The Disappearing Floor (2 page)

“Go ahead,” Frank urged.

“Well, I slept longer than I expected to,” Chet went on. “When I woke up, it was dark. I was somewhere over in the hills west of here. I had trouble finding my flashlight. Then I saw a funny-looking tiled surface.”

“Tiled surface?” Joe repeated. “What do you mean by that?”

Chet shrugged. “I don't know what else to call it. It was flat—like a floor, about ten feet square—and inlaid with little colored tiles. But the funny thing is, there was nothing else around except trees and shrubs.”

The colored tiles, Chet added, formed a curious design resembling a dragon.

“I went over to get a closer look at it,” Chet continued, “and wow! Out of nowhere came a horrible bloodcurdling shriek!”

“So you scrammed, I suppose,” Frank said, grinning.

“You bet I did! The voice shrieked after me, but I didn't catch what it said.” Chet's eyes bulged with fright at the recollection. “I kept running till I hit a dirt lane, and followed that out to this road. I was hiking home, then you guys came along.”

“How about taking us back there?” Joe said.

“You think I'm nuts? Honest, if that wasn't a spook, it must have been some bloodthirsty lunatic!”

“Oh, come on!” Frank urged. “Maybe it was just someone playing a trick on you. Let's find out.”

Chet was unwilling, but finally gave in. He directed Frank to a dirt lane turnoff which the Hardys had passed about fifty yards back. Frank drove slowly along the lane until Chet said, “Right here! I remember that big oak tree!”

Frank stopped the convertible. The boys took flashlights and climbed out. They went up a slope which gradually flattened. The area was wooded with hemlock and cypress trees, and the ground between them was overgrown with weeds and brush.

“There's Chefs trail,” Joe said, shining his flashlight on some trampled grass. “It leads over that w—”

A hideous scream split the darkness! Then came a weaker scream, followed by a hoarse, croaking voice.
“Th-th-the floor!”
It sounded like the gasp of a dying man!

Chet froze in terror, but Frank and Joe immediately ran toward the sound, playing their beams back and forth amid the undergrowth.

“Over here, Joe!” Frank exclaimed suddenly.

Joe ran to his brother's side and saw a man lying face down on the ground. Frank turned him over gently. The man was big and balding, with thin, sandy-colored hair. His face looked deathly pale. Frank tried his pulse as Chet came lumbering up.

“Is he d-d-dead?” Chet stammered.

“No, but his pulse is weak,” Frank murmured. “His skin feels clammy, too. Looks as if he's suffering from shock.”

The Hardys could detect no signs of injury or broken bones.

“What'll we do with him?” Joe asked his brother.

“Better get him to a hospital.”

The boys carried the limp figure to their car and laid him on the back seat. Chet sat up front with the Hardys. Frank swung the convertible around and sped toward Bayport.

As they reached a wooded area on the outskirts of town, their passenger revived and sat up. “Please—stop the car!” he begged weakly.

Frank pulled over. “We were taking you to the hospital,” he explained.

“You were unconscious,” Joe added. “What happened?”

“I'll—I'll tell you in a moment,” the man said. “Right now I feel woozy. I think the motion of the car was making me sick. Would you mind if I get out and walk up and down a bit?”

“No—go ahead,” Joe said sympathetically.

Chet leaned back and opened the door. As soon as the man's feet touched the ground, he slammed the door. His face contorted into an ugly expression.

“If you boys know what's good for you, you'll keep your mouths shut about this!” he snarled. “And I'm warning you—don't try to follow me!”

He darted off into the darkness of the surrounding trees!

THE three boys were stunned by the man's unexpected threat and actions.

“Of all the creeps!” Chet spluttered when he found his voice. “How's that for gratitude?”

“I'm going after that guy!” Joe exploded. He yanked open the door and started to jump out, but Frank stopped him.

“Hold it, Joe! You'll never catch him now. Besides, he may be armed.”

