Officer Con Riley was at peace with the world.
His heart was full of contentment and his stomach was full of pie. The sun was shining and one of the aldermen had just given him a fairly good cigar. His beat had been free of crime for a week. His wife had gone to the country for a visit and she had taken the children with her. Hence, Con Riley's feeling of deep and lasting satisfaction with the world.
Even the boys, his natural and hereditary enemies, had not tormented him for several days. Perhaps, he argued, it was because they were up to their ears in work, preparing for examinations. If that was the reason, Con Riley decided that examinations were good things and should be encouraged.
As he sauntered along the shady side of Main Street, leisurely swinging his club and gravely responding to the greetings of, "Good afternoon, officer," he reflected that there were worse occupations in life than being on the Bayport police force. He was well content with his lot just then. He exchanged salutations with the traffic cop on the main corner and mentally congratulated himself because he was not a traffic cop; the job exposed one to all manner of weather, from cold, drenching rains to sizzling heat. No, he was just as glad he was on the beat.
A troop of boys came down the street from the direction of the Bayport high school, and Riley instinctively stiffened. If it were not for those confounded boys, life would be very different for him. They did not seem to appreciate the dignity of his position. They were always contriving schemes to make him look ridiculous.
He spied the Hardy boys with their companions, and his frown deepened. Too smart, altogether, those Hardy lads. They weren't mischievous, he had to admit that, but they were meddling in the work of the police a little too much. Already they had been credited with solving a couple of mysteries that he, Con Riley, would certainly have solved alone if he had been given a little more time.
Then there was Chet Morton – a boy who was born to be hanged, if ever there was one. He'd come to a bad end some day, that fellow. So would all the rest of them, Tony Prito, Phil Cohen, Jerry Gilroy, Biff Hooper – the whole pack of 'em.
Still, Con Riley was in a good humor that afternoon, so he unbended sufficiently to bestow a nod of greeting upon the boys. To his surprise they gathered around him.
"What has been done with Paul Blum?" asked Frank.
"He's in jail," said Riley, with the portentous frown he always assumed when discussing matters of crime. "He's in jail, and in jail he'll stay."
"Hasn't he been tried yet?"
The constable shook his head.
"Not yet. The rascal has a lawyer and the case has been adjourned."
"Not much doubt that he'll get a heavy sentence," remarked Chet, who was carrying beneath his arm a package wrapped in brown paper.
"No doubt of it at all," agreed Riley.
"Didn't yon fellows tell me that Lieutenant Riley helped capture the counterfeiter?" asked Chet innocently, turning to the Hardy boys.
|
|
Riley's chest expanded visibly when he heard himself referred to as "Lieutenant," and when it dawned on him that Chet thought he had a part in the actual capture of Blum he tried to look as modest as possible, although, he did not succeed very well.
"Oh, I helped. I helped," he said, with a deprecatory wave of the hand.
"If it hadn't been for Officer Riley the fellow might have got away," said Joe smoothly. "He slapped the handcuffs on Blum in the neatest manner you ever saw. He was waiting for us right at the dock."
Riley beamed. This was praise, however undeserved, and he basked in the admiration of the boys. He told himself that he had perhaps been mistaken in his estimation of these lads after all They were not mischievous young rascals, but bright, intelligent, high minded boys who recognized human worth when they saw it and who respected achievement.
"Yes," he said heavily, "I got Blum behind the bars and he won't get out again in a hurry."
He said it as though he had personally been responsible for Blum's capture and personally responsible for seeing that the prisoner was kept safely locked up.
"No, he won't, get away on you, Lieutenant Riley," said Chet.
Con Riley's opinion of Chet increase. The boy had mistaken him for a lieutenant. The mistake was natural enough, perhaps, but it would have to be corrected.
"Officer," he pointed out sadly. "Not lieutenant – officer.''
"Do you mean to tell me that you're not a lieutenant?" exclaimed Chet in well-assumed amazement.
