The Clue of the Broken Blade (5 page)

He drove the three boys to headquarters in a squad car. The Hardys introduced Chet to the detective chief, then were led to the crime lab. It took Frank and Joe only a few minutes to decide that the voice of the extortionist was not that of the suspect who had been arrested.

“Well, that leaves the case still open,” Copeland said ruefully. “But I'm glad to be able to free an innocent man. Thanks for your help, fellows.”

The Hardys were about to leave when a call came over the “hotshot” speaker, saying: “Attention all units in vicinity of Chinatown. Gun battle between rival gangs reported across from Fat Ching's Chinese Theater.”

“Gang war!” the chief exclaimed. “I'd better get over there.”

“May we come along?” Frank asked eagerly.

Copeland hesitated, then said, “All right, but let's get rolling!”

He and another officer jumped into a squad car. The three boys squeezed into the back and they were on their way, with siren squealing.

Soon they reached the northeast corner of the city, where San Francisco's famous Chinatown was located. Its narrow streets were crowded with restaurants, theaters, temples, and small shops selling everything from herbs to dried fish.

“There's Fat Ching's Chinese Theater,” Copeland said, pointing, as they turned into a narrow street.

At that moment a machine gun began to fire from a nearby building. Bullets blew out both front tires of the squad car!

 

 

 

THE car slewed out of control, skidded sideways through the street for about fifty yards, and halted with a jolt when its left rear side slammed into a lamppost.

Both doors on that side popped open. All five passengers dived through them and crouched behind the car for protection.

Copeland and the policeman driver drew their guns.

The building from which the shots had come was a warehouse which looked deserted, directly across the street from Fat Ching's Chinese Theater. Four figures ran from the warehouse.

They were too far away for the boys to make out their faces. All wore hats. One was tall and thin, one squat and muscular, the third was heavy-set and burly, and the fourth had broad shoulders and narrow hips. The latter two carried Thompson submachine guns.

The tall, thin man and the squat man jumped into the front seat of a black sedan parked in front of the abandoned warehouse. The burly fellow sprayed the Chinese theater across the street with another round of fire. The broad-shouldered man threw a burst of shots at the wrecked police car.

The boys and the two officers flattened themselves against the pavement as bullets ripped into the vehicle from one end to the other. Then there was the roar of a motor. Cautiously getting to their knees to peer over the hood and around both ends of the car, they saw the black sedan speeding away.

On his feet now, Detective Copeland said, “Let's see who they were shooting at in the theater.”

Gun thrust out before him, he led the way toward the building. The driver followed, his pistol ready, too. The Hardys and Chet brought up the rear.

Squad cars with sirens screaming roared to a halt from both directions as they reached the theater. Officers armed with riot guns spilled from them. Copeland ordered the team from one car to check the warehouse and to send out an alert for the black sedan. Then he sent the other team around back of the theater to cut off the escape of anyone who might still be inside.

Ordering Frank, Joe, and Chet to stay outside, the chief and his driver went into the theater. Moments later the driver came out and motioned the boys to come in.

In the lobby Copeland was bending over the figure of a small, ferret-faced man. He was bleeding from a bullet wound in his chest.

Looking up, the chief said, “Ziggy Felton, a member of the Rocky Morgan gang. He says three of his buddies were with him, but they ran out the back way.” Glancing at the driver, Copeland said, “Go call an ambulance.”

As the policeman moved away, Copeland turned back to Felton. “What was it all about, Ziggy?”

In a weak voice the little man replied, “It's a new mob from the East Coast. They've got a tape of Rocky's voice and also his voiceprint. They wanted fifty grand, or else they were going to turn both over to the cops.”

Ziggy wheezed. “We got the word they were holed up in that warehouse across the street, and Rocky decided to hit them instead of paying off. They were too tough, though. Drove us in here, then they got me'

Joe said to Frank, “Did anything seem familiar about those four men?”

