Mystery of the Samurai Sword (4 page)

“What did you do?” Joe asked.

“I hurried down to the garage by elevator in order to be on hand when the limousine pulled in. I wished to see for myself whether Satoya-san had concealed himself in the secret compartment.”

Frank said, “And what did you find?”

Oyama spread his hands in a helpless shrug. “Nothing. The compartment was empty.”

The Hardys thanked the two senior aides for their time and went down to the lobby, where they failed to find their father. As they left the hotel, they encountered a couple of their high school buddies, Tony Prito and pudgy Chet Morton.

Joe hailed them. “Hey, what're you guys doing downtown so late?”

“Checking out the new disco,” Tony replied. “Then we heard a midnight news broadcast on the car radio about that Japanese big shot disappearing, so we hustled over to get the scoop. He was a client of your dad‘s, wasn't he?”

“
Is
a client,” Frank corrected. “Tony, don't jinx him by putting him in the past tense!”

“Never mind all that! What happened to the guy?” Chet blurted. “Did some dragon society snatch him for violating its sacred customs?”

Joe grinned. “You're a little mixed up, Chester. The way we heard it, dragon societies and tongs are Chinese. Satoya comes from Japan. There's a slight difference.”

“So what? They're both Oriental, aren't they? Quit stalling and give us the lowdown on this case!”

“I wish we could, Chet,” Frank confessed wryly. “But if you want the latest bulletin, Mr. Satoya's still missing, and his disappearance remains as much of a mystery as ever. You can quote us.”

“You mean you Hardys are baffled?”

“Put it this way,” said Joe. “We're working on it.”

“How about stopping off at the diner for a couple of burgers and a milkshake?” Chet proposed. “Then you can fill us in on the details.”

“Got a better idea,” Joe countered. “Aunt Gertrude's probably still up, waiting for a blow-by-blow account of the mystery. How about stopping off at our place, and maybe we can talk her out of some apple pie in return for a firsthand report.”

“It's a deal!”

Gertrude Hardy, who lived with Frank and Joe and their parents, was Fenton Hardy's unmarried sister. The tall, bony spinster worried constantly about the safety of the famed detective and her two nephews. Yet, despite her constant prophecies of looming danger, she kept herself avidly up to date on all their latest sleuthing activities.

More important from Chet's point of view, she was also one of the best cooks and bakers in Bayport. The Hardy boys found her fretfully awaiting their return, wrapped in her red bathrobe, with her hair in curlers.

“Chet and Tony are with us, Aunt Gertrude,” Joe said. “Mind if they come in?”

“Of course not!” she said sharply. “They're probably as hungry as you two. I'd much rather you all did your late snacking here than out in some rowdy drive-in!”

“Well, if you insist, Miss Hardy!” said plump Chet Morton, eagerly pressing forward into the kitchen behind Frank and Joe.

Soon all four boys were hungrily attacking thick Dagwood sandwiches and slices of fresh apple pie, washing them down with glasses of milk.

“Where's Mom?” Frank asked between bites.

“In bed, where all you young ones should be at this hour!” Aunt Gertrude retorted. “She has to get up early tomorrow to help prepare the Garden Club display at the Bayport Festival. For that matter, where's your father?”

“Dunno, Aunty,” Frank replied. “Last we saw of him, he was pretty busy coping with what happened tonight.”

“Well, for mercy sakes, what did happen? I couldn't make head or tail out of the news broadcasts!”

The Hardy boys described the strange disappearance of Takashi Satoya, and their own subsequent adventures. The bathrobed spinster listened with keen interest.

“Hmph, sounds to me as though Satoya's been snatched by business enemies!” she declared. “Not surprising either, when you stop to think how big a corporation he's running. That's probably why he's been hiding from public view. He knew someone was out to get him.”

“I'll buy that about someone being out to get him,” Chet piped up. “If you ask me, it's probably a mysterious gang of Oriental killers!”

“Such as?” Joe said.