"Not yet," replied the officer, leaving the impression, however, that it was only a matter of hours before such promotion should be his in the natural course of events.
Chet turned to his companions.
"Can you imagine that!" he exclaimed ''There's the police force for you. They keep a solid, brainy man like Riley here on the beat and let fellows like Collig be chief. It's wrong, I tell you. It's wrong."
The boys gravely agreed that it was scandalous.
"A man's just got to be patient," said Riley, with the air of a martyr, and beginning to feel ill-used.
"There's a limit to patience!" exclaimed Chet. "They're imposing on you, Mr. Riley, if I were you, I'd insist on my rights."
"Never mind," said Riley darkly. "My turn will come."
"You're just right it will. And we'll see that it comes very soon. Let's try to stir up public opinion, fellows, and see if we can't Influence the public a little bit. If the public demands that Officer Riley be promoted, he'll be promoted."
"Why, that's very good of you," returned Riley pompously. "A few words in the right place mightn't do any harm at all."
|
|
"Those words shall be said," Chet assured him earnestly. "You may depend on us, Mr. Riley. We will see that your qualities of leadership are recognized. You're the only man who can wake this city up."
Con Riley, a trifle dazed by this avalanche of flattery, but nevertheless feeling that every bit of it was deserved and that the boys deserved credit for their perception, beamed with appreciation.
"Why, I never had no idea you lads felt like this," he said. "I always thought you had a sort of grudge against me."
The boys immediately disclaimed any such sentiments.
"We may have been a little bit troublesome at times," agreed Chet regretfully; "but that was because we didn't understand you. After this, you may depend on us. Your time will come, Mr. Riley. Your time will come."
With this fine oratorical effort, Chet produced the package from beneath his arm. "By the way," he said, "I wonder if you would mind guarding this package for me, Mr. Riley? You'll be here for the next ten minutes, won't you?"
A doubt flashed across Riley's mind.
"Why don't your friends look after it?"
"We're all going to be together and we didn't care to wait. If a man by the name of Muggins comes along and asks for it, you'll give it to him, will you?"
Riley took the package. "I'll take care of it," he promised.
"I wouldn't trust it with any one but you," declared Chet solemnly.
"You can trust me. I'll look after it. And if your friend Muggins comes along I'll see that he gets it safely all right."
Chet thanked Riley warmly and the boys hastened off and disappeared around the next corner. Riley, with the package under one arm, leaned against a post and thought well of himself and of the world in general. He completely revised his opinions of boys, and particularly of Chet Morton, whom he now regarded as an exceptionally intelligent lad who would make his mark in the world. Riley was glad that he was able to be of service to Chet by minding the package for him.
The package was not very heavy. Riley was curious as to its contents. Chet had left the impression that it contained something quite valuable. He said he would not trust any one but Riley to guard it. That, in itself, was a compliment.
The late afternoon was warm and as Con Riley leaned against the post and indulged in these pleasant meditations, permitting himself to speculate on what the boys had said about his fitness for promotion, allowing himself to remember how pleasant it had sounded to hear Chet refer to him as "Lieutenant," he became a bit drowsy. He was naturally a sleepy man, and he had long since schooled himself in the art of appearing to be wide awake while on duty while indulging in covert naps of a few minute's duration. The hurrying crowds of people behind him, because it was the five o'clock rush hour, gradually became a blurred impression of tramping feet and chattering voices.
|
|
Suddenly the shrill jangle of an alarm clock sounded.
Riley started violently, straightened up, blinked, and looked behind him.
The alarm clock trilled steadily. Riley looked suspiciously at the people near by and the people looked at one another. He looked up into the air, looked down at the pavement, but still the mysterious alarm clock rattled on.
Then Riley became aware that the alarm clock was in the package under his arm.
At the same time the crowd became aware of the fact as well. Some one tittered; someone else laughed outright.
"Carry your own alarm clock with you now, do you?" asked a man.
