The Clue of the Broken Blade (2 page)

Frank and Joe looked at each other. Their father had been out of town for two weeks. As a famous private investigator Fenton Hardy had many enemies, and this would not be the first time someone had used a ruse to get into their expensive lab and damage it.

Joe asked, “What's in that crate?”

The man who had spoken shrugged. He and his colleague dragged the crate off the truck and began to carry it up the stairs. It looked as though it weighed well over a hundred pounds.

“Wait a minute!” Joe said, following them.

Frank ran after Joe. The men continued on, paying no attention to them. Then, halfway up, one of them missed a step.

The heavy crate teetered dangerously toward Joe!

 

 

 

JOE grabbed the man about the waist to steady him. At the same time Frank reached past his brother to catch a corner of the crate and keep it from falling. After a heart-stopping moment, the man recovered his footing.

From below a voice called up, “Careful there. That equipment's quite expensive!”

They all looked down. A taxicab was backing out of the driveway and Fenton Hardy, a suitcase in one hand and a small package in the other, stood at the bottom of the stairway.

Frank ran down. In a tone of relief he said, “Are we glad to see you, Dad! We didn't know if these deliverymen were on the level or not.”

“They're only carrying out my instructions,” Mr. Hardy replied. “I'll be back as soon as I take my suitcase inside. Meantime you can uncrate my new acquisition. But be careful. It's delicate.”

By the time Fenton Hardy returned to the lab, the deliverymen had left in their truck and the boys had uncrated the object.

“This is a complicated piece of equipment,” Joe remarked as they set it gently on the floor.

Four dials were on the front panel. Three were labeled
Monitor Level, Scan Playback Level,
and
Recording Level.
The fourth could be turned to any of three stops, which were marked
Mark Amp, Scan Plbk,
and
Rec Amp.
There were also four plug-in holes—
Scan Output, Line In, External Speaker,
and
Microphone Input.

Joe wondered whether it was a special radio or a secret decoder.

“Neither,” said Frank. “Look here.” He pointed to a small, round speaker, a meter with a needle pointer, a pair of tape-recording spools, three rows of push buttons, and a drumlike contraption with heavy white paper rolled onto it.

Mr. Hardy came in, still carrying the small package.

“What is it, Dad?” Joe asked. “Some new outer-space device?”

His father set down the package and gave the machine a fond pat. “It's a sound spectrograph,” he said. “The latest gadget to combat the world of crime.”

“What does it do?” Frank wanted to know.

“It converts voices into picture patterns,” Mr. Hardy explained, “and records them on that roll of paper in the form of graphs. It is based on the fact that no two persons have identical vocal cavities. That is what gives each person's voice its distinctive tone.”

Joe said, “Couldn't a criminal beat it just by disguising his voice?”

Mr. Hardy shook his head. “The spectrograph can't be fooled. Experiments have been conducted with the best voice imitators in show business, and the device always instantly identifies them.”

“What do you intend to use it for?” Frank asked.

Mr. Hardy opened the package. It contained several reels of sound tape. “I have collected recordings of the voices of top criminals in the country, and plan to make spectrograms of all of them and keep them on file. Just like fingerprint files are kept.”

“Don't the various police departments have records like this?” Frank asked.

“Some do, with great success. In cases of kidnapping, for instance, the kidnapper's voice can be taped when he phones a ransom demand, and then be checked against the file.”

“Say, that's great!” Joe exclaimed. “Will you show us how to use it?”

“I insist,” Mr. Hardy said with a smile. The detective had tutored his sons in anti-crime technology ever since they had shown an interest in the subject. Fenton Hardy, his skills honed to a fine edge in the New York Police Department, had gained renown as a super sleuth. He left the force to set up a private practice, and when Frank and Joe grew old enough, they assisted him. Their first case was known as
The Tower Treasure,
and their latest success was called the
Mystery of the Flying Express.

Both boys were eager to learn more about the sound spectrograph.

“Let's start right away!” Joe said.

“Take it easy,” Mr. Hardy replied. “It's quite complicated. The manufacturer conducts a two-week training course in New Jersey. I'll phone to Somerville in the morning and arrange for you to attend.”

Frank and Joe were enthusiastic.

“Incidentally,” their father added, “by the time you come back from Voiceprint School, your mother and I won't be here.”

“New case?” Frank asked.

“No. Just a plain old vacation. Don't you think we deserve one?”

Frank grinned. “Where are you going, Dad?”

“Grand Canyon. Aunt Gertrude will be here, however; so the house won't be empty when you return.”

“Oh, don't worry about us, Dad. And have a good time,” Joe said.

The Voiceprint Identification Course, as it was officially called, began the following Monday. The boys arrived in Somerville on Sunday evening and registered at a motel next to the school.

When they reported to their first class at the Voiceprint Laboratories early the next morning, they learned that the course involved seventy hours of classroom lectures and laboratory work, plus twenty hours of homework.

“Looks as if we won't have much spare time,” Joe said during lunch.

Frank nodded. “My head's spinning already with all the new info. They really cram it into your skull!”

The boys spent the next few days either in class or in the lab, and did not relax until evening when they had dinner in the motel's restaurant.

On Thursday night they called their father. He told them that he had completed the voiceprint records and stored them with the tapes in the Bayport Bank and Trust Company for safekeeping.

“That was a good idea,” Frank said. “Especially since you won't be home for a while.” He told his father of their progress, wished him a good trip, and hung up.

“Okay, let's get some chow,” Joe suggested.

They had just settled themselves for dinner in the dining room, when two men entered and took a table next to their booth. One was tall, thin, and had a sad face, the other was burly with a swarthy complexion.