Frank nodded. “Same sizes and shapes as our Bayport bank robbers. The thin man who drove the getaway car and the burly machine gunner could have been the pair who quizzed us in the restaurant in Somerville. The other machine gunner could have been the guy with the red, greasy hair. And the squat one looked like Signor Zonko!”

Under further questioning Ziggy Felton denied knowing the identities of any of the East Coast mob. However, he admitted having heard via the underworld grapevine that gangleaders in Chicago and New Orleans had also been shaken down.

By the time the ambulance arrived, the police, who had checked the warehouse, reported no one was there now. The theater building also was empty.

Copeland had one of the squad cars at the scene take him and his driver back to headquarters. En route the Hardys and Chet were dropped off at their hotel.

The following morning the three boys drove to Stockton in the rented Ford. The post office had no record of a Miguel Jimenez, but they were told by a clerk that mailman Herbert Shay would probably know him.

On a map the clerk showed them Shay's sixtyfive-mile route and pointed out a waterway. “In about an hour you should catch up with him around here,” he said. “There's a marina where you can rent a boat.”

The boys thanked him and a short time later were chugging along in a twelve-foot skiff at barely fifteen miles an hour.

Frank sat in the stern, running the fifteen-horsepower engine, Joe sat in the bow, and Chet was amidship.

“I'd prefer the
Sleuth,”
said Chet, referring to the Hardys' fast, sleek motorboat.

Joe nodded. “Especially since someone's been following us ever since we left the marina,” he said apprehensively.

The others glanced back at an eighteen-foot inboard boat about a quarter mile behind them. It was idling along at a speed no greater than theirs. Through the windshield they could see only one person, but they were too far away to make out his features.

The boys' skiff had chugged to about the center of the lakelike area, a good three hundred yards from shore, when the speedboat suddenly roared with power and came leaping after them.

Traveling at about forty miles an hour it took their pursuer less than a minute to close the quarter-mile gap. It shot past on their left only twenty feet away, then swung across their bow so close it barely missed ramming them.

The pilot was hunched low and had a peaked white yachting cap pulled down to hide his face. As he swung in front of them the yachting cap blew off, and they had a brief glimpse of red hair.

A wave caused by the speeding boat hit them simultaneously from the left side and the front. Frank made a valiant attempt to head the bow into it, but the skiff handled too sluggishly. The boat rode up the wave sideways to its crest and overturned.

The boys struggled to the surface a few yards apart just as the capsized boat sank from sight. They treaded water for a while until the waves subsided. The speedboat was rapidly disappearing in the distance.

When it was out of sight, and the water had calmed, Chet sputtered, “Now what?”

“We swim for shore,” Frank said. “But first let's take some sightings so we can find this spot again.”

Looking east toward a large island, he saw a flagpole before a row of small cottages. Glancing west, he noticed that the south edge of a boat dock on a smaller island exactly lined up with the flagpole. Then he looked north and south and fixed his position by means of trees on islands in both directions.

“Okay,” he called. “Let's head for that larger island.”

Weighted down by clothing, it was a long swim. Finally they waded ashore and walked across the sandy beach.

Suddenly Chet, who was in the lead, stopped dead in his tracks. Behind a sandy dune, stretched out on a blanket, were three girls in swimsuits. They looked up in surprise, and the brunette on the left said, “Look who's here. Neptune and two of his mermen!”

“Wow!” Chet said, a grin spreading over his face. “We sure came to the right place!”

The plump blonde in the middle laughed. “I doubt it. This is a girls' camp.” She added impishly, “Boys aren't allowed.”

“Sorry about that,” Joe said. “We're shipwrecked.”

The slender redhead on the right gave Chet a searching look through long lashes.

“I'm Chet Neptune—I mean Morton,” Chet introduced himself. “These two mermen are Frank and Joe Hardy. We're from Bayport back East.”

“Hi, there,” said the blond girl, whose name was Susie Wade. The redhead introduced herself as June Fall, and the brunette was Kay Dover.

