The Clue of the Broken Blade (7 page)

The fleeing man leaped a fence and dashed across a yard. As Frank cleared the fence right behind him, out of the comer of his eye he saw a cruising police car pulling to the curb. Two officers got out to investigate what was going on.

The redhead vaulted another fence with Frank close at his heels. Halfway across the second yard the boy made a flying tackle and brought the man down with a crash.

He was sitting astride his assailant's back, twisting his arms behind him, when the two policemen approached. Each grasped one of Frank's arms and lifted him erect.

“What's going on?” the older officer inquired.

Then the redhead pushed himself to his knees and glanced over his shoulder. When the policemen saw his face, they released Frank and collared his prisoner.

“Red Bowes!” the younger officer exclaimed, pulling out a pair of handcuffs. He turned to Frank. “You caught yourself a prize. This guy's wanted for a half-dozen bank robberies.”

“I'm not surprised,” Frank said. “He's one of a gang that robbed the Bayport Bank and Trust Company. He tried to push me in front of a motorcycle just now!”

Frank explained who he was and why he was in California. Then he turned to Bowes. “You were listening outside the window when we talked to old Jimenez yesterday, weren't you?”

“What if I was?” the bank robber asked sullenly. “That's no crime.”

“Why did you follow us?”

“That's for me to know and for you to find out,” Red Bowes snarled.

The younger policeman said, “Who was with you on the Bayport job, Red?”

“None of your business!”

“And who was your buddy in Somerville when you tried to rob the Voiceprint Lab?” Frank put in.

“You can't tie me to that.”

“The Somerville police can,” Frank assured him. “You left your hat at the scene. A red hair was in it.”

Bowes stared at the boy, fear in his eyes. Then he said defiantly, “I'm not the only guy with red hair.” But Frank knew that Bowes realized his game was up.

The policemen asked Frank to come along to headquarters. Bowes was booked on a number of counts and informed of his legal rights.

“Yeah,” he snarled. “I won't say a word without a lawyer!”

As an officer led him toward the cellblock, Bowes changed his mind, however. He sneered at Frank as he passed him. “How did you like the shape I left your lab in?” he asked.

“So it was you, was it?” Frank replied. “Was Zonko with you?”

Bowes walked on without answering.

Frank asked one of the policemen if he could use the telephone, and called the motel.

Joe answered. “Did you find a clue in the library?” he wanted to know.

“Yes. Also the guy who played games with us yesterday when we visited Jimenez,” Frank replied, and told his brother what had happened.

“I've got news, too,” Joe said when he had finished. “But it can wait until we get there. Chet and I'll pick you up.”

“Is it good or bad news?” Frank inquired.

“Bad. You might even say terrible!”

 

 

 

JOE was driving the Ford when he and Chet picked up Frank outside police headquarters.

As the car pulled away from the curb, Frank asked, “What's this bad news?”

“The vineyard's gone,” Joe said. “Part is already a suburb, and the last of it is being used for a new housing development.”

“As far as we could find out,” Chet put in, “the only original building left is a wine storage cellar, and they're going to bulldoze it down this afternoon.”

“That could be the secret place where Giovanni Russo was held prisoner by his kidnapper!” Frank exclaimed. “Did you ask to see it?”

“The foreman wasn't there,” Joe said. “He was off trying to hire a bulldozer.”

“Drive out there now,” Frank said.

The island on which the Russo vineyard had been was somewhat north of Paradise Point. Although it was in the delta area, it could be reached by car via a series of bridges. The boys arrived at the planned housing development about twelve-fifteen.

Streets had been laid out in the tract, although they were not yet paved. The unroofed raw wood skeletons of about two dozen houses were in various stages of construction. Work crews sat near them eating their lunches.

Joe parked in front of the contractor's office, a small prefabricated sheet-iron hut. A short distance away was an ancient one-story stone building.

“That must be the wine storage place over there,” he said to Frank, pointing.

“Right. And next to it is a bulldozer!”

“Just in time,” Joe said as they got out of the car and walked into the office.

Seated at a desk sipping coffee from a Thermos bottle was a lean, suntanned man. Another fellow had already finished his lunch. He was tall, blond and heavy-set and stood at the far end of the room, lunging with a fencing foil at a rope hanging from the ceiling.

The man at the desk glanced up as the boys entered, but the blond man continued to practice without paying any attention to them.

Frank asked, “Are you the foreman?”

The lean man nodded. “Jim Emory's my name.”

“I'm Frank Hardy,” the boy replied. He introduced Joe and Chet, then explained that they wanted permission to search the wine storage building before it was bulldozed down.

“Why?” Emory asked.

Frank told about their search for the broken blade.

“It's all right with me,” the foreman said with a shrug. “We're only going to tear the place down, anyway.”

The blond fellow stopped his practice and came over, still carrying the foil. In a surly voice he said, “You'd better be out of there by one o'clock. If you aren't you'll be buried under a heap of stones!”

“What's your hurry?” Joe asked, anger rising in him at the man's attitude.

“This is Harry Madsen, the bulldozer operator,” Emory said soothingly, and gave the boys' names.