“How do I know? Maybe that creep you spotted who was all in black could be one of them!”

“
If
we spotted him,” Frank amended. “But none of that explains how Satoya vanished.”

“Those flashes in the darkness could have blinded everyone for a second or two while you were stopped on the highway,” Aunt Gertrude pointed out. “Perhaps that was long enough for a kidnapper to drag him out of the car before you got going again.”

“What about his aide Ikeda, who was drugged?”

“Perhaps the kidnapper had a confederate who jabbed him with a hypodermic needle.”

“Hm, it's an interesting theory,” Frank said politely if a bit skeptically.

Just then a car was heard pulling into the driveway. Soon afterward Fenton Hardy strode into the house. He greeted everyone in his usual friendly fashion, but Frank and Joe could see that their father was both angry and deeply concerned over the night's events. However, his sons' report about the limousine's secret compartment made him feel somewhat better.

“What was Mr. Satoya planning to do in this country, Dad?” Frank inquired.

“Among other things, confer with officials of the Road King Motorcycle Company. There's talk of a merger between Road King and Satoya's own motorcycle division.”

“You see? What did I tell you!” Aunt Gertrude cut in triumphantly. “A move like that could easily have stirred up business enemies!”

“Quite true,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “What I'd like to lay hands on fast is the enemy in Satoya's own corporation.”

“How do you mean, Dad?” Joe queried.

The detective rose from his chair to pace the kitchen floor. “Someone tipped off the press that Satoya was coming to this country. The tip came in the form of anonymous calls to the news services and networks, and naturally, since Satoya's such a mystery man, they were all eager to get a look at him. Yet I'm absolutely sure there was no leak in my security setup!”

“Then where did the leak occur?”

“It has to be in the Satoya Corporation,” Mr. Hardy replied. “Aside from the jet plane crew and his chauffeur, the only other people who knew in advance about his visit were Kawanishi, Oyama and Ikeda—though I'll admit it's hard to believe Ikeda would deliberately have landed himself in such an unpleasant predicament.”

“So right off the bat,” Frank reflected grimly, “we have at least three important suspects!”

Next day, the Hardy boys decided to check up on Axel Gorky's story. The best way to do this seemed to be to interview Warlord. The famous dancer and his troupe were to perform at the Bayport Summer Festival and were staying at Bayshore College, which was sponsoring their appearance.

The boys arrived on campus about 10:30 in the morning and were directed to the gymnasium, where the troupe was working out. As they entered the building vestibule, a loud, angry voice reached them from the gym floor.

“Maybe we came at the wrong time,” Joe said. “Think we should go on in?”

“May as well,” Frank said wryly. “I don't see any receptionist to announce us.”

The boys had just started to walk through the doorway leading to the gym when a man came charging out, almost knocking them down in the process!

Joe was the first to recover. “Watch it, mister!” he exclaimed. “Where's the fire?”

The man, who was strongly built, with freckled skin and thinning red hair, merely snorted and brushed past the two boys without the slightest apology.

“How do you like that?” Frank muttered in a taut voice. “The big ape doesn't even have manners enough to say ‘Excuse me'!”

“I should've belted him one!” Joe fumed. “In fact maybe we ought to go after him and
demand
an apology.”

“Forget it,” Frank said, choking back his own temper. “That's not why we came.”

The Hardys went on into the gymnasium, where half a dozen dancers were going through various exercises—mostly practicing ballet movements or doing warm-up calisthenics. Two others were engaged in acrobatic flips and leaps under the critical gaze of a man with a lionlike mane of long black hair.

The boys recognized him from the festival posters as Warlord, whose real name was Yvor Killian. They caught his eye and he came over to see what they wanted.

Frank introduced himself and his brother and got an immediate smile of greeting.

“Of course! You're those famous young sleuths, the Hardy boys!” Warlord offered them each a handshake. “It's a pleasure to meet such noted manhunters! Don't tell me you're here on the trail of a new mystery?”

