The Crisscross Shadow (2 page)

“Please!” Mrs. Hardy interrupted. “Mr. Hardy, no doubt, removed the key himself.”

“I'm not going to stay here and be insulted any longer!” Breck exclaimed in anger.

He moved to his small suitcase, tossed his samples inside, and snapped it shut.

“I'm getting out of this house,” he said hotly. “I've had enough of your insinuations.”

Joe made a move to detain the salesman. But his mother forbade it.

“Let him go, Joe,” she advised. “No key is worth such a scene.”

“But, Mother, it's the one to the file in Dad's study—”

“We still don't know that your father didn't take it.”

The boys were reluctant to let the man go, but their mother's word was law. Breck then stalked out, slamming the front door behind him.

Mrs. Hardy, still looking distressed, commented:

“I know you don't trust the man, Frank and Joe. But I did hate to have a scene, especially since there was no proof against him.”

“Sure, Mother, I understand,” Frank answered. “Though the way he acted was mighty suspicious.”

“I'll say,” Joe agreed. “He'd better not show his face around here again.”

The boys went upstairs, removed their football gear, and showered.

Five minutes later, while they were dressing, they heard Aunt Gertrude cry out. As the boys were speculating about what had happened, she knocked on their door.

“Hurry up! Go find that man Breck. He's stolen your father's picture!”

Pulling on sweaters, they opened the door and followed her downstairs. Mrs. Hardy was staring at the top of the baby grand piano where her husband's photograph had stood for nearly a year.

“I guess you were right after all about that salesman,” she said. “He's taken Dad's picture. But why?”

“We'll find out!” Frank cried.

They raced from the house and down the street to their car. They had little hope of locating Breck, but to their relief Joe spotted him in the center of town walking hurriedly along the sidewalk.

The convertible pulled up even with him. As it came to a stop, he glanced at the boys, then started to run.

Leaping from the car, Frank and Joe gave chase. But Breck had a head start. He turned the corner. When the Hardys reached it, the man was not in sight!

“WHERE'D Breck go?” Joe cried, dismayed that their quarry had eluded them.

He and Frank glanced at both sides of the deserted street, seeing nothing but a few parked cars.

Suddenly Joe cried out. “Look, between those two parked cars. Isn't that a suitcase? And a man? Come on, Frank.”

The boys dashed across the street. Joe approached the space between the cars from the sidewalk, Frank from the street.

“There he is! Grab him, Joe!” Frank exclaimed as Breck tried to make a getaway.

Joe, executing a perfect tackle, stopped the man dead in his tracks. Grunting and panting, Breck tried to shake him off, but Frank, coming up from behind, pinned the husky salesman's shoulders to the ground, while his brother clung grimly to his legs.

“Get off!” Breck cried, struggling to rise.

“Not until we've searched you,” replied Frank, holding him even more tightly.

Just then Joe caught sight of a policeman sauntering along on the other side of the street.

“Hey, Casey!” he shouted to the officer, whom they had known for years. “We can use some help!”

Seeing the boys and their struggling captive, Casey broke into a run.

“What's up, fellows?” he cried as he reached them.

Frank and Joe released their grip on Breck, who now made no effort to break away.

“This man stole a picture of my father and the key to his file cabinet,” Frank replied, pointing to Breck, who glowered at the boys.

“Yes, we want him searched,” Joe chimed in.

“All right,” the officer's voice was stern. “Come along to headquarters, mister.”

“Our car's around the corner,” Frank said.

Breck started to object, but the policeman silenced him with a gesture.

“I never question Frank and Joe's judgment,” he stated as they walked to the boys' convertible. “I guess you don't know that they're sons of the famous detective Fenton Hardy. And they're right smart detectives themselves. Solved lots of cases, like
The Tower Treasure.
And not long ago they went out West and tangled with some bad characters in
The Secret of Wildcat Swamp.”

