“Do that,” said Chief Collig and hung up.
As soon as Frank replaced the phone in its cradle, he rushed to tell Joe, his mother, and Aunt Gertrude the news.
“It sounds to me,” Aunt Gertrude commented, her jaw set firmly, “as if everybody connected with this Pirates' Hill mystery is a criminal.”
“You could be right. At this point I'm beginning to think Joe's suspicions about Gorman might be justified,” Frank remarked.
Joe gave a knowing grin. “I thought you'd agree sooner or later.”
“Hold on! I didn't say I'm entirely convinced. I'll let you know after we talk to him at that shack tomorrow afternoon.”
“If he shows up,” Joe added.
Next morning, when the boys awoke, a heavy rain was falling. Jumping out of bed to close the window, Frank remarked, “It doesn't look as if we'll be able to do any searching at Pirates' Hill today.”
After breakfast they decided to spend the morning doing some sleuthing on the stolen cutlasses.
“There's a good chance that they may have turned up at some of the antique shops and pawnbrokers by this time,” Frank observed.
The boys' first stop was a curio shop near the Bayport railroad station. The visit there was fruitless.
Next the Hardys drove across town to a shabby antique shop, owned and operated by Robert Dumian.
“I had some cutlasses,” the dealer replied to Frank's question. He eyed the boys with curiosity over his bifocal glasses. “It's funny you're wanting them. Yesterday a boy named Gil Fanningâabout eighteen years oldâbrought five cutlasses in here to sell. Told me they were family relics.”
“Is he a local boy?” Frank asked, interested at once.
“Yes, he lives in Bayport,” Mr. Dumian answered. “On Central Avenue. I paid him twenty dollars apieceâa pretty steep price, but they were the real thing. Five beautiful swords!”
“May we see them?” Frank asked eagerly. The thought that they might be the Entwistle relics caused his heart to beat faster.
“I'm sorry,” the dealer replied. “Right after Fanning brought the weapons in, a swarthy-looking fellow in a black motorcycle jacket came into the shop and bought every one! He didn't give me his name.”
The Hardys shot chagrined looks at each other. It appeared that Latsky had beat them to the draw! They were dumbfounded by the appearance of Latsky at the shopâassuming that the man in the leather jacket was he. It certainly looked now as if Latsky were not the person who had stolen the cutlasses from the Historical Society's building. Could Gil Fanning have been the thief?
“That's not all,” the man continued. “Last evening, just as I was closing up shop, a stout boy came in here looking for cutlasses. And now you fellows come in asking for the same thing. I am beginning to wonder if thereâ”
“Did the stout boy give his name?” Joe broke in.
“Yes,” Mr. Dumian said, turning to a spindle of notes on his desk. “He wanted me to get in touch with him if any more cutlasses came in. Here it is.” He tore a slip of paper off the spindle and handed it to Frank.
The paper bore the name Chet Morton!
“Chet Morton! We know him,” Joe burst out. “What would he want with the swords?”
“Search me,” said Mr. Dumian.
The boys thanked him and left the shop. They decided to talk to Gil Fanning, then ride out to Chet's house and ask him why he was looking for cutlasses.
“What a muddle!” Frank exclaimed as they went into a drugstore to look up the name Fanning in the Bayport telephone directory. They found one listed at 70 Central Avenue.
Frank and Joe drove there in the downpour and learned that Gil, an orphan, lived with his grandmother. Tearfully the elderly woman said the boy had not been home for a week.
“He's always been hard to manage,” she said, “but I knew where he was. This is the first time he's ever stayed away without letting me know where he is.”
“Have you notified the police?” Frank asked.
“Oh, no,” Mrs. Fanning replied. “Gil phoned he'd be back in a while. Said he had a job and I was not to worry.” Suddenly she asked, “But why are you here? Is my boy in some kind of trouble?”
“Not that we know of,” Frank answered. “Mrs Fanning, did you give Gil permission to sell any of your heirlooms?”
“Cutlasses,” Joe added.
