While the Clock Ticked (12 page)

Sid Bowler put in with disgust, “That’s when Black was supposed to sneak in and get the rest. But he chickened out, so Jensen went back and got it just before you guys brought Applegate home. Black was supposed to meet us at the docks, but never showed. We had your blue-and-white boat ready to take him upriver to the Purdy place.”

Joe nodded. “And you met Jensen out there. He had the jade and you had the other loot.”

“Yeah.”

“Whose idea was it to start using privately owned boats?” Chief Collig asked the prisoners.

“Jensen’s,” Vance replied. “Soon as the cops started patrolling the roads, he had us ‘borrow’
different boats so we couldn’t be identified and the owners would be suspected.” The thief shook his head. “Things were getting hot, with the cops and these Hardy pests here. When we heard ‘em in the cellar tonight we thought for sure it was a raid.”

On Chief Collig’s orders, Bowler and Vance were led back to their cells. Then the officer turned to the boys and grinned. “Bring me up to date. How’d you unearth all this about Jensen?”

While the chief and other officers listened in astonishment, the Hardys poured out the story of the hidden garage and private detective Sam Allen. Frank handed over the ignition key.

“This practically wraps up the case!” declared Chief Collig enthusiastically. Rapidly he issued orders to one of his captains:

“Take every man available. Wait till daylight, and then search the house and grounds with a fine-tooth comb for Jensen and Black and the loot! Bring in the black Meteor when you come back.

“But in case those two thieves have already skipped town,” the chief turned to another officer, “I want a dragnet out beyond Bayport. Contact the county sheriff patrols and state police. We’ll send out an interstate alarm for these men.”

After the policemen had hurried off to carry out orders, Frank, Joe, and Chet were left alone with their old friend.

“You boys have done a job Fenton Hardy will be proud of,” Chief Collig told them. “Go home and get a good night’s sleep. By tomorrow we’ll have this case wrapped up. Check with me tomorrow afternoon.”

The chief then proposed assigning a twenty-four-hour police guard at the Purdy place. The Hardys felt that this might hamper them in solving Mr. Dalrymple’s mystery.

“It may keep the crooks from returning,” Frank said quietly.

“True. I’ll let the place appear to be deserted,” Collig agreed. As the friends drove home through the quiet streets of the sleeping city, both Frank and Joe expressed misgivings.

“I don’t know,” said Frank, troubled. “Jensen and Black are still on the loose. And we don’t know where the jade is.”

“Also,” Joe reminded him, “the notes threatening Mr. Dalrymple haven’t been explained, or that weird scream we heard from the Purdy house the first night we went there.”

“Yes,” mused Joe. “I have a feeling this case is a long way from closed.”

“Some sleep will help,” grumbled Chet, yawning.

Early the next morning Frank telephoned to Mr. Dalrymple’s home in Lakeside. He wanted to report the previous night’s events at the old house, and also let him know about the cellar key.
Receiving no answer, he called their client’s bank.

“Sorry, sir. Mr. Dalrymple hasn’t come in this morning. No one here knows where he is.”

All morning the two brothers remained at home, calling Lakeside at intervals. Shortly after lunch they drove down to police headquarters.

There they found Chief Collig weary from lack of sleep, and much less optimistic than he had been the previous night. He said Black had been picked up in a motel in another town. He was being brought to Bayport.

“We went over every inch of the Purdy place,” the chief complained. “Got the Meteor, but not a trace of Jensen, nor of the loot, either. The gang must have it hidden some place else. As for Jensen, we can only hope our dragnet will work.”

After the brothers left headquarters, Frank stepped into a public telephone booth to make another call to Dalrymple’s home. No answer. Then he tried the bank again. An assistant reported:

“Sorry, sir. Nobody has heard from him yet.”

“I don’t like it,” Frank told his brother with a frown. “We’d better get over to Lakeside.”

By late afternoon the Hardys’ yellow convertible was parked in front of the banker’s residence in the nearby city. But their knocks and calls went unanswered. All the doors were locked.

“We’d better get the police,” Frank said gravely, as he and Joe drove off.

Half an hour later the young detectives returned with a squad of policemen. “We suspect something’s happened to Mr. Dalrymple,” Frank told the sergeant in charge. “You’d better search the place.”

