The Crisscross Shadow (10 page)

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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

BOOK: The Crisscross Shadow
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“Going home so soon?”
“No. We're staying with the Ramapans. If any messages come here, we'll pay to have them delivered up there in care of the chief.”
“Glad to oblige you,” the clerk said.
After paying the bill, packing, and arranging for all the bags but one to be checked at the hotel, Frank decided to telephone his mother.
She herself answered. “Frank? What a relief to hear from you!”
“Anything wrong?” he wanted to know, detecting a note of agitation in Mrs. Hardy's voice.
“Yes. I was afraid those men might have been after you and Joe again. There's been another attempted burglary of our house!”
Frank grabbed at the mouthpiece. “Are you and Aunt Gertude all right? Did you see the burglar? Did he get anything?”
“We're all right,” Mrs. Hardy replied quickly. “But the burglar got away. I can't tell you whether he stole anything or not. Chief Collig is working on the case right now.
“There's more news of your father,” his mother went on.
“Is it good news?”
“Well, I don't know. Another case of sabotage,” Mrs. Hardy told him. “This time in St. Louis. A laboratory was swept by flames last night and the reports of secret experiments went up in smoke. Dad was reported on the scene.”
“Good!” Frank exclaimed. “At least the investigation's in capable hands.”
“But I'm worried, son. I tried to get in touch with your father in St. Louis through the police, but the authorities there told me he had disappeared.”
“Disappeared!” Frank repeated anxiously, then said, “Maybe he's only gone underground to track down the gang.”
“I don't know what to think, Frank,” Mrs. Hardy replied. “Just a little while ago I got a message that has me completely baffled.”
“Message from Dad?”
“Yes. And it came from California! All the telegram said was
‘Detained in California. Will wire again.'
”
“But the report of the sabotage placed Dad in St. Louis.”
“Exactly.” Mrs. Hardy sighed. “I think the wire from California is a hoax!”
“Something's fishy, that's sure,” Frank agreed. “But don't worry. I have an idea. I'll let you know when I learn something.”
“All right, dear, and give my love to Joe.”
Frank clicked the phone, then asked the operator to connect him with John Bryant in San Francisco. The man was a detective friend of Fenton Hardy and could be depended upon.
“Hello, Frank. Glad to hear from you. Great things your father's doing these days.”
“That's why I'm calling. We're worried about reports that he's in two places at once.”
Mr. Bryant chuckled. “I didn't think even a Hardy could do that.”
Frank quickly explained the mystery of his father's seemingly double appearances.
“This is my plan,” he said, speaking guardedly. “Will you check on Dad at his hotel, and then wire the result to Sam Radley at the Bayport Hospital? It's important that you send the message to Sam. One to us would probably be intercepted or tampered with. Mother's been getting some, but she thinks they may be phonies.”
Assuring Frank of his fullest cooperation, Mr. Bryant said good-by.
“I'd better warn Sam Radley to expect a message from Mr. Bryant,” Frank thought, and hurried to a writing desk.
After penning a few lines to his father's injured operative, Frank folded the paper and inserted it in an envelope which he addressed in plain block letters to disguise his handwriting. He sealed the envelope, stamped it, and deposited the letter in a mailbox at the end of the lobby.
“Nobody will dare tamper with Uncle Sam's mails,” he told himself in satisfaction.
Waving to the desk clerk, Frank walked out of the hotel with his suitcase. As he turned down the street that led to the Ramapan trail, he saw a familiar figure hurrying toward him. It was Chet Morton!
Frank ran to meet Chet, who was gasping for breath from his exertions.
“Raced most of the way,” he panted, “to tell you about—about Joe. Attacked by stranger—knocked out!” Chet heaved as he tried to regain his wind.
“Knocked out! By whom? Tell me!” Frank shook Chet in his excitement.
Sitting down on the curb, and pausing frequently to get his breath, Chet recounted Joe's experience in the woods.
