The Clue of the Broken Blade (10 page)

The boys got back into the car. Frank drove toward the bridge that led south off the island. In the rear-view mirror he had noted a pair of headlights that stayed about a half block behind them.

“Somebody's tailing us,” Frank remarked.

The other two looked back. Chet said, “Must be whoever planted that snake. Let's stop and find out who it is.”

“If it's that bank-robber gang, they're probably armed. We'd better shake them instead,” Joe said.

“I agree with Joe,” Frank decided.

He increased the Ford's speed. The car behind them started to go faster, too. By the time they reached the bridge, both were moving at sixty miles an hour.

Fortunately there was little traffic. They roared across to the next island and to the following bridge. Their tail stayed with them.

As they crossed the second bridge, the headlights of two approaching vehicles could be seen driving onto the other end. From the first one's size and height from the ground, the boys could tell that it was a large truck.

Passing on any of the bridges was against the law, but the driver of the vehicle behind the truck was impatient. Misjudging the speed of the Hardys' Ford, he started to swing around the truck.

All of a sudden headlights were glaring right into Frank's eyes. He hit the brakes hard. At the same instant the truck's tires squealed as its driver applied his air brakes. The reckless passer squeezed in by a hair's-breadth.

Frank was furious. “That idiot!” he said through clenched teeth.

Joe shook his head in disbelief.

Frank bore down on the accelerator again. Until they were out of the delta area, there was no way to shake the tailing car, because there was only one route to take.

On the outskirts of Stockton, however, Frank slowed in order to let the pursuing car get close behind them. Then he suddenly swung into a closed gas station. The other car shot on past.

As Frank circled around the pumps to swing back in the direction they had come from, his headlights shone briefly on the other car. Two men were in the front seat, but the boys could not make out who they were.

Their pursuers made a U-turn at the next intersection, but by then Frank had swung into a side street. After a series of random turns, he pulled over to the curb and cut his engine and lights.

“That should do the trick,” Chet said, relieved.

“Let's wait and make sure,” Joe suggested.

When several minutes had passed with no pursuer in sight, Frank drove to their motel.

It was a complex consisting of individual cabins. Frank pulled the Ford around behind theirs so it could not be seen from the road.

As they entered the cabin, Chet said, “We forgot to stop for hamburgers!”

“Doesn't anything make you forget food?” Joe asked. “A couple of killers are after us, remember?”

“Well, I don't want to die on an empty stomach,” Chet complained.

“The motel restaurant is open all night. Go over there and get something if you want to.”

After considering, Chet asked, “How do we know the killers aren't watching the restaurant?”

“We don't,” Frank told him. “But it's unlikely they know where we're staying. They must have picked us up when we left the construction site after Joe's bout with Madsen. And we haven't been back here since, until now.”

After weighing the possible danger of running into killers against satisfying his appetite, Chet decided to chance going to the restaurant. He returned with three hamburgers in a bag. Frank and Joe both declined, so Chet ate all three.

Even though they were fairly sure that their tails did not know where they were staying, the boys decided to take no chances. They divided the night into three watches, and each stayed awake for a couple of hours. Fortunately the night passed without incident.

The next morning after breakfast the boys decided to change cars. “That'll throw our tail off,” Joe said.

They checked the yellow pages of the classified telephone directory and discovered that Stockton had a local branch of the car rental agency from which they had rented the Ford in San Francisco. It advertised twenty-four-hour service, seven days a week.

They drove down to the rental office, turned in their car, and selected a Chevrolet.

As they pulled out of the lot, Frank gave a grin of satisfaction. “That ought to throw those guys off our trail!” he said.

When they came back to the motel, they found a note under their door, requesting them to come to the office. Frank went.

The clerk said, “There was a phone call for either Frank or Joe Hardy. The man didn't tell me who he was, but he'll call back at eleven o'clock.”

“How did anyone know we were here?” Frank wondered aloud, mystified.

“I don't know. He just asked if either of you were registered, and when I told him ‘Yes,' he gave me the message.”

“Thanks,” Frank said and returned to the cabin.

When he relayed to the others what he had just heard, Joe said thoughtfully, “The man must have called all the motels in the neighborhood, asking if we were registered, until he hit pay dirt. Maybe we'd better move and check in somewhere else under false names.”

“That's a good idea,” Frank said. He looked at his watch. “It's five to eleven. So let's wait for the call before we leave.”

The man phoned promptly a few minutes later, Frank answered, but held the receiver so that the others could hear, too.

A low, obviously disguised male voice said, “Is this one of the Hardy brothers?”

“Yes, this is Frank.”

“If you value your lives, you'll get out of California before it's too late!”

There was a click as the man hung up.

Joe said ruefully, “Too bad we didn't have a recorder with us to tape the voice.”

“We ought to pick up a portable job in case anything like this happens again,” Frank suggested.

“Are any stores open on Sunday?” Chet wanted to know.

“There's a big shopping plaza a couple of blocks from the car rental office, and the parking lot was crowded when we went by,” Joe said.

“It won't hurt to inquire,” Frank said.

The boys checked into another motel a few blocks away. They let Chet register under his name, figuring that if the mysterious threatener called motels again, he would ask for the Hardys as he had before, not for Chet Morton.