At police headquarters the group was met by Chief Ezra Collig, grizzled veteran of many a battle with Bayport's criminal elements. He and the Hardys had often worked together in rounding up underworld characters.

“Well, now, who's this man, boys?” the chief asked briskly. “What's he been up to?”

The Hardys quickly explained the mysterious activities of Breck.

“We can prove it, tool” Joe exclaimed, referring to the thefts of the picture and key. “All you've got to do is search him.”

“No, you don't,” Breck protested. “I insist upon calling my lawyer. You've got to permit that. I know my rights,” he added threateningly.

“Okay,” the officer agreed. “Who's your law yer?”

“Miles Kamp,” Breck replied quickly.

“Miles Kamp, eh? I've never heard of him. Must be a stranger to Bayport.”

Frank and Joe looked at Breck suspiciously as the man dialed the phone on the chief's desk. After a few guarded words to Kamp, he hung up, a look of satisfaction on his face.

Ten minutes later Miles Kamp strode into the chief's office. He was a short, heavy-jowled man with a wide thin-lipped mouth that suggested a nasty streak in his character. He peered at them nearsightedly through thick-lensed glasses.

Frank turned to Joe. “I don't like his looks, do you?” he whispered as the salesman shook hands with the lawyer.

“No,” the younger Hardy replied. “He looks even more suspicious than Breck.”

“Now, what's going on here?” the lawyer said in an annoyed voice. “Why are you holding my client?”

“Calm down, Mr. Kamp,” Chief Collig said to him sternly. “Mr. Breck is accused of stealing a key and a photograph belonging to Fenton Hardy. These are his sons, and they want this man searched.”

“Searched? Why, certainly, my client will gladly agree to this,” Kamp replied pompously. “Mr. Breck,” he said, turning to the leather-goods salesman whose face wore a smug look, “I advise you to let the police search you. We know you have nothing to fear.”

At Chief Collig's order the policeman went to work. He turned Breck's pockets inside out and made him remove his shoes. Then he looked through the man's suitcase.

“Nothing suspicious here, boys,” he reported.

Frank's eyes were intent on a bulge under the man's shirt. “What are you hiding there?” he asked.

The policeman investigated and found a framed photograph of Fenton Hardy.

“What was the idea of taking that?” Joe said accusingly.

Breck's face began to redden. “Well ... well, you see ...” the salesman stammered in embarrassment. “You're right. I
did
take your father's picture, and I apologize,” he confessed sheepishly. “But I can explain.”

“You'd better have a good reason,” the chief interrupted.

“You see, I've always been a great admirer of Fenton Hardy,” Breck went on rapidly, “and I've followed his exploits for years. So today, when I saw his picture on the piano, I couldn't resist picking it up as a souvenir.”

“Well, that puts things in a somewhat different light,” said Chief Collig.

“I knew you'd understand,” Breck continued hastily. “And I hope the boys do. I'd like to keep the photo. It would mean a lot to me.” There was a note of sincerity in his voice.

“I don't know,” Joe replied slowly, looking at his brother questioningly.

“Please let me have it,” Breck pleaded. “I'll give you back the frame. All I want is the photograph of Mr. Hardy.”

“Humph—” Chief Collig began, as all looked to him for advice. “The picture isn't autographed, is it?” he asked, scanning the photograph.

“No.”

“Well,” the officer continued soberly, “as long as it's not signed, and since Fenton Hardy's picture has appeared so frequently in newspapers anyway, I don't see what harm there'd be if this man keeps it. Since Mr. Breck didn't take the key, we have no special charge to hold him. But it's up to you boys to decide, of course,” he concluded.

Breck turned to Frank and Joe, a hopeful expression on his face. There were several moments of silence, during which Miles Kamp pulled out a handkerchief and made a great show of polishing his glasses. All eyes turned to the Hardys.

The boys looked at each other again. Years of working closely together had given each one the uncanny ability to know at a glance what the other was thinking.

