The Disappearing Floor (9 page)

“It's that spook again!” Joe exclaimed. “This time, let's nail him!”

Chet moved his lips in speechless terror, but rather than be left behind, he went lumbering off after the two Hardys.

Frank and Joe sprinted straight toward the ghostly figure, determined not to let it elude them a second time. But the phantom had already seen them and went darting off like a vanishing wisp of mist.

The pursuit circled and zigzagged about the mansion grounds. Chet soon lost all fear as he became convinced that the fleeing specter was only flesh and blood. He joined in the chase with zest, his sturdy legs pumping as if he were pursuing a rival team's ballcarrier on the Bayport High football field.

Frank was in the lead, with the other two boys on either side searching swiftly among the trees.

“Joe! Can you see him?” Frank called back. “I think he went that way!”

There was no answer. Frank glanced over his shoulder, then gasped.

FRANK skidded to a halt and peered intently through the darkness. “Joel” he called in almost a whisper. “Joe! Where are you?”

Chet hurried to Frank's side. “What's wrong?” he asked anxiously.

“I don't know. Joe was only a few yards from me just a minute ago. Now I can't see him.”

Chet glanced around. The white phantom had also disappeared—swallowed up in the gloom.

Suddenly Joe's muffled voice reached their ears. “This way, you guys! But watch your step! I fell down a hole!”

Frank and Chet hurried toward the sound, with Frank beaming his flashlight over the ground in front of them. Both boys stopped as the yellow glow revealed a large, square hole.

“Hey! There's that tiled thing!” Chet exclaimed. “But it's open!”

Frank saw that the whole tiled surface had flapped downward. It was now hanging flush against one side of the hole, its colored mosaic glistening in his light.

“I'm down here,” called Joe. “That tiled square must be hinged like a trap door. Either its supports gave way, or someone must've opened it by remote control. And that's not all—there's a tunnel down here!”

Frank shone his flashlight down the hole. It was brick-walled and about twelve feet deep. In the side opposite the flap-down tiled surface was an opening just large enough for Joe to enter without stooping. Alongside this opening, a metal ladder was attached to the wall, for climbing in or out of the hole.

“Wow!” Chet dropped to his knees and peered below. “Where do you suppose that opening leads?”

“I'll bet there's a tunnel going all the way to the house,” Joe answered, shining his own beam through the opening.

Frank told Chet of Mrs. Hardy's theory that the tiled surface had been the floor of an old summerhouse. He added, “The summerhouse was probably built on purpose to hide this end of the tunnel.”

“That's quite a drop,” Frank said anxiously. “Are you hurt, Joe?”

“No! I managed to break the fall. It was easy after some of those judo slams we've takent Besides, this floor feels spongy. It must have been padded in case of an accident.”

Frank peered in all directions. “Looks as though we've lost our spook for good.”

“Then let's search this tunnel,” Joe proposed.

Chet gulped uneasily. “How do you know what we'll find at the other end?”

“We don't. That's why we want to find out.”

“B-b-but you said yourself that someone may have opened this by remote control,” Chet said shakily. “How do we know the crooks aren't using the tunnel right now? And—and they may even be trying to lure us into a trap!”

Joe chuckled and aimed his flashlight into the tunnel entrance. “There's some kind of phone in there, hanging on a hook—probably an intercom to the house. Want me to call and ask?”

Frank looked serious. “I think Chet has a point,
Joe. Maybe one of us should stay
here
—outside
the tunnel—in case of emergency.”

“Okay, you two flip a coin. Me for the tunnel!”

Frank spun a nickel, caught it, and slapped the coin on the back of his other hand. “Winner goes with Joe. You name it, Chet.”

“Uh—well—heads.”

Frank shone his beam on the coin. “Heads. Guess you're elected, Chet. But look—you don't
have
to go! Why don't you stay here and I'll—”

“Nothing doing,” Chet protested bravely. “I won the toss, so I'll go.” With the look of a condemned man en route to the electric chair, the pudgy youth climbed down the metal ladder. He could smell the dank, musty passageway.

