The Clue of the Broken Blade (13 page)

Joe looked at his watch. It was a few minutes after seven, and still light. “They must have closed early,” he remarked.

Pointing to the stone building atop the mountain, Frank said to his father, “That's it up there, Dad.”

They went to look at the chair-lift engine. To their surprise it was not locked. After examining it for a few moments, Fenton Hardy started it.

Joe got a flashlight from the car and thrust it under his belt. Then he and Frank took seats on the lift. Mr. Hardy shifted the engine into gear, and with a slight jerky motion the boys started the long trip upward.

They rose higher and higher over the slope, until halfway up they were more than thirty feet above the grade. Then the distance to the ground diminished as they neared the peak.

They stepped off the lift only a dozen yards from the oaken door of the stone building. Their double seat continued on, took a hundred and eighty degree turn around a stanchion, and headed back down the hill on the moving cable.

Frank tried the door of the lodge. It was locked. They walked around and discovered that a window had been broken.

“Somebody's been in here!” said Frank.

“I wonder how long ago,” Joe mused.

“It must be since the place closed today,” Frank replied. “Otherwise the operators would have noticed the break and boarded it up.”

Joe snapped his fingers. “I'll bet that's why the lift engine wasn't padlocked! Whoever broke in here, probably busted the lock and used the lift to get up and down again.”

“Well,” Frank said, “as long as the window's broken, we might as well take advantage of it.” He climbed inside, careful to avoid the jagged pieces of glass jutting from the frame. Joe followed.

As they stepped onto the floor, Frank grabbed Joe's arm and put a finger to his lips.

“What's the matter?” Joe whispered.

Frank sniffed. “Smell the smoke?”

“From a cigarette!”

“Right. Someone's in here!”

The young sleuths tingled with a mixture of fright and excitement. If somebody had just preceded them, why? How many were there? And where were they hiding?

As the odor of cigarette tobacco drifted out through the broken window, the boys surveyed the dim interior. The room they were in was small and rimmed with benches. At one end was a potbellied stove for the skiers in winter.

In addition to the locked front door there was another door. What lay beyond? they wondered. Somebody was there, they felt sure.

After a whispered consultation the boys decided to climb out, circle the building, and spy into the mysterious room from a window on the far side.

Frank had one foot through the broken windowpane when a bloodcurdling yell sounded behind them.

Immobilized by surprise, the Hardys froze for a moment, then turned to see two weird faces, grotesquely flattened by nylon stocking masks. One man was tall and thin, the other burly.

The tall man held a pistol in his hand. “Look what we've caught, Homer!” he said.

“The Hardy boys! What a catch, Charlie!”

The voices sounded familiar in spite of the slightly muffled tone.

“Pretty far from New Jersey, aren't you?” Frank asked.

For a moment there was stunned silence, then Joe delivered his shot. “You won't find any spectrographs here, Charlie!”

With that the men ripped off their masks. “Okay, so you recognize us,” Charlie said. “Little good it'll do you.” He waved his gun at the boys. “Cross your hands in front of you!” he ordered, and pulled two cords from his pocket.

 

 

 

FROM down below, Mr. Hardy and Chet watched Frank and Joe climb through the broken window. Suddenly the sound of a breaking twig made them turn around.

A squat, muscular man had stepped out from behind the ski lodge. He pointed a revolver at them.

“Up with your hands!” he ordered.

Mr. Hardy and Chet obeyed. Commanding them to turn their backs, the man checked them for weapons.

“Who are you and what do you want?” Mr. Hardy asked.

“Never mind,” the man replied. “Just keep quiet!”

He kept his gun on them while he periodically peered up at the mountaintop. Several minutes passed, then four people emerged from the stone building. Frank and Joe were first, their wrists bound together in front of them.

Charlie got on the lift with Frank.

“All right,” the squat man with the gun told Mr. Hardy. “Bring the next seat into position so the other two can get on.”

Perspiration stood out on the detective's forehead as he obeyed. When everyone was on the lift, he started the engine again, furiously trying to think of a way to escape.

When the four were halfway down, the cable stopped moving. Mr. Hardy attempted to get the lift operating again, but could not.

“What's the matter?” the gunman asked gruffly.

“Don't know. Give me a minute to check it out.”

Up on the lift, meanwhile, Homer and Charlie became impatient. “If he can't get it going,” Charlie called to his accomplice, “we'll have to reduce the weight and throw these kids overboard.”

“You can't do that!” Frank cried out.

“Oh no?” Homer sneered. “It would save us a lot of trouble. Let's not waste any time!”

He lifted Joe's safety bar and pushed him off the seat. Frantically the boy grasped the bottom of the chair and hung on for dear life. His captor pulled out a gun and smashed it on Joe's fingers. Joe winced in pain. Desperately he swung one foot around and kicked his adversary in the shin.

All at once the ski lift started moving again. While Homer grabbed at his legs with both hands, Joe quickly pulled himself back into the seat.

As the lift neared the base of the hill, Frank and Joe saw their father and Chet held at bay by the thug.

Homer chortled, “Kell's got the kids' old man and the fat boy!”

When they reached the ground and had stepped down, Charlie turned to Kell. “What now?” he asked.

“You take the two boys with you,” Kell replied. “I'll follow with these two birds in their car.”

Frank and Joe were marched a distance from the lodge to a small parking area concealed from the road by trees and bushes. They were forced into the back seat of a dark sedan. Homer slid behind the wheel and Charlie climbed in next to him. Seconds later they pulled out and roared away.

