worked their way closer to the protruding nails.
At last Frank sat with his back against the wall, not far from the guard’s chair. Hardly daring to breathe, he felt behind him until a tenpenny spike pricked his wrist. If he was lucky, his scheme would work!
Frank eyed his captor. The man was still asleep. Quickly Frank rubbed the rope against the sharp point. He could feel the strands separate, one at a time. His arms and back ached, but he kept on doggedly.
Finally the rope was severed. His hands freed, he removed the gag, then pulled out his pocket-knife and cut the ropes around his ankles. Reaching over, he cut Joe’s bonds.
Then Frank seized a leg of Duke’s tilted chair and jerked it out from under the guard. Slam! Duke fell on his back and cried out.
Frank and Joe leaped on him together, but he rolled away. As he bounced to his feet, Joe brought him down with a tackle.
Fighting desperately, the guard kicked, bit, scratched, and finally broke away. Gasping, he backed into a corner. As Frank went after him, Duke grabbed the kerosene lantern and hurled it. The boys ducked.
Crash! The glass shattered and kerosene drenched the opposite wall. A flame licked up the side of the shack.
“Water!” Joe yelled. “The bucket!”
He tore off his shirt and tried to beat out the flames. At the same time, Frank and Duke grappled for the pail. Duke jerked it away and flung it at Joe. The bucket narrowly missed him, slamming against the wall. The water splashed over onto the flames with a hissing sound.
“You young fools! I’ll get you for this!” Duke picked up the chair and raised it over his head. But Frank swung a right-hand haymaker. It caught Duke in the solar plexus and he went down in a heap.
“He’s out cold!” Joe cried, whipped off his shirt, and finally smothered the flames. “What a sock that was!”
Duke moaned and stirred. Swiftly the boys felt around until they found the cut ropes. Panting, they bound their prisoner’s hands and feet.
“That should hold him,” said Joe as the boys stood up.
“Now, let’s see where we are,” Frank suggested.
Cautiously he opened the shack door and the brothers slipped outside.
“It’s the edge of Shantytown,” Joe whispered after a quick look around.
Across a whitish stretch of sand they could see the dark shacks and beyond them a red glare from beach fires. A nearly full moon sailed in and out of heavy clouds.
Suddenly a figure detached itself from the shadow of the shanties and glided quickly across the sand toward them. Fists ready, Frank and Joe set themselves for a fight!
“Put up your hands!” came a firm command. “You’re under arrest!”
At the same moment, moonlight fell upon a familiar face. “Pat Muster!” Frank exclaimed joyfully. “Are we glad to see you!”
Pat Muster was a plain-clothes man on the Bayport police force. The brawny, red-haired man turned his flashlight on the bruised, disheveled boys. “So you fought your way out, eh?” he said, putting away his revolver. “Too bad you didn’t yell for help. My men and I were staked out by the shacks, keeping an eye on this place.”
Frank grinned ruefully. “I wish we’d known that. We didn’t call out, because we were afraid of bringing more of the gang.”
“Where’s our fa
ther?” Joe asked.
“He took a squad of police and followed Stark and the other fellow. The chief went back to headquarters.”
“I see,” said Frank. “When you didn’t close in at the store, we thought the plan had backfired.”
“Your father suggested that we follow you, on the chance of locating the rest of the gang. Sorry I left you in the shack so long,” he added. “I was hoping some more of these tough birds would turn up and we’d make a bigger haul.”
“We have one of them for you,” Joe said, “all trussed up and ready to go.”
Pat Muster chuckled. “I’ve got to hand it to you, boys,” he said. “You always deliver the goods!”
He turned toward the shanties and gave a low whistle. Here and there a half dozen figures appeared from the shadows and crossed to join the boys and Muster at the shack.
“Wait here,” the officer ordered his men. He and the Hardys entered the shanty. The detective beamed his flashlight on the prone figure of Duke, who blinked and scowled.
“Now that you’re awake,” Frank said, “you’d be smart to tell us where our missing chums are.”
The man glared and did not answer.
“Don’t waste time on him,” Joe advised. “Let’s search this place. Maybe the bank loot is hidden here.”
Frank and Joe borrowed flashlights from two of the men outside and began to help Detective Muster. They inspected the crude walls and flooring. Finally, they stood up, disappointed.
“Nothing,” Frank said, “and there’s no other place to hide anything except in the little stove.”
At this, Duke darted an apprehensive look at the stove. In two quick strides Frank reached it, lifted the stove lid, and plunged his hand inside.
“There’s something here!” he exclaimed. He pulled out a limp object. “A rubber mask! I think there are more!” he added quickly, reaching in again. One after another, he brought out four additional false faces.
Joe whistled. “The bank robbers’ masks! What a find! This shack must have been their headquarters—for a time, at least!”
“Great work, Frank!” Detective Muster congratulated him. “There’ll probably be plenty of fingerprints on those masks.” He pulled a large folded paper sack from his pocket and opened it. “Drop them in here.”
The Missing Chums Page 8