Joe was already inside the tunnel entrance. “Come on!” he called back over his shoulder.

As Chet followed Joe into the tunnel, his bulky form brushed the intercom phone off its hook. Instantly a red light flashed on, evidently a signal to indicate that the circuit was now “live”—no doubt a buzzer was ringing at the other end of the line!

Chet clutched Joe. They stared at the unit as if it were a rattlesnake about to strike.

Suddenly a voice crackled from the phone. “Hello ...
hello!”
Joe snatched up the instrument as the voice went on, “Is that you, Waxie?”

Joe responded in a curt, flat tone, “Yeah?”

“Well, what do you want now?” the voice inquired irritably. “What did you come back for?”

Joe glanced helplessly at Chet; then, snatching at the first inspiration that came into his head, he replied nasally, “Orders.”

“Orders? What's the matter with you, Waxie? You gettin' absent-minded? The boss gave you all the dope—about the disappearing floor—” The voice broke off as if the speaker had suddenly become suspicious. “Wait a minute! What's going on out there? Who is this?”

Joe dropped the phone and gave Chet a shove. “Come on! Let's go!” he muttered urgently. “Now we've
really
stirred up a hornet's nest!”

The boys scrambled up the ladder and told Frank what had happened. All three ran for the car. In moments Frank was gunning the motor and the convertible was roaring off down the lane.

“What a bad break!” Joe grumbled as they turned onto the main road.

“It was my fault,” Chet admitted, “and I'm sorry. But I sure learned something—namely, not to get mixed up in any more of your nutty cases! So next time count me out!”

The Hardys chuckled and Joe apologized for his remark. Between them, the two young sleuths managed to make Chet change his mind by telling him they could not get along without him.

The mantel clock in the living room was just chiming nine when Frank and Joe arrived home. A note propped on the dining-room table explained that their mother and Aunt Gertrude had gone to visit a neighbor down the street.

The boys got apples and milk from the refrigerator. Frank poured two glasses and they sat down in the kitchen to discuss their case.

“Think we should notify the police?” Joe said.

“About Darrow?” Frank shrugged uneasily. “I don't know. We're not sure it was he that we saw. For all we know, he may have told Strang not to admit any visitors. Remember, Dean Gibbs said he had become very huffy.”

Joe nodded. “I sure wish Dad or Sam Radley were here to advise us.”

A moment later the radio signal buzzer sounded from the basement. “Maybe that's Dad now!” Joe exclaimed, setting down his glass and tossing his apple core into the garbage can.

The boys rushed downstairs and soon established radio contact with their father, who was calling from Chicago.

“Sam and I are still sifting leads here,” Fenton Hardy reported. “The thieves seem to have covered their tracks pretty well. Incidentally, the same method was used as on all the other jobs. The private patrolman guarding the place blacked out and has no recollection of what happened.”

The detective listened as Frank and Joe brought him up to date on events in Bayport. He, too, was baffled by Jack Wayne's interrupted radio message. When the boys asked what to do about the situation at the Perth mansion, he was silent for a moment, then said:

“That window at which you think you saw Darrow—was it barred or heavily screened in any way?”

“No, it was partly open,” Joe replied.

“Then if the man was Darrow, it hardly sounds as if he's being held against his will. Strang undoubtedly has some kind of undercover setup there at the mansion. Darrow may not be aware of it. And we still have no proof Strang's involved in these jewel thefts. Proof is what we need before we move in on him. Meantime, I have another job for you boys.”

Mr. Hardy explained that he had just received another anonymous phone tip. “The caller simply said ‘Go to Haley Building—Bayport' and then hung up. Sounds to me like another fake lead, but I wish you boys would check it.”

“We'll do it right away, Dad,” Frank promised.

Two minutes later the brothers' convertible was speeding downtown. It pulled up in front of a new office building on Main Street.