Riley felt very foolish. He was tempted to throw the package away, but instead he held it gingerly by the string and pushed his way through the crowd. The unremitting alarm clock rang loudly.
"Time to wake up!" shouted a wit in the crowd.
Riley flushed and hastened on down the street. But the alarm clock shrilled relentlessly. That tinkling bell seemed as though it would ring forever. And as Riley hurried on his way people turned and stared and laughed, and small boys began to follow him, while all the time the bell trilled on without a sign of weakening.
His journey down the street was a triumphal procession. The crowd of small boys following him swelled to the proportions of a parade. The bell rang on. Con Riley was the center of interest. He did not know what to do. If hethrew away the package now it would be an admission that he had been the victim of a practical joke; the longer he kept the package the more the crowd laughed and the louder the bell seemed to ring.
His steps became faster and faster, as though he were trying to run away from the sound. Every one was staring at him in amazement. The giggles and guffaws of the crowd became louder. The shouts of the small boys were more insistent.
Across Con Riley's mind flitted certain phrases of Chet Morton. "Your time will some.... You're the only man who can wake this city up…. We shall see that your qualities of leadership are recognized…"
With a mutter of wrath he flung the tinkling package into the nearest alley. A uniformed street cleaner who was just emerging from the alley received the package full in the chest and sat down very suddenly. He flung the package back at Riley. The crowd whooped with glee. The package fell into the street, the bell still singing, and one of the small boys picked it up and ran after Riley, asking if he wanted it back.
Thus he was pursued to the police station until the bell of the alarm clock ceased to ring, and only then did the crowd scatter.
Mopping his brow, flushed with anger, Riley took refuge in the station and vowed vengeance In the future on all the boys in Bayport, particularly high school boys, most especially Chet Morton's gang, and most absolutely and positively Chet Morton himself.
As for that worthy, in company with his chums, he had witnessed the alarm clock parade from a convenient corner across the street and was now limply making his way toward the Hardys' barn, pausing every now and then to burst into shrieks of laughter at the remembrance of Riley's undignified flight.
But when the Hardy boys and their chums reached the house they found their father fastening down the front steps.
"I just had a telephone message from the police station," he said.
"What's the matter?" asked Frank, while the other lads looked at one another guiltily Had Riley reported them?
"Paul Blum has escaped from jail," said Fenton Hardy.
CHAPTER XV
The Chase
"When?" asked the Hardy boys quickly, in response to their father's announcement of Paul Blum's escape.
"Just a few minutes ago. At least that was when they discovered it. He managed to get out into the jail yard for some exercise, and in some way the guard's attention was distracted. Blum piled up a couple of old boxes against the wall and was over before any one saw him."
"I wonder where he would go?"
"The police are watching the roads and the trains. I don't think he can get out of the city that way. But I have an idea he has accomplices here, and if he can he'll join them and they'll see that he is smuggled out all right, I was going to suggest that you fellows take the motorboat and keep an eye on the bay."
''Good idea!" exclaimed Frank, who never needed an excuse to take the boat onto "Come on, Joe. Come on, Chet."
"I'll go out in dad's boat," volunteered Tony Prito.
"Fine!" agreed the others, and the boys hastened down the street in the direction of the boathouses.
Jerry Gilroy and Biff Hooper went with Tony, while Phil Cohen went with Chet and the Hardy boys.
Frank unlocked the door of the boathouse and went inside, followed by the others.
But the familiar shape of the Sleuth could not be seen.
The front of the boathouse was open. The motorboat had disappeared.
"The boat's gone!" he exclaimed in consternation.
The other boys stared, amazed at this unexpected development.
"It's been stolen!" cried Frank. "No one has a key to the boathouse but Joe and me."
"It was here at noon!" exclaimed Joe. "I was in here for a few minutes before I went to school."
"Who could have taken it?" asked Chet.
"Do you think it could have been Paul Blum?" suggested Joe.
The same thought had been in Frank's mind.
"That's who it was! He wanted to make a quick getaway, so he figured his best chance would be by boat."