Two big policemen quickly forced the door. The handsome rooms of the house were in perfect order. There was no sign of Mr. Dalrymple.

The police sergeant promised to notify the boys of any new developments, then he and his men left. The Hardys somberly climbed into their own car. As they drove off, Frank confessed his worst fears. “I’m afraid Mr. Dalrymple’s been decoyed to the Purdy place, and is in danger. We’d better head for there.”

By now it was early evening. The Hardys’ car raced through the countryside. Storm clouds were piling up in the west. Suddenly, without warning, the car’s engine coughed and died.

In disgust, the Hardys got out and pushed the convertible to the side of the road. When a quick examination failed to locate the trouble, Frank said, “We can’t wait. We’ll have to walk.”

Dusk came on rapidly, as the two boys hurried along the highway. An hour’s hike brought them to the Willow Road turnoff. Finally they reached the darkened Purdy mansion. No police stopped them, nor were any in sight. Frank and Joe went to the cellar entrance.

“Lucky we have this key, anyhow,” said Frank.

Thunder rumbled in the black sky above as he unlocked the bulkhead. To their surprise, the brothers found the door to the kitchen unlocked. They opened it and tiptoed inside.

As the Hardys moved forward in the darkness into the living room, they were suddenly seized and thrown to the floor by someone of enormous strength. Though weary from their long walk, the boys fought back, but were overpowered by blows on the head. Frank, semiconscious, was dragged across the floor, shoved into a chair, and bound to it. A piece of cloth was tied tightly over his mouth. Then the sounds of struggling near him ceased. Joe too had been over-powered. There was silence, broken by a single repetitious:

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

There was something ominous about the steady, measured sound. Frank, still half dazed, wondered if his brother was in the same room, or had been taken to another part of the house.

Suddenly Frank became aware of stealthy footsteps approaching and heavy breathing. The boy felt the hairs on his scalp stiffen as he sensed the presence of someone next to his chair.

Was the person the boys’ attacker? Frank seethed with chagrin at being unable to defend himself. He tensed, expecting the worst.

CHAPTER XVII

F
RANK
H
ARDY’S
spine tingled as he waited for the unknown person’s first move. Then from the darkness came a gloating voice.

“So, we have trapped the young snoopers! How fortunate that we were ready for your arrival!”

Suddenly a low light was turned on, illuminating the living room. In a flash, Frank took in the whole scene. The old draperies had been drawn shut.

There was the immense grandfather’s clock in the corner. Nearby was his brother Joe, tightly lashed, like himself, to an old-fashioned high-backed chair. Confronting both boys was a tall, rather heavy-set man wearing glasses.

The brothers recognized him instantly—the person who resembled Mr. Dalrymple. He introduced
himself as Arthur Jensen, ringleader of the harbor thieves!

“He must be the one who clobbered us when we came in,” Joe told himself. “The sneak!”

Now the man looked from one of his captives to the other. “Surprised you, didn’t I? Ha! That’ll teach you to meddle in other people’s business!”

Joe felt a sudden surge of anger. “Business!” he exclaimed to himself. “If we ever get out of this mess, I’ll show him!”

Meanwhile, Jensen went on triumphantly, “Yes, my young sleuths, we have many more surprises for you this evening. Your friend Dalrymple will be surprised, too. And, I might add, my resemblance to him has come in very handy.”

He gazed at the brothers mockingly. “You Hardys thought you were so bright. Yet you never dreamed that every time you and the police came in here, we were watching you.”

Although Frank and Joe gave no visible indication of fear, both realized that they were at the mercy of a clever, unscrupulous gangster. In spite of their predicament, however, the boys wondered who else had been “watching” them with Jensen, and from what point in the house.

Just then there came a squeaky noise from the direction of the clock. Jensen whirled around.

“Oh, Amos!” he called. “Come on out. We have visitors.”

While Frank and Joe stared in utter amazement,
the huge clock and the wall section behind it began sliding to one side.

“Why,” Frank gave an inward gasp, “it’s a door, hidden by the clock attached to it!”

In another moment there emerged from the opening a gaunt, white-haired old man. He was clean shaven, and had kind blue eyes. He started forward, then stopped upon noticing the two boys.

“Mr. Jensen,” he said uncertainly, “these young men—visitors? But why are they bound up in this fashion?”