An elderly night watchman was seated at a desk in the lobby. As Frank and Joe entered, he glanced up at the wall clock, which read 9:41.

“Kind o' late, you fellers. This place'll be closin' up in about twenty minutes—in fact, the building's practically empty now. Someone you wanted to see?”

When Frank showed his identification, the watchman's face brightened. “Oh, Fenton Hardy's boys, eh? Well, I'm pleased to meet you!”

Frank told why they had come and asked if anything unusual or suspicious had happened that evening. The watchman shook his head.

“No. Except a parcel o' gems was delivered to Paul Tiffman up on the fifth floor ‘round eight-thirty. But I knew beforehand that was comin'. Tiffman's a diamond merchant, y'see. When he stays late like tonight to receive a delivery, he always tells me. Most nights, everyone's gone by six.”

Both Frank and Joe had stiffened at the mention of gems. Before they could comment, the elevator signal rang. The watchman rose.

“ 'Scuse me, boys. I have to double as elevator operator after six o'clock. That must be Tiffman now, wantin' to go home.”

The Hardys asked to ride up. When the watchman opened the elevator door on five, they saw a worried-looking man, plump and dark-mustached. “Hasn't that messenger arrived yet?” he asked.

The watchman looked surprised. “Why sure, Mr. Tiffman. He was here at eight-thirty. I took him up, and then brought him down again later after he delivered those gems to you.”

Tiffman's jaw dropped open. “Are you crazy?” he spluttered. “I haven't received any gems. No one has come to my office this evening!”

THE watchman stared at the diamond merchant. Both their faces were turning an angry crimson.

“Mr. Tiffman, I don't know what kind of a joke you're playin',” the watchman said, “but I saw that messenger with my own eyes!”

“And I don't know, Mike, what kind of a joke
you're
playing!” Tiffman roared back. “I tell you no messenger came to my office!”

“Can't help that! He came here and left!”

“I think you'd better call the police at once,” Frank put in quietly.

“Who are you?” Tiffman snapped.

“We're sons of Fenton Hardy, the private detec tive.” Frank explained about the anonymous phone tip. Tiffman's attitude promptly changed.

The watchman called the police. A prowl car was at the building within moments, and Chief Collig arrived a few minutes later, accompanied by a plain-clothes detective.

“You boys watch the door,” Collig told the two prowl car officers. “The rest of you come upstairs to Mr. Tiffman's office.”

The five crowded into the elevator and rode up. Tiffman's office door was flush-paneled with a pane in one corner. It was marked “507” in modernistic metal numbers, and the name plate below said: PAUL TIFFMAN,
Gemologist.

After the Hardys had told Collig about the anonymous tip-off and the two men had told their stories, the police chief commented, “Sounds to me as if that messenger pulled a fast one.”

“You mean he simply walked off without delivering the gems?” When Collig nodded, Tiffman frowned and shook his head. “That doesn't make sense. If he were planning to flee with the diamonds, why bother coming to Bayport at all?”

“Is there any chance he could have been waylaid between the elevator and this office?” Joe put in. “If so, the thug might have dragged his body somewhere out of sight, and then gone down in the elevator posing as the messenger.”

Collig turned to Mike. “How about it? You sure the man you took down was the same man you brought up here?”

“Sure was,” the watchman said tartly, “unless he was awful good at disguises. That messenger had red hair, freckles, and a wart on his cheek. So did the man who rode down.”

“Have you ever seen this messenger?” Collig asked Tiffman.

“Wouldn't know him from Adam.”

“Who sent him?”

Tiffman named a firm of diamond importers in New York City.

“Ever had deliveries from them before?”

Once again Tiffman shook his head. “Normally I make buying trips to New York once a month and select my gems right there,” he explained. “But it happens I want to show a special selection to a wealthy client out in Dorset Hills tomorrow. The New York firm was expecting a new shipment from South Africa today, so they promised to make up a parcel and rush it down here tonight.”