The Shore Road Mystery

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Chet shrugged. “Then what could we possibly learn that the police haven’t?”

  Frank drew the others’ attention to the black line which represented Shore Road on the map.

  “The thief heads north. He could go straight into Northport, but he’d take a chance staying on one road all that distance. This leaves the turnoffs which meet Shore Road from the west.”

  “I follow,” Joe murmured.

  “Now,” Frank continued, “police have been watching all towns at the end of the turnoffs, but there’s one place they haven’t been stationed—at the intersections themselves!”

  He went on to propose a two-part plan. “With daily night watches, at the Shore Road intersections with Springer Road, Route 7, and Pembroke Road, we should find out which one the thieves are using! Daylight hours we can spend sleuthing around the terrain off Shore Road, since the gang may have a secret hideout in the woods.”

  Chet whistled. “Boy, night watches, day watches, and three mysteries rolled into one! There goes my important museum workl” He groaned loudly as Frank and Joe grinned.

  “But, Chet, this will give you a chance to do some real field work for your botanical and dietary investigations,” Joe explained, slapping his heavy friend on the back. “Think of all the herbs and plants in those woods!”

  Chet was weighing the idea when they heard familiar footsteps ascending the garage stairs and a sharp rap on the door.

  “I’ve brought you boys some refreshments,” came the voice of Gertrude Hardy.

  “Refreshments!” Chet echoed happily, opening the door. The laden tray Aunt Gertrude carried looked inviting.

  Noticing the closed windows she winced. “A beautiful day like this and you three sitting in a hot, stuffy room! Frank, Joe, here are some apple pie and chocolate milk.”

  A heavy object sailed through the window

  “Oh boy!” Chet exclaimed.

  “And for you, Chet Morton, a large glass of cooling parsnip juice. I fixed it especially for your vegetarian diet.”

  “My vegetarian—” Chet’s voice trailed off despondently at the sight of the liquid.

  Muffling laughs, Frank and Joe thanked their aunt. “Your pie is—”

  Suddenly there was a deafening crash. A heavy object sailed through the rear window, sending splinters of glass against Joe’s neck. Chet flew from his chair and Aunt Gertrude screamed.

  In the center of the floor lay a black hand grenade!

  “Run!” she cried.

  But Frank knew that in a few seconds all of them might be killed! He snatched up the grenade and ran to the window with the deadly missile. Would he be able to hurl it outside in time?

  CHAPTER VI

  Mysterious Collision

  THE others watched in frozen horror, fully expecting the grenade to go off in Frank’s hand. The next second he tossed it from the broken window. Everyone stood as if in a trance, waiting for the explosion.

  But it never came.

  The boys and Aunt Gertrude drew shaky sighs of relief. “Must be a dud,” said Frank. “I’ll check.”

  He ran downstairs and around to the rear of the garage. He immediately spotted the grenade lying in the grass. With his foot he gingerly turned it over. In the bottom gaped a round, unplugged hole. “It’s a dummy, all right,” Frank said to himself.

  Next, he looked about for any signs of the grenade thrower. There was no one in sight and no clues to the person’s identity. Quickly Frank picked up the grenade and returned to the lab.

  Aunt Gertrude, recovered from her fright, was highly indignant. “I don’t care if that—that bomb is a fake! What a wicked thing to do! The villain responsible should be tarred and feathered!” She paused for breath. “Frank, you were very brave, but you shouldn’t take such chances!”

  Her nephew smiled. “I’ll try not to, Aunty.”

  With a warning for the boys to be extra cautious, Miss Hardy left. Chet and Joe had by now swept up the broken glass and the young sleuths turned their attention to the grenade. Joe lifted it and studied the hole closely.

  “Look, there’s a note where the firing pin should be!” He unrolled the paper and the boys read the typed words:

  Keep off Shore Road or next time this will be a real one.

  The message was unsigned, and when they dusted the grenade it showed no fingerprints except the Hardys’. The weapon was clearly of foreign manufacture.

  “Think Slagel threw it?” Joe suggested, recalling the missing glove.

