The Sign of the Crooked Arrow

Table of Contents

 

 

WITH only the slender clue of an arrow-shaped tie clasp, Frank and Joe Hardy pick up the trail of a cunning gang of thieves responsible for a wave of jewelry-store holdups.

But their investigations are interrupted when a desperate plea for help comes from their widowed cousin who lives on a cattle ranch in New Mexico. Frank, Joe, and their pal Chet Morton fly there immediately. The mysterious disappearance of one cowboy after another has given Crowhead Ranch the reputation of being jinxed, and it is quickly being stampeded toward financial ruin.

The young detectives face grave danger before they uncover a cleverly conceived plot engineered by the crooked arrow gang. In a dramatic climax Frank, Joe, and Chet aid law-enforcement officers in smashing the highly organized band of criminals, putting an end both to the troubles at Crowhead Ranch and the jewelry-store robberies.

Copyright © 1976, 1970, 1949 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A. THE HARDY BOYS
^®
is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07642-2

THE Hardy boys' convertible, heading for the open country, whizzed past a road sign inscribed
Bayport City Limits.

Dark-haired, eighteen-year-old Frank fingered the wheel lightly. Joe, who was blond and a year younger than Frank, sat beside him.

“What's all this business about somebody forgetting a car?” Joe asked.

“A man and his wife left it at Slow Mo's garage in Pleasantville two weeks ago and never called for it,” Frank replied.

The boys' father, Detective Fenton Hardy, had given Frank the details of the case and suggested that his sons follow it up. The garage proprietor had appealed to Mr. Hardy to find the owner of the car.

“Why didn't Slow Mo contact the license bureau?” Joe put in.

“Dad asked him that. Slow Mo says when he went to look at the plates, they were gone!”

“Who took them off?”

“That's what we're supposed to find out,” Frank said.

Half an hour later he pulled up in front of a rickety building in the sleepy town of Pleasantville.

“That must be Slow Mo,” Joe observed as a gray-haired man in overalls shuffled toward them.

“Hello,” he greeted them. “What can I do for you?”

When he learned who they were, he asked in surprise, “Where's your dad?”

“He's busy on another case,” Joe replied. “He sent us to help you.”

The old man frowned. “I sure was countin' on him. He's the best detective in this part of the country.”

“You're right there,” agreed Frank. “But I think Joe and I can make a start on solving the mystery. We often work with Dad on cases.”

The boys' sleuthing career had begun with finding the solution to The Tower Treasure mystery.

Since then, their detective work had taken them all over the country and abroad as well. Recently they had uncovered
The Secret of Skull Mountain
and discovered the reason for the mysterious water shortage in town.

Slow Mo, who had been dubbed “Slow Motion” in his youth, rubbed his whiskers with a grimy finger. “Well, I dunno,” he said. “But come into my office and I'll tell you what happened, anyway.”

“What do the police think?” Frank inquired.

“Didn't ask them,” Slow Mo replied. “Jake, the chief, is my brother-in-law. We don't get on, and I don't want to bother with him. That's why I called your dad.”

The old man crossed the floor of the garage and entered a small room. It was stacked high with empty oil cans and old tires. A faded calendar, dating back three years, hung on the wall.

Joe grinned. “Don't you have one for this year?” he asked.

Slow Mo smiled sheepishly. “Never thought of that,” he said and pointed to a couple of rickety chairs. “Sit down there.”

The boys listened as he unfolded his story, most of which they already knew. At one point Joe interrupted to ask for a description of the couple who had left the car.

Slow Mo looked blank. “Why, they were kind of ordinary-looking folks, middle-aged, dressed like regular people—”

“Do you know where they went afterward?”

“Took a train. The station's right over there,” the garageman replied. “Pleasantville's the terminal for one of the railroads,” he added proudly.

“What's the engine number of the car?” Frank asked.

“I dunno,” Slow Mo answered. “Guess I should've looked. Never thought of that.”

At Joe's request, he led the Hardys to the rear of the garage, where a black sedan stood in a corner.

Frank threw up the hood and glanced at the engine.

“Got a flashlight?” he asked Mo.

When the proprietor handed him one, Frank scanned the motor.

“Just as I thought!” he announced. “The engine number has been filed off!”

Joe opened the door and looked for the serial number. It was missing, too.

“Why would anybody do that?” Slow Mo asked, running his fingers through his gray crew cut.

“To conceal the identity of the car,” Frank explained. “This,” he added, “is a case for the local police, whether you like it or not.”

Slow Mo put in the call and soon afterward a short, heavy-set man puffed into the garage.

“Hello, Jake,” Slow Mo said. “These are the Hardy boys. Sons of Fenton Hardy the detective.”

“What have they done?” Jake asked. “Want 'em arrested?”

“No,” Frank said, laughing. “We'd like you to arrest the person who filed the number off the engine of this car.” He pointed to the sedan.

“Besides, the guy that left it here owes me two weeks' rent,” put in Slow Mo.

A determined look spread over the police chief's face. “I'll arrest him, all right. Where is he?”

“That's what we'd like to find out,” Frank told him. “Slow Mo said he left here two weeks ago.”

“Got rather a head start, didn't he?” Jake declared. He examined the car inside and out, but found nothing.

Then he took a fingerprint kit from his car and went to work on the sedan's steering wheel and dashboard.

“Most of them are smudged,” he remarked. “But we'll see what we can do.” He turned to Mo. “Let us know right away if somebody should claim the car, will you?” Then he said good-by and left.

Frank spoke up. “Suppose Joe and I look for some clues.”

“Sure. Go ahead,” the garage owner said.

Frank examined the car's upholstery, while his brother removed the mats from the floor. Then Joe opened the glove compartment. It was empty except for a narrow leather strap worn at one end. A barely discernible design had been worked into the leather.

“Looks like part of an old strap from a wrist watch,” he commented, showing it to Frank. “Wonder why anyone would save it ”

“It may be a valuable clue,” Frank said, continuing his own search. He pulled out the back seat and ran his hand behind the upholstery. His only reward was a hairpin and a dime. Then suddenly his fingers touched a hard object. Tugging carefully, he pulled out a piece of jewelry.

“A tie clasp,” Frank announced, holding up the object.

“It's an arrow, but it's crooked,” Joe observed.

Slow Mo peered closely at the slightly S-shaped arrow clasp. “Probably got bent,” he said.

“I don't think so,” Frank replied. “Looks to me as if it had been made that way.”

Pocketing the piece of strap and tie clasp, the Hardys said good-by to Slow Mo and got into their car. Just as Joe was about to start the engine, a man turned in from the road and walked into the garage.

“I wonder who that guy is,” Joe asked. The stranger had broad shoulders, bushy black eyebrows, and a large nose. “Looks like a prize fighter.”

The boys waited a moment. Then they heard the men's voices from inside, arguing loudly.

“We'd better see what's going on,” Frank said. “Sounds as if Slow Mo's in trouble!”

They got out of their car and dashed inside. The stranger was snarling at Slow Mo.

“All right, I didn't leave it! And I don't care if the license plates
are
gone. I'm taking that car!”

With that he gave Slow Mo a wallop. The elderly garage owner staggered backward and fell. His head struck the side of a door with a resounding crack and he sprawled unconscious.