Footprints Under the Window (7 page)

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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

BOOK: Footprints Under the Window
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The barnacled hull leaned to the north, shored up by a small sand bar beneath the gashed-in port bow. The foreship hung against a toothlike rock formation. Above, two toppled booms angled over a crushed deck rail. The wreck lay some hundred yards out from shore.
“Old man North must have had a fit when this crate cracked up,” Tony remarked.
The Hardys were surprised. “The
Atlantis
was a North Lines ship?” Frank asked.
Tony nodded. “My dad was talking about it the other day. He said the wreck happened shortly after Mr. North started in business.”
Frank cut the engine as they inched between the rocks near the bow of the ship.
“Let's see if we can board her and have a look around,” Joe said eagerly.
He and Tony clambered forward. Tony was first to spot a rusted ladder against the freighter's prow. “We can go up there!”
But Joe had seen something else. “Oh—oh!” He pointed to a warning sign which hung from the bow anchor:
DANGER—DO NOT BOARD THIS VESSEL
TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED
ORDER OF U.S. COAST GUARD
“Guess that's official,” Frank observed, nudging the
Sleuth
near the ladder. The rung crumbled into flakes.
“It's pretty dangerous all right,” he admitted. The boys were disappointed.
Chet shrugged. “There probably isn't any valuable cargo. We'd better go back.”
The other boys exchanged winks. “Let the ghosts have the treasure, eh?” Tony needled.
Chet opened his mouth to retort. But instead his eyes widened in fear. “Listen!” Chet squeaked. “I—I heard a scream.”
The four listened intently. But the only sound was the gentle lap of the waves. Chet sank back. “Guess it was only my imagination.”
The Hardys and Tony laughed as Frank guided the
Sleuth
toward the cove entrance. A white yacht, churning northward, arced slowly to turn in. Frank steered out of its path. Suddenly the boys noticed the yacht swing about, and at increased speed head directly toward them!
“The skipper must think this is a drag strip!” Frank said, and honked the
Sleuth's
horn. Still the powerful boat bore down on them.
“What does he think he's doing!” Joe cried out.
Frank signaled again, steering closer to the rocky shore of the cove mouth to make way for the yacht. But still it churned relentlessly toward them, the sleek jaw of its prow slicing out wings of froth. Forty yards! Twenty!
Frank frantically swerved the Sleuth to the left, past jagged rocks. Joe, Chet, and Tony waved desperately to the heedless pilot.
Then with horror Tony saw a swirling, shadowed eddy dead ahead of their bow. A massive ledge of rock! “Frank! Look out!”
But the waves kicked up by the onrushing yacht rolled against the
Sleuth,
driving it straight for the submerged rock!
CHAPTER IX
Thief in the Crowd
 
 
 
