Mystery of the Samurai Sword (6 page)

Frank was puzzled. “You mean it's been removed from sale—or already sold?”

“No,” came the reply. “Apparently you haven't heard the news.”

“What news?”

“Our building was broken into last night and the sword you just mentioned was stolen!”

Frank's eyes widened on hearing this unexpected development. He flashed his brother a startled look. “Was anything else taken?” he asked.

“Luckily, no,” replied the voice at the other end of the line. “It appears that whoever did it was interrupted before he or they could snatch anything more.”

“I see.” Frank paused a moment to consider, then said, “This may tie in with a case my brother and I are investigating. If we come to New York, could we check out the details of the break-in?”

“Of course! If you Hardys can do anything to help catch the thieves, we'll be more than happy to cooperate!”

As Frank put down the phone, Joe exclaimed, “Don't tell me the sword's been stolen?”

The older Hardy boy nodded. “You guessed it. Happened just last night.”

“Boy, that sounds like more than just a coincidence, Frank! Satoya disappears—we get a lead that he may have wanted to buy a certain rare sword—and now the sword's gone too!”

“I agree, Joe. I think the burglary's worth looking into.”

“Check. Let's head for New York first thing in the morning.”

Frank and Joe made good time on the highway, and by ten o‘clock they were parking their car in a garage just two blocks from the Palmer-Glade Auction Galleries on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.

Mr. Sanders, the gallery director, proved to be a balding, bespectacled man. He received the boys in his office and called in his security chief to help answer their questions.

“First of all, sir,” Frank began, “just how valuable was this sword?”

“We expected it to bring at least twenty-five thousand dollars at auction,” Sanders replied.

“Wow! That's a lot of money!” Joe murmured.

“True, but you must remember—Japanese swords have the finest blades ever produced, and many are exquisitely decorated. Today they're increasingly sought after by Western collectors.”

“How was the robbery discovered?” Frank asked.

“Quite by chance,” the security chief said. “A police scout car happened along about 3:00 A.M., and the officers spotted a hole in the pane of a third-floor window. We keep a guard on the premises at night, but by the time he answered their knocks and then rushed up to the third floor to investigate, the thieves had escaped.”

“You have an alarm system?” put in Joe.

“We sure do. Had the window been forced open, the alarm would have gone off. But this job was pulled by a pro—or pros. Part of the pane was cut out, using tape to keep the loose glass from falling and making any noise. Then whoever did it reached inside and disconnected the window alarm.”

Frank turned back to the gallery director. “We're investigating the disappearance of that Japanese businessman you may have heard about—Takashi Satoya, the head of the Satoya Corporation. We were told he was probably planning to buy the sword that was stolen from you last night. Can you tell us if that's true?”

Sanders frowned and toyed with a bronze paper-weight on his desk. “You must understand, our business requires us to be very discreet. Many customers will only deal with us because Palmer-Glade guarantees that no information will be given out about them and their bids or their purchases.”

“We understand, sir. All we're trying to find out is whether there may be any connection between your burglary and what happened to Mr. Satoya.”

“Let me put it this way,” the gallery director said after a brief silence. “We did receive a cabled bid from Japan.”

“Any name?” Frank pursued.

“No. Just a cable address to which we were asked to send our reply. But for various reasons, I believe the offer may have come from Satoya.”

“Mind telling us how much was bid?” Joe asked.

“Forty thousand dollars.”

Joe whistled in awe. “But you didn't accept?”

The director shrugged. “It wouldn't have been ethical. We had already advertised the sword for auction, so we could not back out.”

“Do you by any chance have a picture of the sword that we could see?” Frank queried.

“Matter of fact, I do. We had one made for our sale catalog.” Mr. Sanders plucked an eight-by-ten color print from a drawer and handed it across the desk.

The Hardys studied it closely.

“Hm, the scabbard doesn't look like much,” Joe remarked.

“Quite right,” Mr. Sanders agreed. “The sword itself is a tachi, the kind that's designed to be slung from a belt, instead of merely thrust through the wearer's sash, like the kind called a
katana.
Its blade is absolutely superb. Our expert dates it as probably of sixteenth-century workmanship by a swordsmith of Mino Province. But the scabbard is what's called
shin-gunto,
or army style, just leather-covered metal, of the kind issued to military officers beginning in 1937.”

“That's interesting,” said Frank. “How do you explain the difference between the two?”

“It's really not all that unusual. Many officers who came from good families and owned fine old samurai swords carried them on active service—but in army scabbards, instead of the original decorated mountings.” With a slight puzzled frown, the director added, “But there is one thing rather odd.”

“What's that, sir?”

“When a samurai sword was converted for military wear, the owner would usually switch to a plain military hilt as well.”

“How could he do that?” asked Joe.

“It's quite simple. The metal blade is held in the hilt by a peg which fits clear through the hilt and the tang, or handle end, of the blade. Remove the peg, and the hilt comes right off. But in this case, our expert couldn't figure out
how
to get it off.”

“Why would he want to do that, anyhow?” said Frank.

“To examine the tang—that's where the swordsmith's signature is usually inscribed. But with this one he couldn't. However, even without knowing the maker, the fine quality of the sword was readily apparent, not only from the workmanship of the blade, but also from the hilt and the
tsuba,
or hand guard. The hilt, as you can see from the picture, is inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and the
tsuba
is embellished with intricate carving and cloisonné enamel.”

“They're really beautiful,” Frank agreed, then rose from his chair. “Thank you very much, Mr. Sanders, for all the information.”

As Joe got up also, Frank turned to the security man. “I wonder if we could see the scene of the crime?”