“Matter of fact we are,” said Frank. “It involves the disappearance of a Japanese businessman named Satoya. Maybe you heard about it on the news broadcasts this morning.”

“Indeed I did! But how can I help you?”

“For one thing,” said Joe, voicing a sudden impulse, “you can tell us who that turkey was who came barrel ing out the door just a minute ago.”

Warlord broke into a chuckle. “What happened—did he run you down?”

“He sure tried to. Call it a nasty collision. If he'd hung around for a few seconds, there might've been another collision—between one of our fists and his jaw!”

Warlord's chuckle became a hearty laugh. “Excuse me for seeing the funny side, but that sounds just like Humber. He's one of the most pompous, arrogant louts I've ever run into.”

“Who is he?” Frank inquired curiously.

“A wealthy collector.”

“Of what?”

“Exotic weapons. And not only wealthy, but spoiled rotten. He thinks whenever he wants something, everyone should rush to oblige him. In my case, what he wants is a
yataghan.
”

“What's that?” said Joe.

“A rather short Turkish saber with a double-curved blade,” Warlord explained. “As you probably know, I use various knives and swords in my dance routine, and that
yataghan
happens to be one of them—quite a fine example of its kind, I might add. Humber wants to add it to his collection, and naturally he thinks I should sell it to him immediately at any price he cares to name.”

“But you refused,” Joe deduced, “so he went storming out with a bee in his ear.”

“You've got the picture.” Warlord grinned.

Both Hardy boys were thinking that Yvor Killian was much different from what most people might have expected a dancer to look like, especially one who had anything to do with ballet. Instead of seeming dainty or girlish, he had a square-jawed, rugged-featured face and appeared to be lithe and well muscled enough to be a fast-punching lightweight boxer. His ready grin and magnetic manner also impressed the Hardys.

“Actually, the person we meant to ask you about,” said Frank, returning to the purpose of their visit, “is a man named Axel Gorky.”

“Ah, yes,” Warlord nodded. “The dealer in Oriental objets d‘art.”

“You've met him?”

“Once or twice.”

“He told us last night that he came here to Bayport to call on several customers, including yourself.”

Again Warlord nodded. “He wanted to show me an eighteenth-century Japanese
katana,
or long sword. In fact he called me about it this morning, but I told him I wasn't interested.”

“How come,” said Frank, “if I'm not too inquisitive?”

“Not at all. It just happens that I've got my heart set on another samurai sword, a really beautiful blade that I recently saw in New York. It's to be sold at auction next week at the Palmer-Glade Galleries in Manhattan, and I intend to get in the top bid!”

Frank rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Just one thing more, sir. When we spotted this fellow Gorky at the airport, he was acting like an oddball.”

The Hardys described the incident, and Frank went on, “Gorky claims he was trying to attract Mr. Satoya's attention, because he hoped Satoya might offer him a good price for the sword.”

Glancing at Warlord with a frown, the older Hardy boy added, “Does that sound plausible to you? I mean, why should Gorky assume that a businessman like Mr. Satoya would be interested in buying old samurai swords?”

“Oh yes, that strikes me as perfectly plausible,” the dancer replied. “You can take my word for it, Gorky's a smart salesman. In fact I believe Satoya was planning to bid on that very sword I just mentioned—the one at the Palmer-Glade Auction Galleries.”

“Well, I guess that clears Gorky, then,” Frank said. “Thanks for your time and help, Mr. Killian.”

“My pleasure, boys. I hope you'll come and see my troupe dance.”

“We intend to,” the Hardys replied.

“Good! Just phone in and tell the box office which performance you prefer. I'll see to it that tickets are reserved for you and your dates.”

The boys drove off in high spirits, but their bubbling enthusiasm was somewhat deflated on arriving home. Fenton Hardy was pacing the living room floor, while their slim, pretty mother sat on the edge of a sofa trying to comfort him. From their parents' faces, Frank and Joe could tell at once that unhappy news must have struck the Hardy household.

“Something wrong, Dad?” Frank ventured cautiously.