A frightened look came over the woman's face. “You mean swords? We never had any swords. You must be mistaken.”
“No doubt.” Frank smiled, not wishing to disturb the elderly woman any further. “Well, thank you,” he said. “I hope Gil returns soon.”
Frank and Joe left, puzzled by the information. After having lunch at a coffee shop, they headed for Chet Morton's.
As they neared the farm, the rain ended. They learned from Iola that Chet had taken his flippers and snorkel, and gone to their swimming pool to practice skin diving.
“Ever since he found that gunner's pick, he's had a great desire to dive for treasure,” Iola added, smiling.
Frank and Joe told her about their search at Pirates' Hill the previous day, then went to the pool to talk to Chet about his visit to the antique store.
To their surprise, he was not in sight. At the edge of the pool lay his snorkel and flippers.
The Hardys returned to the farmhouse and told Mrs. Morton and Iola that Chet was not around. Both looked concerned. Mrs. Morton said that he never left without saying where he was going.
“Perhaps he went off with that boy who was here,” Iola suggested. She told the Hardys that about half an hour ago a youth about Chet's age had strolled in and asked for him. They had directed him to the pool.
“Who was he?” Frank asked.
“We'd never seen him before,” Iola answered. “He said his name was Gil. He didn't give his last name.”
Upon hearing this, Frank and Joe told her and Mrs. Morton the whole story of Gil Fanning and the cutlasses.
“If the boys went off together walking, they probably haven't gone far,” said Frank. “We'll look for Chet.”
The Hardys hurried off. As they rode along, their eyes constantly swept the landscape, hoping to catch sight of their pal. They went for three miles without passing a car or seeing anyone walking along the road. Presently they came to a combination country store and gasoline station.
“I'll go in and phone Mrs. Morton. Maybe he's turned up meanwhile,” said Frank, getting out of the car.
Joe followed, hoping that Chet had returned. But when Frank spoke to Mrs. Morton they learned that their pal had not come back and the family had no word from him. Mrs. Morton declared that she was going to call Chief Collig at once.
Leaving the store, Frank turned to Joe. “What do you think we should do? Keep hunting for Chet, or go on to the shack?”
“Let's go on,” Joe replied. “The police will do everything possible to find Chet.”
As they approached their convertible, Joe gasped and grabbed Frank's arm.
“Oh, no!” he cried out, pointing to the rear tires. Both were flat!
The boys rushed over to the car. Not only were the tires flat, but to their dismay there were huge slashes in them!
“Someone deliberately cut our tires!” Frank exclaimed.
They wondered whether it had been the malicious mischief of some prankster, or whether one of their enemies was pursuing them and had done it to keep them from meeting Gorman.
“We have only one spare,” Joe remarked with a groan. “Where can we get a second?”
“Maybe the storekeeper sells tires,” suggested Frank, and returned to the shop.
Fortunately the man kept a few recaps in his cellar. Frank found one that fit the car and brought it upstairs. Working together, the Hardys soon replaced the slashed tires.
“It's way after two o'clock,” Frank remarked as they went to wash their hands. “I wonder if Gorman will wait.”
Joe reminded him that the man might not be at the shack at all. He still mistrusted Gorman and was sure a trap had been laid for them.
“Maybe,” said Frank. “Anyway, we'll approach with caution.”
Three miles farther on they reached a side road which they figured would take them near the shack. Presently the road ended and Frank braked the convertible to a stop. Ahead was nothing but sand. The boys got out and looked around.
“There's the shack!” Frank pointed to their right as he put the car keys in his pocket.
The ramshackle old building, badly weathered and sagging, stood between two dunes. They trudged toward it through the wet sand, a fine spray from the windswept sea stinging their faces.
“What a dismal place!” Frank exclaimed
Joe nodded, “Perfect spot for a trap. I don't believe Gorman came, Frank.”
As they drew closer, they noticed that the front door was wide open. They concluded no one could be inside, for certainly any occupant would have shut the door against the strong winds.
Nevertheless, Frank called out, “Tim! Hey, Tim!”
No answer!