"And perhaps he found out where the boathouse was, just so he could get even because we turned him over to the police," Joe put in.
''He can't be very far away." Phil Cohen pointed out. "'Your father said he just escaped a little while ago."
Frank ran along the landing oat to the front of the boathouse. For a moment he scanned the bay. Then he gave a sudden shout.
''I see the boat! There's the Sleuth! I'd know it anywhere!'"
The others ran to his side, and Frank pointed out a flashing white shape heading far up the bay. There were very few boats out that afternoon and there was no mistaking the Sleuth as it sped eastward.
"Get Tony to chase him!" exclaimed Joe. "Quick!"
They ran hurriedly out of the boathouse and made their way down to the ramshackle building where Tony Prito kept his craft. The other boys looked up in surprise as the Hardys and their companions entered. Tony had been just on the point of starting.
"Paul Blum has stolen our boat!" Franks told him. "He's making his getaway in it now!"
''Paul Blum!" exclaimed Tony.
"Yes. The escaped prisoner. There's the boat now," declared Joe, as he pointed out toward the bay.
In a flash, Tony grasped the situation. He leaped into the motorboat.
"Jump in! We'll chase him."
The Hardy boys scrambled into the boat, but Chet and the others stayed behind.
"Too many cooks spoil the broth," explained Chet. "You'll need all the speed yon can get out of that boat to catch him. We'd only delay you."
Chet was eager to join in the chase, but he realized that the fewer passengers Tony's boat carried, the better would be their chance of capturing the fugitive. The other boys quickly took their cue from his attitude and declared that they would remain behind also.
"We'll telephone to Barmet village," suggested Chet. "Perhaps a boat can put out from there and head him off."
His remarks were drowned in the roar of the engine, as Tony's motorboat began to back slowly out into deeper water. It left the boathouse, then Tony turned the wheel and the motorboat headed about for the open bay.
"Now I guess you wish the Sleuth wasn't faster than my boat," he said, with a grin. "We'll have trouble catching him."
He opened the throttle, and the motorboat leaped ahead, leaving a widening trail of loaming water behind.
The white shape of the stolen craft could be seen far out in the bay, Paul Blum was losing no time, and it was evident that his method of escape had not yet been discovered by the police, as Tony's craft was the only boat in pursuit It was doubtful, too, if the fugitive realized as yet that he was being pursued.
"I'll let her out as fast as she'll go," said Tony, suiting the action to the word.
The boat was drumming along at a high rate of speed and it soon became apparent that they were gaining on the Sleuth. This was evidently because Paul Blum thought his flight had passed unnoticed and did not feel is necessary to run the craft at its highest speed.
''If we can only sneak up behind him before he knows we're after him we'll have a chance," said Joe.
"No such luck,'' Tony remarked. ''He'll be looking behind once in a while."
Frank found a pair of binoculars on one oi the seats, and he raised them to his eyes, adjusting them so that Paul Blum and the speeding motorboat were brought within his line of vision. The distant Sleuth leaped closer as he looked through the glasses, and he could plainly see the face of the man at the wheel.
They had not been mistaken. The fugitive was Paul Blum.
Even as Frank looked, the man turned, and an expression of alarm crossed his face. He had seen the motorboat pursuing him.
Frank saw Blum lean forward, and the Sleuth began to increase its speed. The wing of water cleft by its bow became higher and the spray was flying. Swiftly, the motorboat began to draw away.
"He's seen us," said Frank, lowering the binoculars.
"We'll keep after him, anyway."
"We'll chase him clean across the Atlantic if the gas holds out," declared Tony.
Joe gave an exclamation of delight.
"The gas!" he exclaimed. "The gas! That's where we have him. I went down to boathouse at noon just to see if there enough gas in the tank, and it's pretty He hasn't enough to take him more than a few miles."
"Good!" exclaimed Tony. "That's where we have the edge. My boat may not be as fast as the Sleuth but the gas tank's full and there's some more in that can. We'll chase him till he has to quit."