“The doctor's seen him. He'll be okay. I came to town for the police.”
“Go on,” Frank urged.
Chet arose, his breathing restored. “Ted and I went to find Joe's attacker,” he said.
“Any luck?” Frank asked. He was seething at the thought of his brother's being brutally assaulted.
“We located the spot where the man attacked Joe,” Chet replied, “and searched the area. Finally we saw tracks leading to the main trail and followed them for a few yards until they were lost.”
“Did you find any other clue?” Frank asked, disappointed that they had not caught Joe's assailant.
Chet grinned in satisfaction. “We found this.”
Digging inside his jacket, he produced a package wrapped in cloth.
“What is it?” Frank asked, puzzled.
Chet unwrapped the cloth. “A piece of the stick used on Joe!”
“Good work, Chet!” Frank cried.
Carefully he examined the piece. One end was splintered, showing that it had been broken by a violent blow.
“You're taking this to the police?” he asked.
“Sure. For fingerprints!”
The boys went at once. Frank gave the desk sergeant their names and asked for the chief. The visitors were ushered into his office.
“Frank Hardy, eh?” he greeted them. He was a short, plump man, who gave the boys a warm smile and told them to call him Mike. “Any relation to Fenton Hardy, the famous detective?”
“His son. My brother's at the Ramapan village.”
“Well, well,” the officer said. “What brings you boys up to this neck of the woods? Some mystery?”
Quickly Frank explained their mission to find a thief named Breck. When he told the officer what had happened to Joe, the police chief looked grave.
“Any clues?” he asked.
Chet produced the stick and told about finding it near the spot where Joe had been attacked.
“I thought the fellow's fingerprints might be on it,” he added hopefully.
“It won't take long to find out,” Mike replied, then carried the piece of wood into a back room.
While he was gone, the boys talked over the various aspects of the mystery, and Frank whispered the latest news about his father.
“Good night!” Chet exclaimed.
A short while later the officer returned, a satisfied look on his face. In one hand he carried a Manila folder.
“Well, Chet,” he said, “you hit the jackpot. We found a jailbird's fingerprints on this stick!”
A broad grin broke over the boy's face. Frank congratulated him.
“Whose prints are they?” he asked.
Mike opened the folder and took out some papers. “Fellow by the name of Smirkis,” he told them. “About forty years old. Small-time crook. Got a year for robbery some months back. He was released a short time ago for good behavior. Lives right here in town.”
“Smirkis, eh?” Frank mused. “I wonder if he's connected with the gang we're after.”
“I couldn't say. He wasn't too bad a fellow, but he may have met someone in prison who put ideas in his head,” Mike said.
“Where does he live?” Frank asked.
“We just checked with the landlady of his rooming house, but she said he hasn't been home in a couple of days. I've sent out an alarm for him.
“We'll need your brother to identify Smirkis as the assailant when we catch up with him. Meanwhile, take care of yourselves,” Mike warned.
The boys thanked him, ate a light lunch, and then headed back to the Indian village. Frank was anxious to see Joe and was glad to find him feeling better.
Next day, while Joe was recuperating, he discussed the clue to the missing papers and the jeweled dagger with Frank, Chet, and Ted. Chief Whitestone had gone to Lantern Junction on business.
“ ‘Buried where a crisscross shadow is cast in the light of the hunter's moon,' ” Chet mulled over the chief's statement. “Wonder what made the crisscross shadow.”
He and Joe made several suggestions that were immediately discounted by Ted because they did not jibe with the legend.
“The story goes this way. ‘And the chief buried the dagger of the many bright eyes and the papers of the paleface writing while at his hunter's dwelling in the early moonrise.' ”
“Hunter's dwelling!” Frank cried. “I have it!”
CHAPTER XIII
The Hunter's Moon
“WHAT?” Joe, Chet, and Ted chorused in surprise.
“A hunter's dwelling,” Frank explained, “could be a teepee. The crisscross shadow was made by the poles!”