“It's obvious he's not here,” said Joe. “And if this is a trap, we're not walking into it. Let's go!”
At that moment the boys heard a muffled cry from inside the shack. Throwing caution aside, they rushed into the building.
The next instant they were seized by two masked men!
CHAPTER XIII
Mixed Identities
AMBUSHED, Frank and Joe fought like wildcats. Their assailants were much heavier in build and held onto the boys with grips of steel. Neither man relaxed his viselike hold for a moment, despite a hard, occasional punch which the Hardys managed to land.
As the boys fought desperately, the face masks slipped off their attackers. The men were strangers to the Hardys.
Joe wrested his right arm free and sent a vicious punch to his adversary's jaw. The man's grip relaxed and he fell back, groggy. This was Joe's chance for escape!
“Here I come, Frank!” he yelled.
But a kick from the other man sent Joe sprawling. In a flash his own antagonist was on top of him. There was little fight left in his assailant but he depended on his great weight to hold the boy down. Joe could hardly breathe.
At this point Frank was giving his opponent a rough time. The man was now gasping for breath. “I'll let him get really winded,” Frank thought, wriggling even harder to break loose.
“Hold still or I'll finish you for good!” the man threatened.
“Just try it,” Frank grunted defiantly.
He gave another violent twist and almost broke free. But the man retained his powerful hold. An unexpected downward swipe with his stiffened hand caught Frank on the back of the neck and he slumped to the floor.
The man now turned his attention to Joe and helped his accomplice pin him to the floor. They bound and gagged the young detectives, then held a whispered consultation. One of them went into a back room and returned a moment later dragging something in a burlap sack. He slid it into a corner and both men left the shack by the front door.
Frank and Joe heard a muffled groan.
A human being was in the sack!
The boys concluded it must be Gorman. He, too, had been ambushed! Were the attackers enemies of Gorman working on their own, or were they in league with Bowden? Or perhaps Latsky?
Desperately the Hardys tried to loosen their bonds. Frank found that by wriggling his jaw and rubbing the gag against his shoulder he could loosen it. At once he cried out:
“Gorman!”
As the bundle in the corner moved slightly in reply, they were horrified to see their assailants rush back into the shack. They had heard Frank's outcry. Without a moment's hesitation, they knocked both boys unconscious.
Some time later Joe revived. He was amazed to find that he was outdoors and dusk was coming on. He saw Frank not far away and on the other side of him the captive in the burlap sack.
“We're in a gully,” Joe thought as he struggled to rise.
His arms were still tied behind him and the gag was in his mouth. Every part of his body ached. He was lying face up in a puddle of rain water and was soaked.
Frank, still unconscious, was also bound and gagged. His position was precarious; he lay in a deeper part of the ditch with water rushing only inches from his nose and mouth. The stream, swollen by the heavy rain, was tumbling along in torrents.
“Frank will drown!” Joe thought in horror. “I must get him out of here!” He struggled desperately and finally by twisting and turning slipped his gag off. But his bonds held firmly.
“Frank!” he shouted. “Sit up! Sit up! You'll drown!”
At first there was no response, then Frank made a feeble effort to rise. He raised his head a few inches and tried to pull himself up, but he lacked the strength. Exhausted, he slumped back into an even more dangerous position.
“I must rescue him!” Joe said to himself.
He dragged his body through the mud to Frank. Rolling onto his side, he was able to clutch his brother by one leg with his tied hands. Getting a firm hold, he pulled Frank inch by inch from the threatening stream.
It was an agonizing task. The sharp gravel on the edges of the gully scraped Joe's cheeks, but finally he brought Frank to a safe spot. He managed to remove the gag, but the knots on Frank's bonds defied him.
“We'd better give this up,” said Joe, “or I may be too late to save Gorman.”
“Go ahead,” Frank said weakly. His own arms had no feeling in them.
The burlap sack lay only slightly out of water. “Those thugs must have figured on having the three of us drown in the stream. They evidently sent us rolling down the bank, but we didn't go far enough,” Joe thought.