At the same time the boys heard someone slide into the booth next to theirs on the other side of the dividing partition.

After the waitress had taken their orders, the burly man smiled at Frank and said, “Evening, boys.”

They politely returned the greeting.

“We've noticed you in here before,” the man continued. “Are you staying at the motel?”

“Yes, sir,” Joe said. “We're taking the Voiceprint Identification Course next door.”

“Oh?” the man said. “I thought that was only for people in police work. Aren't you a little young for that?”

“Well, our Dad...” Joe started to reply when Frank kicked him under the table.

To Joe's relief the waitress interrupted the conversation by bringing the food. They all ate in silence for a few minutes.

Then the burly man said, “I'll bet those machines are quite expensive.”

“Nearly fifteen thousand dollars,” Frank said.

The thin man asked, “Can anyone buy them?”

Frank and Joe looked at each other. Were they being pumped? Had the two men followed them into the restaurant on purpose?

Even though he was suspicious, Frank decided there would be no harm in answering the thin man's question. He said, “The machines are sold chiefly to law-enforcement agencies and government offices. But a few have been purchased by private individuals. People who apply for machines are thoroughly investigated, however. If they are found to have any criminal connections, they're turned down.”

The strangers asked no more questions. They finished eating before the Hardys, gave them polite good-bys, and left.

Frank said, “I think they were fishing for information, don't you?”

“Yes,” Joe said. “But I wonder why. Do you think they are some kind of criminals?”

“I'm pretty sure of it. Did you see how they looked at each other when I told them anyone who wanted to buy a spectrograph was investigated? In the morning we had better warn the people at the Voiceprint Lab to take extra precautions against burglary.”

“But why would criminals want a sound spectrograph?” Joe asked.

Frank shrugged. “I don't know. Anyway, it's a good thing you didn't spill the beans about Dad's project.”

“Right,” Joe said. “First time I've ever been thankful for a kick in the ankle.”

They discussed Mr. Hardy's catalog system. “I'm glad he put it in the Bayport Bank and Trust Company,” Frank said.

Just then they heard the sound of someone leaving the booth on the other side of the partition. Suddenly realizing that whoever had been there had heard their conversation, the boys rose and peered over the top.

They could only see the man's back as he went out the door. He was broad-shouldered and thin-hipped, and wore a dark-blue suit. A black Homburg was perched on the back of his head.

As the Hardys sank back into their seats, Frank said, “I hope he wasn't a crook, too. We sure gave him an earful.”

The boys were in bed by ten that night, but at three o'clock in the morning Joe suddenly sat up. He shook Frank and whispered, “Hey! I think I just heard a truck pull in behind the lab next door!”

Frank got up at once and put his trousers on over his pajamas. In less than a minute both boys were dressed and out of the motel room. Silently they moved toward the back of the Voiceprint Laboratories.

As they reached the corner of the building, they saw the outline of a truck. Even though it was a moonless night they could make out the figure of a man sneaking into the back entrance.

“Come on,” Joe whispered. “Let's get him.”

“Not yet.”

“Why?”

“We don't know how many are inside. If there's a half dozen of them, they'll clobber us.”

“Then I'll go for the police.”

Frank put a hand on his brother's arm. “Look, they're coming out.”

One man emerged slowly, walking out backwards and straining under a heavy load. Then a second figure came into sight. Between them they hefted a large crate.

“Hurry,” one of them said hoarsely. “The wood's cutting into my fingers!”

“Shut up,” came the reply. “What about me? My back's breaking!”

Frank whispered, “On your mark, Joel”

 

 

 

THE men set the crate down, apparently to rest before lifting it onto the truck. As they stooped to pick it up again, Frank signaled Joe and the two moved forward.

“What are you doing here?” Frank called out.

The men dropped the crate and whirled. One swung a fist at Frank. The other leaped toward Joe.

Ducking, Frank drove a left, then a right into his attacker's stomach. The man doubled over with a gasp and his hat fell to the ground.

Meantime Joe and the other man were standing toe to toe, trading blows. In the darkness they could not see each other's faces. The man grunted when Joe landed a hard blow on his chest. But then he caught Joe in the middle of the forehead and knocked him down.

Frank was ready to finish off his man when he saw Joe fall. He turned to attack Joe's opponent, whereupon his adversary hit him from behind with a rabbit punch, driving Frank to his hands and knees.

“Let's get out of here!” the thug shouted.

Though dazed, Frank was aware of both truck doors being slammed shut. Then his head cleared and he looked up just as the vehicle started to pull away. The driver switched on his lights. This illuminated the rear license plate—New Jersey, FHB-548. Frank memorized it.

As he scrambled to his feet, Joe also got up. “Are you all right?” his brother asked.

“Okay,” Frank mumbled. “How about you?”

“I'll live,” Joe said, fingering a growing lump on his forehead.

Frank went over to look at the crate the thieves had left behind. Its label showed that it contained a sound spectrograph of the same model owned by their father.

Joe whistled. “Hey, one of those guys left his hat,” he said, picking it up.

“Bring it along,” Frank said. “We'll go back to the motel and call the police.”

When they returned to their room, Joe exclaimed, “This is the same kind of hat as the one the man was wearing in the restaurant tonight!”

Frank took the black Homburg. He examined the inside. He lifted out a hair and studied it closely. It was thick, red, and rather greasy. Taking an envelope from the writing desk, he placed the hair inside and slipped the envelope into his pocket.

“We'll save that for the police,” he said, picking up the phone.

While Frank was calling, Joe examined the hat further. From inside the band he pulled out a folded newspaper clipping.