Frank and Joe exchanged puzzled glances. Was this gentle-mannered, elderly man connected with Jensen’s racket? Somehow, he did not seem the type, they thought.

“You’ll understand in due time, Amos,” the gangster leader said with a sneer. Then, noticing the Hardys’ curious looks at the old man, Jensen added with mock courtesy, “Oh, excuse me. You haven’t been introduced. This, boys, is Mr. Amos Wandy, an inventor. Very clever, too. Amos, these young men are the Hardy brothers.”

Mr. Wandy nodded slowly. “Yes, I remember having seen them here. You said they were out to wreck your project. But really, they seem like harmless lads. I don’t think—”

“Never mind what you think!” Jensen told the old inventor in a ruthless tone. “Have you finished your job?”

“Yes, yes, I have.” Amos Wandy looked at Jensen with a perplexed expression. “It’s finished. No need to get excited.”

“Who’s excited!” snapped Jensen. “Bring that gadget out here!”

Mr. Wandy hastened through the opened wall section. Arthur Jensen turned to the Hardys. “One of the surprises I mentioned,” he told them with a leer. “Even you didn’t figure there might be
two
secret rooms here, did you? Or that I was sitting behind the clock while you or the police snooped around. Only this morning I waited in there, while half the Bayport force inspected the place.”

Silently Frank berated himself. “Why didn’t I think there might be a hiding place behind that clock! Especially after those threatening notes to Mr. Dalrymple.”

In the meantime, Joe was trying to make sense of what was taking place. Was Arthur Jensen the one who had sent the threatening notes to Dalrymple? And was Wandy in league with him? Joe could not imagine the elderly inventor causing anyone harm.

At that moment Amos Wandy reappeared, gingerly carrying a heavy object that looked like a black box, except that it had a number of electrical terminals on one side.

“Ah, good!” declared Jensen, rubbing his
hands. “Know what this is?” he asked the Hardys, pointing to the black box.

Frank and Joe realized at once what the object was.
A time bomb
! The brothers felt a mounting apprehension.

“I see you
are
familiar with this type of apparatus,” Jensen went on, chuckling. “Well, old Amos here knows all about bombs, too, don’t you, Amos?”

The old man answered readily, “Yes, I told you that, Mr. Jensen. In the course of my work with electronically activated devices, I naturally—”

“Cut the fancy talk,” the other man broke in roughly. “All I care about is whether that bomb you’re holding has enough ‘juice’ in it to wipe this pile of bricks right off the map!”

A hideous wave of panic swept over the Hardys. “Does Jensen mean to blow us up?” Frank asked himself unbelievingly.

It was then that the boys noticed Amos Wandy’s face. It had turned deathly pale. For a moment he swayed, as if about to faint. Then he clutched the deadly looking device tightly.

“What did you say, Mr. Jensen?” he quavered. “You told me this bomb was for some construction work. I—I don’t understand—”

“You soon will, Amos,” said the gang leader in a sinister voice. “Put down the bomb. I’ll take over.”

But the old inventor did not comply. He retreated a few steps backward. “No, Mr. Jensen,” he objected. “I fear you are going to use this for some other purpose. An evil purpose. What’s more, you have lied to me about these boys—they are your prisoners. In fact, you’ve lied to me about everything—you never intended to help me market my new invention, as you promised!”

Without warning, Jensen made a lunge for the elderly man and ripped the box from his grasp. The next instant, he knocked the inventor to the floor with a sweep of his big arm. Amos Wandy lay still, stunned.

Jensen then put down the bomb and whipped from his pocket a length of rope. He bound the white-haired man’s arms and legs securely.

“Yes, Amos,” he taunted. “These boys
are
my prisoners. And now, so are you—you have been all along. Only you were so wrapped up in your precious invention you never suspected it. Lucky I found you here, and had you hoodwinked long enough to put this bomb together.”

The big man straightened up and, his eyes burning strangely, went on, “Now all three of you will have the privilege of sharing the success of the explosive—at the proper time.”

Amos Wandy had recovered sufficiently to murmur brokenly, “You—you’re insane, Jensen. You—you can’t get away with it.”

“Can’t I? You’ll see. But I’d better shut you up before I get to work.”

Jensen dashed from the room and was back with a piece of cloth with which he gagged Mr. Wandy.