Joe realized the wisdom of his brother's advice and reluctantly climbed back into the car. The neighborhood
was
run down. It was poorly lighted and had numerous vacant lots and small factory buildings. The stranger already was out of sight and doubtless could find plenty of hiding places if pursued.

“I'd sure like to know what that fellow was afraid of,” Joe muttered as they drove off. “Also, how he came to be lying back there, unconscious.”

“So would I,” Frank said. “We'd better notify the police.”

“Look, fellows, I—uh—I'm pretty tired,” Chet said uneasily. “Could you drop me off home first?”

“What's the matter?” Joe teased. “Afraid the police may hold you as a suspect?”

“I told you I'm bushed!” Chet retorted. “Besides, you Hardys are always getting mixed up with crooks and mysteries. That kind of stuff makes me nervous!”

Frank and Joe grinned in the darkness. It was true that they had worked on a number of exciting cases since their first one,
The Tower Treasure.
On their most recent adventure they had solved the mystery of
The Twisted Claw.

After dropping Chet off at the Morton farm, the Hardys drove to Bayport Police Headquarters. Here they found Chief Collig working late. The husky man smiled broadly as they walked into his office.

“You boys busy on another case?”

“We're helping Dad,” Frank explained. “But something else came up.” He told about the unconscious man who had later revived in their car and fled after threatening them.

Collig agreed that while the episode was strange, apparently no crime had been committed. He telephoned the fugitive's description to the police radio dispatcher to be flashed to all prowl cars, with orders that the man be picked up for questioning.

Frank told him about the boys' pursuit of the black sports car and the smoke grenade that had forced them off the road.

“Noel Strang, eh?” The chief frowned. “I've heard about him. Slick operator, but he's not on the ‘Wanted' list right now. Do you know why your father is after him?”

“No, we don't,” Frank said. “Dad just asked us to trail him and try to get a line on what he's up to.”

“We got the license number,” Joe added. “But we'd like to know if the man we were following was Strang. We didn't get a good look at him.”

Collig jotted down the number. “I'll check it with the Motor Vehicle Bureau. I appreciate your stopping by.”

The boys went outside to their convertible. As Frank felt in his pocket for the car keys, his expression changed to one of annoyance. “I've lost my pocketknife, Joe. Wonder if it dropped out back there when I was bending over that fellow?”

“Could be,” Joe said. “We can search for it tomorrow. I want to take a look at that tiled square Chet told us about.”

“Same here!”

Frank took the wheel and drove off through the late-evening traffic. Suddenly a red light flashed on their dashboard short-wave radio. Joe picked up the microphone.

“Joe Hardy here.”

“Good evening, son.” Fenton Hardy's voice came over the speaker.

“Dad! When did you get home?”

“Just arrived. Where are you fellows now?”

“We're downtown in the car. In fact, we're headed for home.”

“Good. This case I'm working on looks pretty tough and I may need your help. I'll have to leave again first thing in the morning, so I'd like to fill you in on the details this evening.”

“We'll be there pronto, Dad!”

A short time later the convertible pulled into the driveway of the Hardys' large, pleasant house on a tree-shaded street. The boys jumped out and hurried inside.

Fenton Hardy, a tall, rugged-looking man, was in the dining room having a cup of coffee. Seated at the table with him were Mrs. Hardy and the boys' Aunt Gertrude, his unmarried sister.

The detective greeted Frank and Joe with a warm smile. “Sit down, boys, and I'll tell you what this case is all about.”

Mr. Hardy explained that he had been asked by a group of insurance underwriters to investigate a series of jewel thefts. The latest had occurred in New York the day before.

“We heard a news flash on that, Dad!” Joe exclaimed.

“Undoubtedly all the thefts have been pulled by the same gang,” the detective went on. “And there's an odd feature. On every job, the guards or other persons involved seem to have lost their memory for a short period of time while the robbery was taking place.”

“You mean they passed out?” Frank asked.