“Sure thing.”

The Palmer-Glade Galleries occupied a four-story building which had once been a wealthy New Yorker's town house. The merchandise was divided into departments, with Oriental
objets d‘art
being grouped at the front of the third floor.

The cut windowpane had already been replaced.

“The facade of the building is quite smooth,” Joe mused thoughtfully. “How do you suppose the burglar or burglars got up to the window?”

“Good question,” the security man said wryly. “We still haven't figured out the answer.”

“I guess they wouldn't have dared to use a ladder, even that late at night,” Frank said. “How about a grappling hook and a line, to scale up the front of the building?”

“It's possible, but by heaving up the hook they would have risked making enough noise to attract the attention of the guard inside. Also, the windowsill shows no markings from a hook.”

“Could a line have been dropped from the roof?” Joe asked.

The security man shook his head. “No way. The alarm system would have detected any intruder on the roof.”

“And nothing else was taken but the sword?” Frank asked.

“As far as we can tell. I'm convinced they got scared off. At that time of night with the streets fairly quiet, they probably heard the scout car pull up, and they certainly would have heard the police pounding on the door. Also, an alarm did go off just a little later, when the guard and the cops were rushing up to the third floor to investigate.”

“How come?” said Frank.

“What triggered it was the trapdoor to the roof being opened,” the security man explained. “Apparently that's how the thieves got away—over the roofs of some adjoining buildings to the nearest fire escape.”

The Hardy boys left the gallery soon afterward, promising to pass along any leads they might uncover.

“We still don't know for sure if the gallery heist ties in with our own case,” Joe complained. “We can't even be certain Satoya did want the stolen samurai sword.”

Frank nodded. “Maybe it's high time we went right to the horse's mouth.”

Stopping at a public phone booth, he made a long-distance call back to Bayport, and managed to catch Mr. Oyama at the Bayport Chilton Hotel.

“Can you tell us if Mr. Satoya was planning to buy a certain samurai sword at the Palmer-Glade Galleries in New York?” Frank asked.

From the momentary silence that followed, and from Oyama's tone of voice when he finally replied, Frank got the impression that the Japanese was surprised by his question, and especially by the fact that the Hardys had found out about the sword.

“Yes, that is correct,” Oyama confirmed. “It may even have been the most important reason for his trip to America.”

“How so?”

“Something must certainly have caused him to make such an unusual decision—and I am not sure that business reasons alone can explain it. Perhaps you do not realize what a drastic move this was for Mr. Satoya. Even at home in Japan, among his own people, he shuns all crowds and public appearances. Yet by flying to America, he was willing to expose himself more to the public eye than ever before.”

“I understood he was coming over to discuss a business merger,” Frank said.

“Yes. That is so. There is a chance the Road King Company may combine with our own motorcycle division. But if Mr. Satoya had wished, I am sure their officials would have agreed to visit Japan and talk with us, instead of Mr. Satoya coming here. For that matter,” the aide added, “I believe Mr. Kawanishi and I could well have carried on the negotiations under Mr. Satoya's supervision.”

“If that's so,” Frank pointed out, “couldn't he have sent someone over here to buy the sword for him?”

Over the line, Frank could hear Oyama's worried sigh. “Yes, that too seems sensible. I am afraid I do not know the answer.”

Frank thanked the Japanese, then hung up and reported the conversation to his brother.

“Sure doesn't help us much,” Joe grumbled.

Frank agreed and added, “We'll just have to keep scratching for leads, that's all.”

New York's skyscraper office buildings were letting out their employees for lunch, and both streets and sidewalks were crowded. Everyone seemed in a hurry. Frank and Joe enjoyed watching the sea of faces all around them as they made their way back to the parking garage.

To avoid having their car jockeyed by careless attendants, the boys had purposely picked a garage which allowed them to park and lock up. But as Frank was about to insert the key in the lock, he let out a startled gasp.

“What's the matter?” Joe asked.

“Take a look! The window's been pried open, and the door's unlocked!”

The Hardys hastily checked for signs of theft and discovered that the glove compartment had been jim mied and its contents ransacked. But so far as they could determine, nothing had been taken. The trunk showed no signs of forcible entry.

Frank and Joe looked around angrily for the parking attendant on duty. The cashier's window was near the exit, well out of view of their car, but they saw a cigar-chewing man in coveralls coming down the next aisle.

“Hey!” Frank called out. “Did you see anyone mon keying with our car?”

“Nope. Why?”

“It's been broken into.”

The attendant hurried over. When he saw what had happened, he scowled and snapped his fingers. “So that's it! I spotted a guy snooping around here about twenty minutes ago and chased him out. He's probably the one who did this.”

“What did he look like?” Frank asked.

“Some kind of Oriental wearing shades. A tough lookin' mug, Japanese, I think.”

Frank and Joe exchanged slightly startled looks. Both felt sure that the parking attendant had correctly spotted the guilty party.

“No doubt he was our man,” Frank told the attendant.

“You want to report this to the police, or make an insurance claim? The garage is covered for any damage to a customer's car.”

The older Hardy boy shook his head. “It's not worth bothering with. The only thing damaged is the glove compartment lock, which doesn't amount to much—but you ought to be more careful about keeping out intruders.”

The attendant scowled again, somewhat sheepishly this time, and removed his cigar long enough to clear his throat. “I know, I know. We try to, but there's always creeps around, waitin' to rip off anything they can get their hands on.”

Joe was about to climb into the car when Frank said, “Wait a minute. We passed a drugstore on the corner, didn't we?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Let's go there before we take the car out. I've got an idea.”