“You look pretty sad,” Kay decided, eying the boys' dripping clothes. “Come on. The Murrays might help you out.”

“Who are they?” Frank asked.

“The camp owners.”

The girls led the way to a large building surrounded by small cottages.

“Look what we found,” June said to the tall, friendly woman inside.

Mrs. Murray shook her head in mock horror. “You find boys everywhere!” she said with a chuckle. Then she produced three pairs of swim trunks for the visitors to wear while she dried their clothing. Mr. Murray loaned them a canoe, a coil of stout rope, and a pair of pliers.

“This might help you get your boat ashore,” he said.

Frank grinned. “Thanks. We sure appreciate it.”

Frank sat in the stern of the canoe with one of the paddles, Joe scrambled amidship with the other, and Chet sat down in front. When they neared the point where the boat had sunk, Frank asked Joe to let him handle the canoe alone. He went back and forth, checking his landmarks, until all four lined up exactly.

Shipping his paddle, he said, “Okay, this is it.”

Chet rose to a crouch and dived over the bow. It was about half a minute before he came up again.

“We're right on top of it,” he sputtered. “Give me the pliers and the end of the rope.”

Joe handed him both. Chet dived again. This time he was down for a full minute. A moment after he came up, the boat, minus its motor, rose to the surface upside down. Gasping for air, Chet dropped the pliers into the canoe and hung on to its side.

Joe pulled on the rope from the other side and hauled the outboard motor up. They righted the boat and attached the motor and towed the disabled craft ashore.

“Good work, Chet,” Frank praised.

“Admit it, you'd be lost without me!” Chet began to sing. “Back to paradise...”

“Listen, Don Juan, we're here on a job,” Joe reminded him.

“Who says you can't combine work with pleasure?” Chet replied loftily.

When they reached the beach, the boys received a very pleasurable surprise. The girls had prepared a delicious picnic lunch. There were plenty of sandwiches, and a good thing too, because Chet and the plump blonde ate four each. She kept urging more food on the husky boy, obviously having picked him as her particular companion.

“They're sure suited to each other,” Joe whispered to Frank. “I'd hate to pay the grocery bill, though!”

Kay, overhearing the whispered remark, giggled.

Frank asked June if the mailman had been there yet. She told him that he stopped at the camp on his return trip and would be along about two in the afternoon.

The boys decided to wait for him there rather than trying to catch up with him on his route.

After lunch they drained the mixture of gasoline, oil, and water from the outboard's tank and cleaned the motor. Mr. Murray supplied them with fresh gas and oil.

By then their clothing was dry. When the mailman arrived, they were ready to leave. Herbert Shay was a well-built, middle-aged man. His boat was a sixteen-footer with a powerful seventy-five-horsepower outboard motor and front-seat controls.

He told the boys that old Miguel Jimenez's houseboat was moored in a secluded lagoon off Hank's Tract Lake, and described how to get there. The lake, he explained, had once been the site of numerous farms and orchards. But in 1936 the levees surrounding the area broke, flooding the tract so badly that attempts to redrain it had to be abandoned.

“The lake can get awfully rough,” he warned. “And if fog comes up, you can get lost without a compass. Do you have one?”

When the boys confessed they did not, he suggested that if there was any sign of fog when they reached the lake, they should stay near the shore instead of crossing directly to the lagoon.

Then the mailman moved on. The Bayporters thanked the girls and the Murrays for their hospitality and resumed their journey. They reached Hank's Tract Lake without incident, and, since the sun was shining, headed directly across to the shallow lagoon.

There was only one houseboat in sight, a rickety old contraption tied to a tree. They beached the motorboat and climbed out. A plank led from shore to the wobbly porch of the houseboat.

As they approached, a tiger-colored cat emerged from a nearby clump of tules, padded up the plank, and stood before a hole in the screen door. The feline paid not the slightest attention to the boys, but peered intently into the interior of the houseboat. Then it crept through the ripped screen and disappeared inside, its tail swishing.