Madsen made no effort to acknowledge the introduction. Instead he said, “I have another job later this afternoon. So that building comes down at one o'clock whether you're out of it or not.”

Looking at his watch, Frank said, “Let's get busy then, fellows. We only have a little over a half-hour.”

On the first floor of the wine storage building there was nothing but some moldering, empty wine casks. They found a narrow stone stairway leading to the cellar. Joe went to the car and came back with a flashlight before they descended the stairs.

The cellar had vaulted ceilings and high, slitted windows which let in only dim light. Cobwebs hung everywhere. Most of the rooms were empty, but a couple contained rotting wooden racks and a few ancient, empty bottles.

The boys searched thoroughly. Finally Chet said, “Nothing here.”

“There's one more room we haven't checked,” Joe reminded him. They walked through a doorway and noticed a small wooden chest with rusty hinges just ahead of them.

“Let's have a look in there,” Joe said, beaming his flashlight on the chest while Frank lifted the lid.

At first it appeared to be empty, but then they saw that the dirt in the bottom covered a single sheet of ancient brown parchment paper. Chet took the paper out and blew the dust off it. Then he held it for Joe to shine the light on.

“It's a map of the island!” Frank exclaimed.

“You're right. It shows Giovanni Russo's home, a barn, and some other structures,” Joe said.

“This is the place we're in now,” Chet remarked, pointing. “And there are two similar buildings, one on the northern part of the island, the other on the eastern edge.”

“That means originally there were three wine storage cellars here,” Frank declared. “I wonder if the other two are still in existence.”

At that moment they heard a heavy engine starting outside. Joe turned the light on his watch.

“It's one o'clock,” he said. “We'd better get out of here. Our pal means business!”

They heard the bulldozer back a few feet. The motor began to race, and suddenly exhaust fumes poured through one of the slitted windows.

Choking and coughing, the boys ran for the stairs. When they got outside, the bulldozer engine was still running, but Harry Madsen was out of the cab, standing next to it. He threw them a nasty grin.

“You did that on purpose!” Chet said angrily. “You deliberately backed up so exhaust fumes would go through that window!”

“So what, Fatty?” the blond man asked contemptuously. “Want to make something of it?”

Chet took a step toward him. Harry Madsen reached into the cab of the bulldozer and whipped out the foil he had been practicing with. He slashed it at Chet, who leaped back out of the way just in time to avoid getting it across the shoulders.

The foreman, who had come from the contractor's hut, said sharply, “That's enough, Harry!”

Ignoring him, Madsen looked from Frank to Joe. “Either of you want trouble?” he challenged.

“Hand me a foil and I'll give you all the trouble you can handle,” Joe said heatedly.

“You think so?” Madsen sneered. “I'll meet you any time you say.”

“Right now!” Joe suggested.

“I only brought one foil with me. After I finish work I'll go home and get another one. Gloves and masks, too. Then I'll meet you here about four-thirty.”

“That's fine with me,” Joe told him.

Jim Emory was dubious. “You're letting yourself in for something, young fellow. Harry takes lessons!”

“So do I,” Joe replied. “I'll be here at four-thirty, Madsen!”

When they left the housing development site, the boys drove to the east end of the island to see if they could locate the second wine storage building shown on the parchment map.

A number of homes had been erected in the area, but there was nothing resembling the storage place. The map had not been drawn to exact scale, so there was no way of telling precisely where it was located.

“No luck,” Frank said after a while, disappointed.

“Let's try the other one,” Joe suggested and drove to the north end of the island. This area

Exhaust fumes poured through the window
had not been built up because of its steep hills. But they could not find the exact site, and after driving up and down a few mountain roads, they gave up.

“Let's go somewhere for lunch,” Chet said plaintively. “You realize it's after two o'clock?”

Joe grinned. “You just can't take all that sleuthing, Chet!”

They found a roadside restaurant and stopped for sandwiches.

When they had finished, Frank said, “Let's try the county clerk. There ought to be some kind of record of the buildings on the property when it was sold by old Giovanni.”

Stockton was the county seat of San Joaquin County. They drove back into town and went to the courthouse. When they walked up the steps, Joe stopped suddenly.

“Frank—they'll be closed. It's Saturday.”

“You're right. Well, since we're here, let's try anyway.”

They were in luck. The county clerk was in to catch up on some work. He was a thin little man who wore glasses on the end of his nose. Frank showed him the parchment map and asked if there was a way to check if the other two wine storage buildings were still in existence.

“Sure,” the clerk replied. “They would be on the original plats when the island owner deeded it over to whoever bought it from him. I'll start from there and go forward through subsequent property transfers.”

He took the map and went into another room, while the boys settled into chairs. About ten minutes later he came back.

Handing the map back to Frank, he said, “They're still extant.”

“Where?” Frank asked eagerly.

“Well, the one on the north part of the island is on a ski slope. It's now used as a hilltop station, and belongs to Carson's Lodge off Burns Mountain Road.”

“What about the other one?” Joe asked.

“That's been converted into a private home.”

“Who owns it?”

“I'm afraid I can't tell you without the owner's permission!”

 

 

 

FRANK said, “Aren't these public records?”

“Well, yes,” the clerk admitted.

“Then anyone has access to them,” Frank pointed out.