“Of course!” Ted exclaimed. “Why didn't we Ramapans think of that?”
“And the hunter's moon is in October, isn't it?” Chet asked.
“Yes, it's the full moon of October and it rises early just like the legend says,” Ted answered. “In October the angle the moon makes with the earth is very slight, so it rises as the full moon very soon after sunset.”
“We're going into the hunter's moon right now,” Frank said. “That's what your father meant, Ted, when he urged us to solve the mystery soon!”
“Yes.”
“First thing to do,” Frank went on, “is to find out where the chief's teepee stood when he buried the treasure. Have you any idea where that was?” he asked Ted.
“It was near where the tribe used to hold its ceremonials,” Ted replied. “The records say that the ceremonial rock was located where a stream, forked like a serpent's tongue, cuts through the warrior's place of honor.”
“What does that mean?” Chet questioned.
“Long ago, returning warriors were honored for a whole day by feasting and—”
“Sounds good.” The stout boy beamed. “They probably had roast moose and—”
“Let's get going,” Frank interrupted.
Ted led the way to the area where the old ceremonials had been held. He said that it had not been used in his lifetime.
“Then we're going to have a hard job locating the rock in this overgrown tangle,” Joe remarked, looking around.
He had insisted upon going along but the others made him sit on the side lines and not exert himself. Disgusted, Joe sat down on a log which had fallen across what once had been the fork in the stream mentioned in the legend.
“Looks as if we're stumped,” he said ten minutes later when the boys found no evidence of a large flat rock.
Frank, who had squatted down near him and was staring in the direction of the main stream, suddenly gave a shout.
“There it is, fellows!”
He ran toward a little mound of silt and moss that they had overlooked in their search. Digging excitedly for a few seconds, and scraping away the incrustation of many years, he exposed a huge, flat rock to the light.
“And now to find out where the chief's teepee stood,” Joe said.
“It's beyond me,” Chet commented, and wearily sat down on the rock.
“Paleface boy want to know where old chief's teepee stood?” a voice behind him said.
Chet jumped in surprise and whirled to look at an elderly Indian wearing a leather shirt and leggings.
“Hello, Long Heart,” Ted greeted the old man.
The boys had seen him around the village, dressed in the outmoded costume of the Ramapans. Ted introduced him as the oldest member of the tribe.
“He's always telling us stories of the old days,” Ted said, smiling.
“We do want to know where the old chief's teepee stood,” Frank said. “Can you help us?”
“My memory not so good—for I am many moons old,” Long Heart answered. “But maybe remember where teepee of great brave stood.”
With that, he started walking back and forth, muttering to himself. Finally he stopped two hundred feet from the ceremonial rock.
“Here,” he said with finality. “Here teepee of chief. Why paleface want know this?” he asked Ted suspiciously.
After the boy told him the palefaces were trying to find the lost deed in order to save the tribe's land, the old brave's eyes lighted up.
“Me help,” he said simply. “You build teepee with pole fifteen feet long. Me come tonight at rise of moon.” Saying no more, he turned his back and went toward the village.
“How do you build a Ramapan teepee?” Chet asked. “Is it any different from the ones we made at camp?”
“Probably not.” Ted grinned. “I guess you palefaces learned how from us Indians.”
Nevertheless, he instructed them as they began their work. They cut down six saplings fifteen feet long and tied them together three feet from the top. Then they raised the poles and spread the legs to form a firm base, pressing them into the ground.
The next step was to lash short, flexible saplings horizontally across the slanting poles. After that, they fastened sections of birch and hemlock bark over them with tough vines and trailing roots. Short poles were used to cover the bark to keep it from curling.
Finally they cut a smoke hole at the top and another for an entrance. The boys stood back proudly to view their work.
“Pretty swell,” Chet remarked. “Now if that old moon'll just come out, we'll find that deed for your dad in no time, Ted,” he boasted.

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