  “Or one of his pals,” Frank replied. “At any rate, our conference wasn’t overheard. What say we start today on our two-part plan?”

  After the window had been boarded up, the Hardys and Chet started for the door. Joe grinned. “Chet! You forgot to drink your parsnip juice.”

  “Oh—er—yeah, I almost forgot,” he muttered, plodding over to the table. Grimacing, he downed the liquid, choking on the last few gulps.

  “Good?” Frank asked, chuckling.

  Chet wiped his lips and beamed at the brothers before leading the way vigorously down the stairs, the map under one arm.

  “Nutritional!” he called back.

  Chet rode at the rear of Joe’s motorcycle as the three boys headed for a wooded area near Springer Road. This was the most northern of the three roads they suspected as the thieves’ possible escape route.

  The trio spread out and began combing the area for clues. There was little traffic this far north. The air was close, and the pitch pines afforded little shade.

  In white sneakers and saggy dungarees, Chet trudged along between the Hardys. He occasionally consulted a botanical handbook.

  They reached farmland and doubled back along the edge of the woods. Finding no tire marks or buildings, the boys returned to the motorcycles and rode a few hundred yards south. They began combing another patch of trees.

  Five minutes later the trio heard a noise behind a thicket-covered hill. Frank motioned for silence and the boys hid behind a large rock.

  The crunch of turf became louder. When the person had almost reached the rock, Frank revealed his presence.

  “Well, Frank Hardy! And Joe, and Chet! What brings you city fellers all the way out here?”

  “Scratch! What a surprise!”

  Before them stood the disheveled figure of Scratch Cantrell, a well-known local drifter and long-time acquaintance of the Hardys. Scratch lived alone in the woods. Under a straw hat and ragged gray overcoat, he wore brown trousers, patched in several places. Two pieces of clothes-line provided him with suspenders, and rusty sewing scissors, with which he shaved, were tucked into a belt loop. The boys explained their interest in the Shore Road mystery.

  “Have you noticed any cars in the woods around here, Scratch?” Frank asked.

  Removing his hat, the drifter scratched his wispy hair. His voice was gravelly. “No, haven’t seen none. But I’ve heard ’em.”

  “Heard them?”

  “Yep, about two days back. I was just waterin down my campfire when I heard a motor in the woods, then a noise like a crash. Didn’t find nothin’. Sounded like a siren on the highway later.”

  “The siren may have been the police pursuing one of the stolen cars!” Joe observed.

  But they were puzzled by Scratch’s story, particularly the mention of a “crash.” Unfortunately, the grizzled man could not remember where the incident had occurred.

  Scratch did recall something else, however. “I saw a man drive out of these woods the other day, and another time walking along Shore Road.”

  Frank asked what the man looked like.

  “Big guy, bald, kinda mean-lookin’. Wasn’t happy when I seen him pullin’ out of the woods.”

  Quickly Joe took out the picture of Slagel. “Is this the man?”

  Scratch nodded. “He had a walkin’ stick. Don’t know why he was carryin’ the cane—he didn’t seem to limp.”

  Encouraged by news that Slagel had been in the area recently, the boys thanked Scratch and returned to the
motorcycles. Soon they were cruising homeward.

  Chet felt weary from their trek and lack of food. “But I’m going to keep on with my vegetable juices,” he declared valiantly.

  Joe grinned. “Here’s luck!” He pretended to drink a toast.

  Presently Frank remarked, “I have a hunch we’ll be meeting Slagel soon.” At that moment he saw something on the beach that made him stare in astonishment. “Look! Two men are tied up down there!”

  Flashing across the road, the Hardys stoppec’ their motorcycles abruptly, then rushed down to the two men. They lay behind a dune, and had been visible from the road for only a moment. From their clothing, the boys believed they were fishermen. Both were distraught. One of them pointed to the north as Joe untied him and ripped the gag off his mouth. “We were jumped and our car stolen. Can you fellows catch that thief?”

  “How long ago did it happen?” Frank asked as he freed the other man.

  “Two—three minutes—a brown Condor with white wall tires.”

