Hardy Boys 24: The Short-Wave Mystery

THE Hardy boys acted fast and managed to restrain Mike and Tommy before they could leave the table. But Jimmy was already streaking into the hallway. Aunt Gertrude, however, had heard the uproar from the kitchen and took prompt action.

She darted into the hall, snatched an umbrella from the closet, and charged aftei him. As Jimmy yanked open the front door, she snagged his arm with the crook of the umbrella.

Jimmy was about to flare back, bu one glimpse of Aunt Gertrude’s wrathful expression changed his mind. “Let me go!” he whined.

“Don’t talk back to me, you imp! Just where did you leave your manners? Get to the table this instant!”

Scowling, with his lower lip outthrust, Jimmy plodded sullenly back to the dining room.

“Sorry if I frightened you lads,” Mr. Hardy said, resuming his place at the table. “Didn’t Frank and Joe mention that I’m a private investigator?” The youngsters shook their heads.

“And the Batter case has nothing to do with you, Jimmy,” put in Frank. “Your aunt asked Joe and me to recover some stuffed animals that were stolen from the auction at your uncle’s place.”

Jimmy gave the Hardy boys a surprised stare. “Is that why you were nosing around out there?”

“Right,” Joe acknowledged. “The thieves’ getaway car grazed a tree and we were checking the bark for paint traces.”

Tommy murmured, “Private eyes!” His blue ones were big with amazement.

“Now that that’s settled, let’s get on with the apple pie à la mode,” Frank said, grinning.

By the time dessert was finished, even Jimmy looked relaxed and heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction. Chet took the youngsters out to his taxidermy workshop and offered to give them lessons in preparing stuffed animals. All three promised to come back the next day. “You can help me mount my deer’s head, too,” Chet added.

“My uncle Elly did a lot of that kind of work,” Jimmy said. “There’s still some stuffed animals over at the house.” Frank and Joe traded startled looks.

Chet finally left in his jalopy. Jimmy and his two pals got into the Hardy boys’ convertible and were driven home.

Jimmy nodded. “I got a look at his face when he ran in the ten-cent store. His name’s Moran—Soapy Moran. He used to work for Uncle Elly.”

A moment later Jimmy pointed ahead to a shabby tenement building. “Here’s my place.”

The convertible drew up to the curb and the freckle-faced boy climbed out. Frank said, “Will your mother be home by now?”

“Sure, the light’s on, up there in our window. Thanks for the swell feed.”

As the brothers drove off, Joe turned to Frank. “Does it strike you as odd that this Soapy Moran should have been connected with Elias Batter?”

“It sure does,” Frank agreed. “I’d say it’s no coincidence. That whole business about the dead deer may have been just a cover-up.”

Frank shook his head helplessly. “Search me. Maybe just an excuse for snooping around our place.”

Joe gave a startled whistle. “If you’re right, then he may be a member of the gang—or at least. a pal of those two auction thieves!”

“Could be. And speaking of the auction thieves, do you remember what Jimmy said about more stuffed animals at the house?”

“Yes, I’ve been wondering about them. Seems funny they weren’t auctioned off.”

“Not only that,” Frank pointed out, “but the thieves may not even know about them. If we could see them, they might give us a clue to what was so valuable about the other animals—the ones that were stolen.”

Joe was excited over this possibility. “Let’s drive out to Batter’s house right now and take a look at them. We could borrow Jimmy’s key.”

“Okay, let’s stop somewhere and phone. We can probably find Crowell’s home number in the book.”

Frank parked the car at a drugstore and the two boys hurried to a telephone booth inside. Leafing through the Bayport directory, they soon found the attorney’s residential listing.

Crowell was unexpectedly cool to the idea of the Hardys paying an unsupervised visit to the mansion. “I’m afraid I couldn’t take responsibility for that,” he said. “Mrs. Batter would have to be consulted.”

“Perhaps I could call her,” Frank suggested. “Is she still living in Bayport?”

“Yes, in a small apartment. But right now she’s out of town. Suppose I ask her as soon as she returns and then get in touch with you.”

Joe’s face showed disappointment when he heard the news. “Did Crowell explain why some of the animals weren’t sold?”

“He said they were all supposed to be included in the auction, but a few hadn’t been brought out of the house yet when the theft occurred. Right after that, Mrs. Batter gave orders not to sell the rest of them.”

As the boys returned to their car, Joe said, “Hey, what’s that on the windshield?”

A piece of paper had been slipped under the wiper. Frank pulled it out. The paper bore a penciled message:

BROWN STATION WAGON DITCHED OFF
HORTON RD. ¼ MI. E. OF ROCKCREST DRIVE

“Depends on where it came from.” Both boys glanced up and down the street. No pedestrians were in sight on the block. “Someone may have been trailing us before we went in the drugstore,” Frank conjectured.

“Well, there’s one way to find out if this note’s on the level,” said Joe, “and that is to ride to the spot and see. We can notify the police on the way.”

As the convertible sped in the direction of Horton Drive, Joe radioed the Bayport police.

“Roger! I’ll send a car to meet you there,” the police operator responded after taking down the location.

Horton Road ran through the hills west of Bayport. Sparsely traveled at night, it connected with several of the busier highways. As they passed Rockcrest Drive, Frank slowed so they could keep a lookout for the abandoned station wagon. The hillside rose steeply on their right, while to the left of the road the ground fell away in a brush-clad slope.

In the moonlight they could see the getaway car clearly. It lay on a broad rocky shelf jutting out from the slope below them, its nose rammed against a tree.

The Hardys took flashlights, piled out of their convertible, and ran to the edge of the road. A swath had been battered through the high brush —evidently marking the course of the station wagon as it hurtled down the slope.

Joe plunged recklessly forward, then exclaimed, “Oops!” and almost went sprawling.

“Hey, watch it!” Frank cautioned, following more slowly. “Think you’re a mountain goat?”

The boys proceeded, shining their flashlights ahead. As they reached the shelf, the rays of their flashlights revealed a large metal drum in the back of the station wagon. A vague feeling of alarm prickled Frank’s scalp. He clutched Joe’s arm.

“Don’t know exactly, but I don’t like the looks of that drum,” Frank said. “You sure that was a vine you tripped over?”

“How do I know? What difference does it make?” Joe returned impatiently.

“Plenty, maybe. That could’ve been a trip wire for a delayed-action fuse!” As he spoke, Frank’s fear swelled to panic. “Come on! Let’s get back up on the road and wait for the police!”

Yanking Joe’s arm, he scrambled up the slope. They had taken only a few paces when a loud whoomp rent the air.