“That's very interesting,” said Frank as they turned a corner toward the town square. “I should think that the type of cannon you're look ing for would be found somewhere around the Caribbean rather than this far north. I've read that many Spanish ships were wreckedâ”
Frank stopped speaking as a deafening boom suddenly shook the air.
“What was that?” Bowden gasped.
“It came from the square,” Frank replied. “Sounds like trouble. Come on!”
Frank drove quickly around another corner and parked the car. They all jumped out.
CHAPTER II
A Suspicious Client
WITH Bowden trailing behind, Frank and Joe sprinted toward a crowd of people milling in the town square. They were gathered around an old Civil War mortar that stood on a pedestal. White smoke drifted from the muzzle.
“Somebody fired the gun!” Joe cried out.
“It must have been an accident,” Frank said.
As the boys shouldered their way through the crowd they saw Officers Smuff and Riley of the local police force being besieged with questions from the onlookers.
Before the policemen could reply, a booming voice sounded above the babble and a short, grizzled old man, dressed in a revolutionary Minute Man's costume, complete with tricorn hat and leggings, strode up beside the mortar.
“I can't understand what all this here fussin is about,” he said in a booming voice.
He smiled and his weather-beaten face creased into long lines. He told Officer Riley that he was Jim Tilton, a retired artillery sergeant. He had been asked by Police Chief Collig to take charge of the Independence Day cannon salute.
“But this isn't July fourth!” Riley protested. “It's only the first.”
The old-timer raised his hands good-naturedly. “I'm mighty sorry I caused so much fuss. After all, I wasn't usin' a ball. I just had some powder an' waddin' in her.”
Tilton pulled a letter from his pocket and showed it to the officers. It was from Police Chief Collig and the Fourth-of-July Committee, granting permission for Tilton to test the mortar.
“Well, there was no harm done,” Riley said. “Now we know the gun is readyâwe and everybody for five miles around!”
Reassured, the crowd dispersed. Sergeant Tilton remained near the mortar, talking with a few men. The Hardys moved closer to get a better look at the old sergeant and the equipment he had been using.
Bowden also edged forward and stared with keen interest at the various markings on the gun. He told the boys that this was a Federal artillery piece.
“It was cast at the same arsenal that turned out the famous Dictator,” he said. “That was a thirteen-inch mortar used against Petersburg, Virginia, in the Civil War.”
Tilton raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Land sakes,” he remarked, “you know a lot! I didn't never suspect anything like that about this ol' hunk o' iron.”
As the sergeant began to clean the barrel of the weapon, Bowden turned to Frank and Joe. “My offer to you,” he said in a low voice, “is one thousand dollars if you find the Spanish cannon.”
The Hardys were amazed. A thousand dollars for an old gun to be used in a pageant! I
Sensing their thoughts, Bowden quickly added, “I'm a man of means and can well afford it.”
He explained that he had already combed Bayport proper. The boys' responsibility would lie in searching the surrounding areas and nearby towns. Bowden said he was staying at the Garden Gate Motel on the state highway and could be reached there if anything developed.
“We don't charge for our sleuthing,” Frank informed the man.
Bowden was astonished. “You've solved all your cases for nothing?”
Joe nodded. “If we should help you,” he said, “it will be on that basis.”
“Okay. But believe me, I'll make it worth your while somehow!” Then, seeing that Tilton was preparing to leave, Bowden hastily excused himself. “I have a few questions to ask this old codger. See you later.”
The Hardys drove to police headquarters to report the underwater attack. They went directly to Chief Collig, a solidly built man in his late forties. He often cooperated with them on their cases, and now listened intently to their latest adventure.
“This is serious,” he said. “I'll notify the harbor patrol to be on the lookout for a skin diver wearing a black suit and a black swim cap with a yellow stripe around it.”
The boys thanked him and left. As they turned into Elm Street on which they lived, their conversation centered around Bowden.