But if the gas in the Sleuth's tank was low, there was no sign of it just then. The motorboat sped on up the bay, gradually widening the distance between itself and the pursuing craft. Tony crouched at the wheel, impassively watching the flashing white streak far ahead.
"I wonder where he's heading for," said Frank.
"Along the coast, probably," Tony answered. "He'll likely get out of the bay, then bead up the coast as far as he can and abandon the boat."
"That's probably what he intends to do," put in Joe. "But he'll never get out of the bay. There isn't enough gas."
It was evident that Paul Blum had no intension of seeking refuge in Barmet village. On the contrary, he was heading toward the other side of the bay, in the direction of the mouth of Willow River.
"Perhaps he intends to go up the river," ventured Frank.
Tony shook his head.
"Not if he knows what's good for him. He'd run full plump into the falls and rapids near the old mill."
"That's right, too." Frank had forgotten those obstacles.
But while the Sleuth was still some distance away from the mouth of the river, her speed began to slacken.
"Good!" exclaimed Joe. "The gas tank's empty."
"Let us hope so," returned his brother. "What a sell for that man!"
But a moment later the other motorboat began to show signs of life again.
"She's started up!" groaned Joe. "Confound the luck, anyway."
A moment later a splutter came from the other boat.
"Gas must be running low," said Frank "Gee, I wish he would stop entirely!"
"Same here."
Slower and slower went the white motorboat until at last it was just crawling along.
Frank picked up the binoculars again.
He could see Paul Blum laboring at the motor, trying to locate the source of trouble. The fugitive cast a glance backward; Frank could see the anxious expression on the man's face.
"He's trapped, and he knows it."
Rapidly, they gained on the Sleuth, which was now almost at a standstill, drifting back and forth in the waves. Paul Blum seized am oar that was carried in the boat in case of emergency, and frantically began to scull to yard the shore.
But his effort was in vain. Tony's motorboat bore swiftly down upon him. The engine of the Sleuth had died.
As the other craft drew alongside, Paul Blum cast aside the oar in admission of defeat. He sat sullenly in the boat without looking up.
"Too bad, Blum!" shouted Frank. "We're going to take you back with us."
"I'd have been all right if it hadn't been for the confounded gas running out," gritted the man.
"We weren't so particular about getting you as we were about getting back our boat," said Joe. "Will you come back quietly?"
Paul Blum shrugged his shoulders.
"I suppose I might as well," he said. "I haven't any weapons. If I had, you may depend on it, I'd put up a fight."
"Just as glad you haven't, then," remarked Tony cheerfully. Carefully, he brought the moat alongside the Sleuth and Frank and Joe jumped over the side into their own craft.
Paul Blum was resigned. He submitted to having his wrists bound with a piece of stout rope that the boys found on the stern of the boat, and then he sat down philosophically.
"I'll get away yet," he told them. "If I can't escape from that jail myself, my friends will see that I get out."
''How will we get back?" asked Frank, turning to Tony.
Paul Blum laughed.
"That's a problem for you," he said. ''The gas tank's empty. What are you going to do about it?"
Tony calmly handed over the can of gasoline from his own boat.
"This should help," he remarked. "I always keep some spare gas on hand."
Paul Blum, beaten, had no more to say, The Hardy boys poured the reserve supply of gasoline into the tank, and in a few minutes the engine was pounding away.
Then, side by side, the two motorboats turned about and put back for Bayport.
CHAPTER XVI
A Plan of Action
The quick work of the Hardy boys and Tony Prito in capturing Paul Blum won them many compliments within the next few days. Even Chief Collig grudgingly admitted that it had been a smart capture. In this he was perhaps largely prompted by a feeling that had Paul Blum made good his escape he, as chief, would have come in for considerable criticism from the townspeople.