Meanwhile, Kell ordered Mr. Hardy and Chet into the front of the Chevy. “You drive!” he growled at the detective and took his position in the back seat, gun trained on his captives.

Slowly Mr. Hardy eased the car onto the gravel road.

Chet turned halfway around. “You think you're real smart, eh?” he said, fuming.

“Oh, shut up, Fatso,” Kell replied. He leaned forward, and rested his gun hand on the back of the boy's seat. “You're so stupid you walked right into our arms!”

“You mean you knew we were coming?” Chet demanded.

“Naw. But you made so much noise before the two kids even got on the lift that we had plenty of warning. We—”

Suddenly Chet whirled and smashed his fist into the man's ear. The gun dropped on the front seat. But Kell instantly recovered his wits. He hit Chet in the side of his neck, opened the back door in a lightning move, and threw himself out of the car.

Before Mr. Hardy had skidded to a halt and taken up pursuit, he had melted away in the darkness.

Chet, who had been stunned for a few moments, looked dejectedly at the detective as he came back to the car. “Sorry about that, Mr. Hardy. I was hoping we could reverse roles and take this jerk to headquarters!”

Mr. Hardy put a hand on the boy's shoulder. “Listen, Chet, you were great. You may have saved both our lives!”

“Now we'll have to rescue Frank and Joe.” Chet sighed.

“Right. Only we haven't any idea where they are!”

 

Frank and Joe were in the back seat of the sedan, unconscious. A slight odor of chloroform hung in the air.

An hour later Joe awakened. He found himself on his back in pitch darkness, his hands still bound in front of him. The air was chilly. It felt as though he was lying on loosely packed dirt.

The sound of deep breathing came from his right. As he sat up, he felt the flashlight still tucked under his belt. Their captors must not have noticed it. He took it out and flicked it on.

Playing it around, he realized they were in a cavelike chamber about twenty feet across. The walls and the domed ceiling were of solid stone. The floor, as he had suspected, was dirt. The only entrance was blocked by a heavy oaken door.

The deep breathing had been coming from Frank who was lying next to Joe. Now it quieted. Frank opened his eyes and sat up.

“Where are we?” he asked.

Shrugging, Joe said, “I haven't the faintest idea. Let's get these ropes off our wrists.”

Setting down the flashlight, he struggled to his feet. It was difficult without the use of his hands.

Frank managed to get up, too. He worked at his brother's bonds until he got them loose, then Joe untied him.

He picked up the light again and shone it on the door. Frank tried it and found it locked. He threw his weight against it, but it did not budge. It was far too thick to break down.

Joe shone the light on the hinges. They were made of thick leather, rutted and dry from old age. These were attached to the door by huge brass studs.

“Wow!” Joe said. “These hinges were made to last an eternity.”

“Don't say that,” Frank muttered. “We might be in here that long.”

The boys felt the thick leather. Joe said, “If we had a knife, we could cut through them.”

“But we don't have one,” Frank said. “Any other suggestions?”

Joe shone the flashlight all around. “The dirt on the floor is fairly loose, Frank,” he said. “Maybe we could dig our way under the door with our hands.”

“It's worth a try,” Frank conceded.

Joe put the light on the ground, pointing at the door. Both boys dropped to their knees. They began to scoop handfuls of dirt away from the door's base. Joe worked furiously. Under the first layer of soil, the earth was powdery dry. Particles filled the air, making them cough violently.

“Joe! Not so fast. Don't scatter the dust!” Frank warned.

They tied handkerchiefs over their nostrils and Joe dug more cautiously. But the bottom of the door was so far down in the earth, it would take considerable time to make an opening large enough to crawl through.

After they had excavated a hole of about six inches, Frank's hand touched something solid.

“Hey, Joe, what's this?” Pushing the dirt away from the object on either side, he pulled out a rusty blade about a foot and a half long. At one end was a moldy saber handle.

Excitedly Joe focused the light on his brother's find. “Holy crow! It can't be!” he exclaimed. The letters A-N-T-E were dimly visible on the blade.

“It's the sword Adalante!” Joe cried.

“Is the will engraved on it?” Frank asked eagerly.

After peering at the blade, Joe said, “We'll have to wait until we get it in a better light. And we'll have to clean it up a little. It's pretty tarnished. Probably we'll be able to see the engraving after we shine it up a bit.”

“Is the blade sharp enough to cut those hinges?” Frank asked.

Joe tested it with his thumb. “I think so.”

He began sawing at the lower hinge while Frank held the light. It took ten minutes to penetrate the hardened leather, but eventually both hinges were cut.

Joe used the blade to pry the hinge side of the door inward a couple of inches. Then he shoved the broken sword under his belt. He and Frank grasped the edge of the door with both hands. They gave a strong pull, then stepped aside to let it crash inward.

It hit with a loud plop. Instantly a cloud of dust filled the air, half blinding the boys. They stum bled out, but were unable to see where they were. The air, however, smelled fresh.

Frank and Joe coughed and wiped their tearing eyes. Finally they could see. To their utter amazement, they realized that they were in Vincent Steele's cellar museum!

 

 

 

FRANK led the way up the stairs. The door at the top was unlocked. Quietly they stepped out into the central hall, where lights shone from the living room.

Tiptoeing on the soft carpet, they peered into the front room of the house. Two lamps were burning, but no one was there.