“It looks as if we're back in business!” Joe remarked. “Let's take on the case.”
“I'm a little worried about it,” Frank replied. “The whole thing seems a bit phony.” He reminded Joe of the many times they had met people who had seemed to be aboveboard, but had turned out to be dishonest.
“It would be fun looking for the cannon,” Joe insisted.
“That's true.”
At the rambling stone house in which they lived, the boys were greeted by their petite mother and their tall, angular Aunt Gertrude. She was Mr. Hardy's sister, who lived with the family. When she heard about Clyde Bowden's offer, Aunt Gertrude exclaimed:
“A thousand dollars for finding an old piece of junk! There's something underhanded about such a deal. Mark my words!”
Mrs. Hardy's face wore a worried frown. “I wish your father were here instead of in Florida.”
“Florida!” Joe exclaimed. “Frank, Dad could check on Bowden's credentials. Let's phone him!”
Mrs. Hardy said the detective could be reached only by mail or telegram at an address in Miami. Frank immediately sent a wire by telephone.
“We may not get an answer for several days,” Joe remarked. “I hate to wait. Why can't we make a start on Bowden's case? We can drop it any time we like.”
“Okay, but let's not get in too deep until we hear from Dad.”
“I'll let Bowden know,” said Joe. He dialed the Garden Gate Motel. Bowden was not in, so Joe left a message for him. Then he turned to Frank. “How about advertising in the newspaper for information about the demiculverin?”
“Good idea.” By telephone Frank placed an ad in the Bayport Times, which had a wide circulation even in the smaller outlying towns.
“I have another thought,” Joe said. “Maybe Aunt Gertrude can help us.”
“How?”
“As newly elected president of the Bayport Historical Society,” Joe said. “she might have some information about ancient cannon in the vicinity.”
Their aunt had gone to the kitchen to prepare lunch. Frank and Joe followed and put the question to her. After a moment's thought, Miss Hardy said, “Let me see. I know of one cannon.”
“Where is it?” Joe asked eagerly.
“I think it's on the back lawn of a museum in Greenville.”
“Do you know what type it is?” Frank asked.
“I believe it may be pre-Civil War,” Aunt Gertrude replied. “It might be Spanish. I'm not sure.”
“We'll take a look,” said Joe.
After lunch the boys set off in their convert. ible for the Greenville Museum. It was a small building at an intersection of two roads at the edge of town. The main entrance was on one road, with a tall hedge in front of the building. Extensive grounds stretched to the rear on the side road, along which ran a high iron picket fence. Frank parked alongside the hedge, and the young detectives strode through a gate to the spacious lawn at the back.
The cannon, a long-barreled six-pounder, stood in the center of the lawn. Joe dashed across the flagstones leading to it and read the plaque fixed to the piece.
“It's a Spanish gun!”
Frank joined him and read the inscription on the bronze plaque. It stated:
“
Pasavolante
, meaning fast action. Made in Toledo, Spain. Often called cerbantana, after Cerberus, the fierce dog of mythology.
Pasa-volante
in modern Spanish means peashooter.”
“Do you suppose this could be the peashooter that Bowden is searching for and he just got the name wrong?” Joe asked.
Frank looked thoughtful. Then he said, “I doubt it. Bowden seemed sure it was a demiculverin, didn't he?”
Joe nodded. “False clue.” He sighed.
As the boys started back across the lawn, they noticed a tall, slender man, with a swarthy complexion, entering from a side gate. He was bare-headed and wore a black leather motorcycle jacket. He looked around as if to make sure that he was not being observed, then moved hurriedly to the gun.
Frank and Joe, casting backward glances, watched him as they continued to the roadway. The man knelt down and read the inscription on the pasavolante. Then he rose and walked to the far side of the cannon, scrutinizing it closely.
“Maybe we're not the only ones trying to locate a demiculverin,” Joe remarked.
“You're right. Let's go back and question that fellow.”