  Frank groaned, realizing they had passed the car moments before! “We could never catch him now, unless—Joe! Let’s try the old Pine Road shortcut!”

  While the fishermen hurried toward a farmhouse to alert the police, the Hardys and Chet raced to the motorcycles.

  “Will I slow you down?” Chet puffed anxiously.

  “No.” Joe motioned for him to get on. “But hold tight—don’t lean back!”

  They sped along the highway for a quarter mile, then chugged up a dirt rise to the old overland route. This was stony and overgrown, but a shorter way to the north.

  Through the clouds of dust, Joe and Chet could barely make out the crouched form of Frank ahead. Chet held on tautly.

  “Heads!” Frank cried back, as Joe and Chet barely ducked under a broken oak limb.

  Minutes later, they came out to the highway. He’d still have a lead on us, but we may be able to catch him now,” Frank murmured.

  They proceeded north, passing several cars. Whizzing beside pastures, they approached a cloud of dust at the Pembroke Road intersection.

  “Come on! Let’s try the turnoff!”

  The boys took the curve, squinting for a glimpse of the stolen brown car. Suddenly they heard a crashing sound!

  “That came from the woods!” Joe exclaimed, staring to his right.

  They proceeded slowly among the trees until they came to some tire tracks. Seeing no car or evidence of a collision, the boys followed the trail. At a turn in the tracks, Frank noticed something on the ground. “A clue!” Here and there were flecks of brown paint. He scooped them up and wrapped them in a handkerchief. The trio continued following the tracks, but they only led the boys back to the highway.

  “Beats me,” Frank said. “Whoever drove in seems to have driven right out again. But why?”

  On the way back, they dropped off the paint flecks at the police station for analysis.

  At the Hardy garage Chet pulled a gnarled mass of broken leaves and stems from his dusty pocket. “My plant specimens!” he groaned. “Ah, what scientists must suffer—and all for nothing! Fellows, could we postpone our first night watch until tomorrow? I’m tired—and hungry.”

  The Hardys agreed, feeling sorry for their chum. After Chet left, the brothers had supper and opened a special-delivery packet which had arrived that afternoon from their father. To their surprise, it contained data on Slagel.

  “Dad is sure a wonder!” Joe declared.

  Information on the man recent moves was scant, but the report said that Slagel had been dishonorably discharged from the Army and had served a prison term in Leavenworth. A list of several aliases was given, as well as an indication he had been born left-handed, but now used either hand.

  Later, while the boys were studying a small map, the doorbell rang. Mrs. Hardy answered it. When she came back into the living room, their mother seemed perplexed.

  “That’s strange. A man was at the door. He wore a blue winter face muffler and didn’t identify himself. When I told him that your father wasn’t at home, he seemed hesitant. Finally, before leaving, he asked me to give this to you boys.” She handed Frank a small, white envelope.

  On the front of it was the drawing of a bottle!

  CHAPTER VII

  Flight Sniper

  IMPATIENTLY, Frank tore open the envelope and removed a folded message. It was a photostat of an aged, incomplete message. He read it aloud:

  “ ‘ when the ftorm broke ... alone ... to give our pofition in the hope that ...’”

  Frank glanced at Joe. “The Dodds’ Pilgrim clue! Each small looks like an f, the way an was written centuries ago!”

  He continued. “ ‘... vegetation no protection ... fhelter but crafh of countleff ... breaking black illowf ... high vein of gold...’ ”

  In the margin was a crude drawing of a leaf. Frank passed the paper to his brother. “That’s all. Looks as if part of it has been cut off at the end.”

  The brothers spent the rest of the evening trying vainly to interpret the message and speculating on the identity of the visitor.

  “As I make it out,” Frank remarked, “the storm in this message is the hurricane in which Elias Dodd perished with his family.”

  “And the question is, where?”

  “Apparently they found some cover, for it mentions vegetation. If only we knew what kind. The leaf drawing must be a clue.”

  Joe tapped his head with a pencil. “But if Elias Dodd’s bottle washed up on the shore, wouldn’t the family have been out at sea?”