Then they left for the shopping plaza. After they bought a pocket-sized tape recorder, they had lunch in a nearby restaurant. Chet suggested that since they were not due at the Steeles' house until that evening, they had time to check out the third wine storage building.

Frank grinned. “You're right on the ball, Chet! I was going to suggest that.”

They drove across the various bridges to the island once owned by Giovanni Russo, and to the mountainous area at its north end.

They had no trouble finding Burns Mountain Road. It wound along about a mile before they came to a narrow gravel road leading off to the right. Chet pointed to a wooden sign that read:
Carson's Ski Lodge, 300 Yards.

Frank parked in front of the building and they all got out. The lodge was at the base of a long slope, which obviously served as a ski run during the winter months. Their eyes followed the cable up the hill, where the lift ended at a low stone building.

“That must be the wine storage place,” Joe said.

Frank nodded. “There's no other building in sight. But why would anyone store wine at the top of a hill?”

“Vineyards might have covered all the slopes at one time,” Chet reasoned. “But what a climb!”

“Too bad the lift isn't operating now,” Joe said.

Chet noticed a sign posted on the porch of the lodge and went over to look at it.

“Hey, guys! Are we ever in luck!” he called out. “Look at this!”

Frank and Joe hastened over to read the notice. It said that the lift would be in service the following week. For a dollar people could ride up the mountaintop and enjoy the view.

“Bring the whole family on a picnic. Upper lodge will be open!” the sign invited.

“Now there's an idea just made to order for Chet,” Joe said.

Chet ignored the gibe. “Do we have to climb now?” he inquired.

“I think we'd better wait,” Frank replied. “No doubt the place up there is locked, so we couldn't get in anyhow. But it'll be open when the lift's running.”

The boys drove back and had dinner at the same restaurant they had eaten the night before, then they drove to the screenwriter's house.

Chet glanced up and down the street, looking for anyone who might be a practical joker. But the street was empty.

When Frank rang the bell, Mrs. Steele came to the door. She greeted them cordially and ushered them into the living room.

“My husband is in his den,” she said. “Make yourselves comfortable while I get him.”

“What do you suppose he's like?” Chet whispered after she had left.

“We'll soon find out,” Frank said.

“I'll bet he looks like Ernest Hemingway,” Joe said. “You know, very distinguished, like writers are supposed to look.”

A few moments later footsteps sounded and Mrs. Steele returned. Behind her was a tall, thin, gray-haired man. A yellow scarf with tiny black polka dots was knotted around his neck.

Frank stared at the man's face in utter astonishment.

“Professor Von Stolk!” he blurted out.

 

 

 

THE man reacted as if he had walked into a brick wall. “You're—you're the boy who was talking to June at the college library,” he said limply to Frank.

Mrs. Steele spoke up. “Why did you call him Professor Von Stolk? This is my husband—Vin—cent Steele.”

“Something needs a lot of explaining,” Frank said. “Your husband called himself Von Stolk when I saw him the first time.” In afterthought he added, “You used the same initials when you changed your name, didn't you, Mr. Steele?”

Turning to his wife, Vincent Steele said in a placating tone, “Don't let this upset you, my dear. I hired a young woman to do some research for me.”

His wife looked at him slit-eyed. “Yes, go on!”

“I knew if I told her who I really was, she and all her friends would be plaguing me to get them into the movies.”

“Oh, that again,” she said. “Now I understand.”

To the boys she said apologetically, “Vincent is so publicity shy. You can see why, can't you?”

She introduced the boys by name and the screenwriter formally offered a hand to each.

Then Frank asked, “Was it you or June Fall who removed four pages from the Master of the
Vineyards
book, Mr. Steele?”

“Neither,” he replied, looking uncomfortable. “They were already missing.” Suddenly he became belligerent, and fired a burst of questions at the boys.

“Why are you interrogating me like this? What did you come to my house for? What business is it of yours that I go to the library?”

Frank realized that perhaps they had pushed their case too fast. Nothing would be gained by antagonizing the writer, even though he was a suspect. In a calm voice Frank said, “Mr. Steele, we came here to ask your assistance.”

“What assistance? I don't even know you.”

“It's about your home. It was once a wine cellar.”

“That's right. How did you find out?”

“From an old map.”

The Steeles looked confused. Joe felt sorry that the writer's wife had become involved in the deepening mystery. Would Frank tell them about the sword? Or would he sidestep the real intent of their visit?

When his brother hesitated, Joe said, “You can't blame us for becoming suspicious when you use two names, Mr. Steele. And about those pages missing from the library book, weren't you showing them to Harry Madsen at the construction site last evening?”

Steele frowned. “Were you spying on me then?”

“Only by accident,” Joe replied. “We didn't expect to see you there.”

“What were you doing there?”

“We were watching the bulldozer operator,” Frank put in. “He had been causing us some trouble. But you haven't answered the question.”

“Look, you've got it all wrong,” Steele said with a sigh. “They weren't the pages from that book. I have a hobby of collecting vineyard implements. For some time I've been meaning to go through that building at the housing construction site which was once used to store wine. But I never got around to it.”