Retracing their steps, they had covered only a few feet when the man suddenly ran for the side gate by which he had entered.
“He must be up to something,” Joe said.
The Hardys turned back and hurried to the road. The next moment they heard a motorcycle roar into action.
“I wonder if that's him,” Frank said.
Before Joe could comment, the swarthy stranger sped around the corner. Goggles covered his eyes, but his lips seemed to be curled up in a nasty grin. He headed directly toward the boysl
CHAPTER III
A Motorcycle Clue
As the motorcycle roared down on them, Frank and Joe leaped aside and stumbled headlong into the hedge. The driver missed them by inches!
“Sorry,” he shouted as he sped off.
The boys picked themselves up. Both were angry.
“I'd like to get my hands on him!” Frank said.
“Did you see his license number?” Joe asked.
“No,” Frank answered ruefully. “But the motorcycle looked like a foreign make. I noticed the letter K on the rear fender.”
“If we ever run into that fellow again, he'll have a lot of explaining to do,” said Joe. “And I'd like to ask him about his interest in the old cannon, too.”
“He certainly acted as if he didn't want anyone to know what he was doing,” said Frank.
When the boys reached home they hurried into the kitchen. Aunt Gertrude was just removing a batch of cookies from the oven. She glanced over her spectacles and exclaimed, “Frank! You've torn your pants!”
“Had a little accident,” he admitted and told her of the motorcyclist.
“I knew it! Hoodlums are after you two again! Well, don't say I didn't warn you.” His aunt sighed, then added to herself, “Trouble, trouble everywhere.”
“Where else?” Frank asked.
“The Bayport Historical Society,” Aunt Gertrude replied. “What would you do with a collection of swords?”
Frank raised his eyebrows. “Swords?”
“Yes, cutlasses. I'd like to keep them.”
“Please, Aunty, start from the beginning,” Joe begged, “and tell us about it.”
Aunt Gertrude explained that the Bayport Historical Society had recently received a gift from the estate of Senator Entwistle. It included some lovely costumes dating from 1812 and a case of cutlasses.
“I argued with our members,” Aunt Gertrude went on, “but they insist that we present the cutlasses to the museum at the state capitol.”
“Too bad,” said Frank, then asked, “Is it your job to have them shipped?”
“Yes. But they are to be moved to the basement temporarily. The museum isn't ready to receive them.”
“And you'd like us to help you,” Joe said.
“Yes. Tomorrow evening.”
“We'll be there,” Frank assured her.
The boys went to their room and sat down to discuss the next move in locating the cannon which Bowden wanted.
“We can't do anything today out of town,” said Frank, glancing at the radio clock between the boys' beds. “Another hour and it's time for dinner.”
“There's something we can do,” Joe spoke up. “Visit the motorcycle shops in Bayport and find out the name of the foreign make with a K.”
“Good idea, Joe. We may even learn the identity of that fellow who nearly ran us down.”
The young detectives had better luck than they had anticipated. The first dealer they called on explained that the letter K indicated the motorcycle was a Kesselring, a German make.
“You don't see many of them around,” he said. “But they're becoming more popular.”
“Do you sell them?” Frank asked.
“No.”
“Who does?”
“Nobody in Bayport. And no one in town owns one, either.”
“Do you know where the nearest agent is located?” Frank asked.
“Yes,” the dealer replied. “In Delmoreâ155 Main Street. His name is Braun.”
“Delmore! That's where the penitentiary is,” Joe remarked.
The man nodded. “Braun mostly sells bikes, but he took on the Kesselring motorcycle agency because the machines come from his native country.”
The boys thanked the dealer and rode off in their convertible.
“Let's drive over to Delmore in the morning and talk to that agent,” Joe suggested.
“Right,” Frank agreed. “Incidentally, the main road there is still closed. The detour leads past the Entwistle place where the cutlasses came from.”
At home the boys were greeted by the aroma of fried chicken that their mother was preparing.
“You're just in time,” she said, smiling.