  His brother had second thoughts. “There’s something about the words ‘vegetation’ and 'shelter’ that suggests a location on land. Besides, wouldn’t Elias Dodd have needed some kind of shelter in which to write the note?”

  “That figures,” Joe replied. “What do you make of the last part?”

  Frank reread the final fragments. “ ‘... crafh of countleff breaking black illowf ... high vein of gold...’ ”

  “I don’t get it,” Joe muttered. “Were there ever veins of gold in this area?”

  Frank offered to find out. He went into the hall, where Joe heard him talking on the phone with Chet. Presently Frank returned, excited.

  “Joe! I think I may have it!”

  “What?”

  “The answer to at least most of the message.” Frank explained, “It figures that this fifth word from the end could be ‘willows,’ referring, in other words, to black willow trees. A hurricane would certainly cause many branches to ‘break’ and even whole trees to 'crash.’ ”

  “Sure,” Joe said, puzzled. “But if there were ‘countless’ black willows, they would be in an inland forest. I still don’t see how any bottle could reach the sea from there.”

  Frank grinned. “I had a hunch and asked Chet to check it. Have you ever noticed where most black willows seem to grow?”

  Joe recalled some of their past camping trips. “Near rivers or other bodies of water. Shadow Lake, and of course Willow River.” Suddenly Joe caught the drift of Frank’s reasoning. “Willow River, of course. That would account for Elias Dodd’s message reaching the sea!”

  Frank said thoughtfully, “And gold is often found in stream beds.”

  Neither of the brothers recognized the crude drawing of the leaf. “Chet may be able to identify it,” Frank said.

  Joe suggested that they check in town about past gold mines or claims to any in Bayport history.

  “Good idea,” Frank agreed. “Now for the big question—is this message a copy of the real one?”

  “Any ideas about who brought it?” Joe asked.

  “One,” Frank answered. “Professor Martin Dodd, though I don’t understand why he wouldn’t identify himself.”

  Joe remembered their last meeting with Jack and his father. “Mr. Dodd did suggest there was an urgency about solving the Pilgrim mystery. Let’s start treasure sleuthing early tomorrow.”

  Mrs. Hardy brought the morning mail to the breakfast table next day. The brothers
received more letters of complaint from Bayport residents, but the last letter Joe opened had a Bridgewater postmark. He paled as he read it.

  “Look at this!” he exclaimed, passing the typed letter to Frank. It said:

  Hardys—You were suckers to back us, Don’t meddle any more.

  “It’s signed ‘Jack’!” Frank cried out.

  After the initial shock caused by the note, Frank became suspicious. “This doesn’t sound like Jack. Did you save that grenade note? This typing looks the same.”

  The boys went upstairs and Joe produced the paper. He followed his brother into Mr. Hardy’s study, where Frank got out a file on typewriter clues.

  “I’m convinced of it!” he said at last. “Certain information here points to one interesting fact—both were typed by the same person. Also, the letters typed by the left hand are much darker—”

  “Which might mean,” Joe broke in, “that the person is—or was—left-handed. Slagel!”

  After marking on the map the streams running into Willow River, Frank and Joe picked up Chet at the Bayport Museum. Still tired from yesterday’s trek and overland chase, Chet was nevertheless proud about his part in the black-willow clue. He agreed to be their lookout for a plant like that in the drawing.

  The boys’ plan was to cover certain areas daily in their search for the treasure. Right now they would sleuth in a region north of Route 7, keeping a lookout for willow groves. The only stream in the region, shaded by old black willows, offered no clues to any gold or buried treasure and Chet saw no plants matching the leaf sketch.

  “What’s the next assignment?” Chet asked. He pulled a small, wrapped raw cauliflower from his pocket, took off the paper, and started to eat it. “Ever try this?” he asked. “Very nourishing.”

  “It just so happens we have,” Frank replied. “What say we have our first stakeout tonight?”

  “Here?” Chet asked, munching.

  “No. Out at Springer Road.”

  “Why don’t we make it an overnight?” Joe proposed. “In the meantime, we’ll finish fixing our motorcycle radio.”