As it was, the laxity at the city jail was forgotten in the excitement surrounding the fugitive's return, and Chief Collig was correspondingly relieved. Had Paul Blum not been recaptured, the police force would have had to bear the brunt of public displeasure for having allowed the man to slip through their fingers.
The connection of the Hardy boys with the affair caused many people to recall their previous activities in the Tower Mansion case and the affair of the house on the cliff.
"Those lads will be smart detectives yet," more than one person was heard to remark.
Nothing could have pleased the boys more than recognition of the fact that they showed some ability in the profession of their famous father, and, in the light of their recent successes, even Mrs. Hardy was beginning to abandon her prejudices against their desire to be some day more than amateur detectives.
But although Paul Blum was safe in jail, counterfeit money was still being circulated in Bayport and Barmet village.
Hardly a day passed that some one did not report to the police or to the banks that they had been the unwitting victims of the counterfeiters by cashing or accepting spurious bills. In one instance it was a garage owner who had changed a twenty dollar bill for a passing motorist who bought gasoline and oil. In another instance even the steamship ticket office had accepted a false five dollar bill for a ticket and the mistake had not been discovered until the following day. When the ticket, which was bought at a cost of eighty cents, was traced by its number it was found that it had never been presented on the steamboat.
So many instances came to light that the entire city was on guard against the counterfeiters, but so excellent were the imitation bills and so plausible were the excuses of those who sought to pass them on that many people were victimized in spite of their caution.
In some cases, merchants were handed Counterfeit bills by respectable citizens of Bayport, people who were above reproach, and when the fact was pointed out, the would-be customers explained that they had received the money in good faith from equally reputable citizens. Often the original source of the bad money could not be traced, the counterfeit bills had passed through so many different hands without being discovered.
The boys talked the matter over several times with their father, and one day Fenton Hardy took them into his confidence.
"Don't tell anybody," he said, "but the Federal agents have come across some evidence which makes them think the counterfeiting plant is located somewhere near Barmet village."
"Have they got any definite idea, dad?" asked Joe eagerly.
"They think it is tip in the woods – maybe at some farmhouse. You know the country over on the other side of the bay is pretty wild. There would be plenty of hiding places there for counterfeiters."
Mr. Hardy spoke of several places that were being watched, but he admitted that so far the Federal agents had unearthed little of practical value.
They know that most of the bad money is circulated in this vicinity and in and around Boston," he concluded. "It's just possible the plant may be in the Hub." There the talk came to an end and the boys walked away as they knew their father was getting ready for a hurried trip to the city.
"It's a good chance for us to do some real detective work," said Frank to his brother one afternoon after school, as they were in the gymnasium in the barn back of the Hardy home. "The whole city is worked up over this counterfeit money business."
"Smarter detectives than we are are working on the case," Joe pointed out, "but they haven't found much yet."
"Paul Blum won't talk. If we could get something out of him we might have a clue to go on."
"He won't say a word. It's my opinion he doesn't know much about the source of the counterfeit money, anyway. I think he was only an agent sent out to dispose of as much of it as he could. They probably have a dozen men traveling around the country passing off these bad bills. Once the money gets into circulation it's liable to pass through a dozen hands before it is discovered."
"Perhaps that man who stung the garage owner for twenty dollars had no idea the money was bad. And perhaps it's the same way with the fellow who bought the ticket at the steamboat office."
"It's queer that most of the fuss is being raised right around this city. You don't hear much about it from other places."
"It's my idea," said Frank, "that the counterfeiters have their plant right in this vicinity."
"Do you think so?"
"Just as you said – most of the counterfeit money seems to be passed in and around Bayport."
"Where do you think they could be making the stuff?"
Frank shrugged.
"You never can tell. Perhaps in some cellar of one of the downtown buildings, for all we know. Personally, I've got an idea. It may be foolish, but I've been turning it over in my head for a few days, and the more I think of it, the more reasonable it seems."
"Spring it."
"You remember the day we were at the old mill?"