Fenton Hardy shrugged. “None of them
recalls
passing out. But they all report a sensation of coming to, or snapping out of a deep sleep, as if they had lapsed into unconsciousness without realizing it.”

Gertrude Hardy, a tall, angular woman, pursed her lips and frowned shrewdly. “If you ask me, they were gassed,” she declared. “Some kind of nerve gas, probably—squirted at the victims through a blowpipe.”

Frank and Joe tried hard not to grin. Their aunt had definite opinions and never hesitated to express them.

“They may have been gassed,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “But if so, it's strange that police experts were unable to discover any traces in the atmosphere afterward.”

“Maybe the crooks sucked it all back into their blowpipes,” Joe said mischievously.

Aunt Gertrude gave him a withering look. “Making fun of me, are you? Well, maybe you have a better theory, young man!”

Laura Hardy, a slim and pretty woman, exchanged a fleeting smile with her husband. Both knew that Aunt Gertrude loved to talk about detective cases with her brother and the boys, even though she pretended to disapprove of such dangerous work.

“Matter of fact, we got gassed ourselves tonight,” Frank put in quietly. He told about their chase of the black sports car, but glossed over the part about skidding across the road.

“Hmm.”
Fenton Hardy knit his brows. “Do you think the driver could have recognized you—maybe from seeing your pictures in the paper?”

Frank shook his head. “I doubt it, although he may have glimpsed us in his rear-view mirror when we passed a street light. I think that when he spotted a car tailing him, he used the smoke screen to shake us.”

“Why, that man's a menace!” Aunt Gertrude blurted out indignantly. “Why didn't you radio the police at once? Mark my words, you'll—”

The ringing of the telephone interrupted Aunt Gertrude's prediction. Joe jumped up to answer it.

“Let me speak to Fenton Hardy,” said a curt, muffled voice.

“Who's calling, please?” Joe asked.

“None of your business! Just tell him to get on the phone if he wants to learn something important!”

Fenton Hardy strode quickly to Joe's side and took the receiver. “All right, I'm listening.”

“Another jewel heist has been planned. It's going to be pulled aboard a yacht named the
Wanda.
She's due in at East Hampton, Long Island, late tonight or early tomorrow morning. Got that?”

“I have it,” the detective replied. “But who is this speaking?”

“A friend. And don't bother trying to trace the call!”

There was a cutoff click at the other end of the line. Mr. Hardy hung up thoughtfully and told the boys what the informer had said.

“I'd better follow up that tip-off,” he added. “I'll drive down to East Hampton.”

“Are you sure that's wise, Dad?” Frank asked worriedly. “The call may be a trick.”

“It's a chance I'll have to take, son.”

Mr. Hardy telephoned Suffolk County Police Headquarters on Long Island to report the tip. Before leaving the house, he suggested that the boys restudy the photo of Strang in his file, and also the typewritten data on the reverse side of it.

“Mind you, we have nothing on him,” the detective said. “But I think he's one of the few jewel thieves in the country capable of master-minding a series of robberies like the ones I'm investigating.”

“Do you want the police to take him in for questioning?” Joe asked.

“No, that would only put him on guard. But I
would
like to know what he's doing in Bayport!”

“We'll keep an eye out for him,” Frank promised.

Mr. Hardy then placed a long-distance call to his top-flight operative, Sam Radley. Sam had flown to Florida with a charter pilot named Jack Wayne to wind up another case. Fenton Hardy instructed Sam to join him at East Hampton the following day.

Next morning, Frank and Joe ate a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs, and homemade muffins, then started off in their convertible to pick up Chet Morton. After some grumbling, the stout boy agreed to help them search for the curious tiled square he had seen the night before. Frank pulled up on the dirt lane near the big oak tree.

“I don't know why I let you two talk me into this,” Chet complained as they started up the slope. “I can't seem to stay out of danger when you're around.”

Joe laughed. “Stop griping. You don't expect to hear any spooks in broad daylight, do you?”

When they reached level ground, Frank remarked, “Say, I see a house over there!”