Frank spoke. “I guess it's all right for him to keep the picture, as long as he's such a great admirer of Dad.”

“All right. He can have it,” Joe agreed. “I don't think Mother would mind.”

“Thank you, thank you. I can't tell you how happy this makes me. It's very generous of you,” Breck said effusively.

He moved impulsively to grasp the hands of the Hardy boys to show his gratitude. Frank and Joe acknowledged his thanks coolly, their dislike of the man by no means lessened.

“Well, Chief Collig,” Kamp interrupted in his pompous voice, “are you satisfied that my client has done nothing wrong? If so, I suggest you release him immediately.”

“All right, you can go,” the officer replied. Then he added sternly, eyeing the salesman with disfavor, “But I'm warning you, Breck, in the future you'd better not be helping yourself to pictures in people's houses.”

“Thank you, Chief Collig,” Kamp said unctuously. “We appreciate your cooperation. Good day, boys.”

With a bow he strutted from the room, Breck at his heels.

“Breck won this round,” remarked Frank. “But I still don't put any stock in his explanations.”

“I know what you mean,” agreed Collig. “We don't have a thing to hold him on, though.”

A little while later, driving home in the convertible, Joe turned to Frank.

“Did you notice the back of Breck's hand as he was packing his suitcase?” he asked.

“Yes,” Frank replied. “He had a strange-looking scar on the back of it in the shape of a W. You couldn't miss it.”

“If he were a thief, it sure would be easy to spot him,” Joe replied. “By the way, remember what Aunt Gertrude said about having seen his picture somewhere identifying him as a criminal?”

“That's right. We'll have to check with her on that.”

Reaching home, the boys hurried up the steps. They were famished and were looking forward to a delicious steak dinner.

“Hope Aunt Gertrude has apple pie to go with it.” Joe grinned, anticipating the tasty meal that had been promised.

“I could eat at least two helpings,” declared Frank as they entered the hall.

There they found Aunt Gertrude, greatly agitated. She was waiting for them.

“Joe! Frank! I was right about that so-called salesman all the time!”

“You mean about having seen his picture somewhere?” Frank asked.

“No, not that. But I just called Mrs. Wilson, the one whose name was on the reference Breck showed us.”

“Yes?”

“Just as I suspected,” their aunt said triumphantly. “Mrs. Wilson said that she never heard of the man in her life. That reference was forged!”

“WHAT!” Frank cried out. “Mrs. Wilson never heard of Breck?”

Aunt Gertrude shook her head.

“Then he forged the signature,” Joe added. “Well, we sure were taken in. That guy probably had the key all the time—in his mouth maybe.”

“And slipped it to Kamp. Joe, how could we be so dumb?”

“Anyway, we can try to find him. I want to question him further.”

“Not until we get a new lock for Dad's file,” Frank said emphatically. “After going through all that trouble to get the key, Breck might try to use it!”

The boys excused themselves and hurried to a trusted locksmith with whom their father dealt. He supplied them with a new lock and instructed them how to install it.

After Frank and Joe had arrived home and had just replaced the old lock, a voice behind them said:

“Neat job, fellows!”

The boys whirled. “Sam Radley!” they ex claimed, and hurried across the room to greet their visitor.

Radley was Fenton Hardy's able assistant, and the boys knew him well because he had helped them solve many tough problems. They had not seen him in several weeks and knew that he had been on the top-secret assignment with their father. They hoped he had news of Mr. Hardy.

“You'll stay for dinner, Sam?” Mrs. Hardy invited, coming into the room. “That will give us a chance to hear about your case.”

“Thank you. I'd like to.”

“How's Dad?” Joe asked after they sat down.

Sam smiled. “Your father's fine.”

“What's the case about?” Frank put in. “Or can't you tell us?”

“Just a little,” the detective replied, choosing his words carefully. “Your dad and I are working for the government. There have been several cases of sabotage in important industries throughout the country.