“THE rock!” Joe shouted. “We're going to hit!”
Grimly Frank swung the wheel hard right, and the
Sleuth
missed the deadly rock by inches. The yacht curved away at the last minute. Now it approached the
Sleuth
at slackened speed.
The craft was handsomely trimmed in brass and about forty feet in length. The boys saw the name of the ship in red letters:
Northerly.
“Orrin North's yacht!” Joe shouted.
A man in blue uniform stepped out on the bridge as the craft drew parallel with the
Sleuth.
Frank cupped his hands. “What were you trying to do—run us into the rocks?”
“No, I was trying to warn you about them.”
“Warn us!” Frank yelled angrily.
“Yes. Sorry if I shook you up. You ought to keep away from that old wreck. This isn't a safe place to go boating.”
“With you around it isn't!” Chet piped up.
There was no response from the
Northerly.
Instead, it swept around in a wide circle and plowed out of the cove southward. Frank revved up the engine and steered the
Sleuth
into the open sea.
“Whew!” Chet breathed out. “I could just feel us scraping Davy Jones's locker. You sure did some smart piloting, Frank.”
Joe burst out, “Does Mr. North think he owns the whole ocean?”
Tony's eyes widened. “Maybe his crew has orders to keep anyone from getting hurt near the
Atlantis.”
“To keep him from getting sued you mean,” Joe said, still fuming. “‘Warn us'! I'd like to go back and ‘warn' him!”
“I didn't notice North on deck,” Chet observed.
Tony nodded. “But I've seen him at the helm sometimes, plowing around Barmet Bay as if he were a fleet commander!”
The Hardys were perplexed. Why had the
Northerly's
helmsman risked a collision in order to “warn” the boys? Why not signal?
“There's sure something fishy about North.” Joe scowled. “Especially his asking us to find that stowaway.”
Frank had steered the
Sleuth
into the mouth of Barmet Bay and cut speed. Now he said thoughtfully, “I have a hunch we should scout around Cobblewave Cove again.”
Chet perked up. “Iola and Callie want to do some shell hunting near there tomorrow, at Barren Sands. Why don't you fellows come along?”
“It's a date,” Frank agreed.
Tony said he could not join his friends because he would be helping his father at Oak Hollow.
“Call us if there's any more trouble,” Frank urged.
“Will do!”
The
Sleuth
was soon docked, and Chet drove the Hardys home. “See you tomorrow.” The plump boy waved and the jalopy chugged away.
Later, Frank phoned Jack Wayne at the airport. The pilot reported he had been in touch with Micro-Eye Industries about the plane sabotage. No clue to the culprits had yet been found, but his plane had been repaired satisfactorily. “And just in time. I'm due to fly to South America in about two days to investigate luggage thefts in Cayenne!”
“Cayenne!” Frank echoed.
“That's right. The airline people here are concerned about the pilfering of baggage there. I know some French, was available, and—thanks to my detective training working with you Hardys—the investigators here think I can handle it.”
“Need any help?” Frank asked hopefully.
Jack laughed. “As a matter of fact, I have some extra space. Would you and Joe like to come along? Chet Morton, too.”
“Count us in!”
Frank at once spoke to Aunt Gertrude, who gave her consent for the trip. Next, Joe called Mr. Dykeman, then Chet, whose response was excited, although apprehensive.
“Don't we have enough danger around here?” he argued. But in a few minutes their friend reported he had obtained permission to go.
“Swell. Lucky we all have up-to-date health certificates and passports.”
“Passports to trouble!” Chet prophesied.
During supper the brothers elatedly discussed the prospective trip. Aunt Gertrude said with a sigh, “I don't know what your father will say about your flying recklessly into the wilds.”
Joe grinned. “Dad wouldn't stand in the way of our solving a mystery. Besides, Aunty, you were in Cayenne, and got home okay.”
Aunt Gertrude looked at her nephews. “Never mind. I wasn't trailing thieves—or spies.”
The boys feigned surprise. “What makes you think we are?” Frank asked.
“Humph. The trouble at Micro-Eye—the stowaway from South America—that man you think is Mr. Ricardo—” Her nephews laughed.
After supper the boys tried to fathom what the Micro-Eye project could be.
“It must be a camera of some kind—a real powerful one,” Joe surmised, “or else a telescope.”
“Whatever it is, I wish we knew,” Frank said. “Everything we've run into points to this Footprints spy plot. Yet we don't even know what it is they're after!”
Later the boys drove around the waterfront, hoping for a glimpse of the escapee, Gomez. But there was no sign of him. They returned home at ten o'clock and went to bed.
The next morning Frank and Joe drove to the Morton farm to meet Chet and the girls for their shell-hunting date. As the Hardys pulled up the broad drive, Chet and pretty, blond Callie Shaw came to meet them.
“Hi!” Callie smiled, her eyes sparkling. “I hear you boys are off for South America!”
Joe looked around. “Where's Iola?” he asked.
Chet said his sister had driven into town earlier with Mr. Morton to do some errands. “We'll meet her at the dry cleaner's.”
The Hardys noticed that Chet seemed downcast. “What's up?” Joe asked him.
“Trouble at the agency,” Chet explained. He referred to the Voyager Travel Bureau of which Mr. Morton was part owner. The office had been broken into during the night but nothing had been stolen. “It's happened to other agencies, too,” Chet added.
“Sounds queer,” Joe noted, intrigued. “Wonder what the intruder was after.”
“That's what we'd like to know,” said Chet as the four young people piled into the Hardys' convertible.
“Try not to worry,” Callie told Chet. “Just think of the luscious picnic your mother and I packed.”
The plump boy brightened and everyone laughed. Later, Frank parked not far from the Corporated Laundries store. Joe spotted Iola hurrying up the street and went to meet the attractive, dark-haired girl. She carried a large shopping bag filled to capacity.
“Hi, Iola! Here—I'll take that.”
“Thanks, Joe. It weighs a ton.”
They headed back to the car. Chet's brown-eyed sister chatted excitedly about the sea shells she and Callie had already collected.
“You'll probably find lots more at—Hey!” Joe suddenly felt a jolt from behind. The shopping bag was snatched from his grasp!
Joe whipped around. A stocky man in a black raincoat was running down the street, the bag clutched in one hand. Iola screamed.
“Stop, thief!” Joe yelled, and instantly took off after the fleeing figure, who darted in and out of the throng of pedestrians, and sprinted over a crowded crosswalk.
Leaping ahead, Joe just made the yellow light. The fugitive had spun around the corner onto State Street. Dodging waves of shoppers, Joe ran full steam along the curb, skirted two parked cars, then made the turn. People kept surging into his way, but he squeezed through the startled crowd and broke into the open. By now the thief was out of sight.
Joe stopped. The bag snatcher could have taken any direction. Disgusted, Joe ran back to Iola. The others were grouped around her.
“Did you get a good look at him?” Frank asked his brother quickly.
“Not his face. From his build, he could be the fellow we chased at Micro-Eye.”
With a nervous look around, Chet muttered, “No matter where we go, those spies turn up.”
At this, the girls were visibly upset. “Spies!” Iola gasped.
The Hardys explained as much as they felt was politic. Then Frank asked, “Iola, what did you have in the bag?”
“A box of clothes from Corporated Laundries—mostly Chet's, some things for Mother, and a magnifying glass,” she murmured nervously. “I think that's all.”
“Too bad to lose them,” said Joe. “But why would anyone else want them?”
Two policemen arrived on the scene and were given an account by Joe and Iola. The officers, whom the Hardys knew, were especially interested to learn that Joe thought he recognized the thief. “Let us know if you spot him again. We've been working on that boathouse investigation,” one policeman said.
Callie put a comforting arm around Iola and the group returned to the car.
Chet groaned. “He would have to filch my duds.”

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