"I'll say I do! Those fellows wouldn't let me dry my clothes in the mill after I'd fished that precious kid out of the water."
"But one of them offered us a reward, didn't he?"
"Oh, well – you can't take a reward for that."
"That isn't what I'm getting at. Do you remember how the other man grabbed the bills out of his hand and turned his back to us?"
"Sure! He said he wanted to see if they were fives or ones. But it was rather funny that he turned his back to us. I thought so at the time. Still, he offered the money to us again."
"But was it the same money?"
Joe was silent. The idea had not occurred to him before.
"Do you mean," he said at last, "that perhaps the fellow changed the bills while he had his back turned?"
"Exactly."
"But why should he do that?"
"Don't you see? Perhaps the first bills were counterfeit. Perhaps the man thought that if we took the counterfeit bills and later found out that they weren't good, we would remember where they came from and start an investigation. This is only a theory, remember; but perhaps the reason he took the bills from the 'man they called Dock was to change them for good bills, so that we would have no cause for suspicion.''
Joe nodded reflectively.
"By gosh, Frank, there may be something to your idea, after all. Say! Perhaps that's where the counterfeiting plant is. Right in the old mill!"
"That's just what I've been driving at. There's something fishy about the old mill, for all their story that they're making a patent kind of breakfast food. That may be true, of course, but still –"
"They didn't look very much like scientists to me."
"To me, either."
"But how can we find out anything more about the place than we know already? They won't let any one inside the mill, and it's quite evident that they don't want any one around the place at all."
"What made me suspicious," said Frank, "was the fact that Paul Blum seemed to be heading for the mouth of Willow River that afternoon he got away in the motorboat. I began to wonder later if he might have been intending to make his way up as far as the old mill. Perhaps he is connected with the gang."
"It looks reasonable. But if we show our noses around there they'll just chase us away."
"There's Lester."
"Lester?"
"The boy we saved from drowning. We have him on our side anyway, I think. If we haven't, he must be a very ungrateful beggar. I'd just like to ask him a few questions about this patent breakfast food yarn."
"That's a good idea!" cried Joe. "If he tells us any kind of story at all we can soon tell if he's lying or not. But, somehow, I don't think he would lie to us. He seemed to me to be a pretty decent sort of boy."
"That's what I thought of him too. Chances are, if these men are counterfeiters, they're keeping him there as a prisoner. He might be only too glad to tell what he knows, if given a chance."
"And if it turns out that those men really are scientists and that the mill is really being used for this breakfast food stunt, we won't be making ourselves foolish by poking around and perhaps getting into all sorts of trouble for suspecting they were counterfeiters."
Frank nodded.
"That was my idea in suggesting Lester. We have to work pretty carefully, for it wouldn't do to start a hue-and-cry and find out that those fellows really are scientists after all. But what do you say to taking the motorcycles to-morrow morning and going up to the old mill to see if we can get to talking to the boy?"
"I'm game. To-morrow's Saturday. Even if the men at the mill do see us they'll think we're just out on a holiday outing. There's no law against going near the old mill, even if they don't want strangers around."
So the arrangement was made, and the Hardy boys laid their plans for a visit to the old mill on the following day. Each felt that there was something suspicious about the place, some mystery that was not entirely nor satisfactorily solved by the breakfast-food explanation. If they could only talk to Lester, who was already under obligation to them for having saved his life, they felt that they would go a long way toward verifying or dispelling their suspicions regarding the three men who were the present occupants of the mill.
CHAPTER XVII
What Lester Said
The Hardy boys set out for the old mill the following morning.
They went up the shore road by motorcycle, then turned on to the deserted loop that led to the mill on the banks of the Willow River. When they came within sight of the river they left their motorcycles under some trees by the roadside, and went on their way on foot.
They had brought fishing poles and fishing tackle with them.
"We might as well enjoy ourselves while we're on the trip," Frank had said, in making this suggestion. "Besides, it gives us an excuse for being near the mill. There always was good fishing down by the pool near the mill race."
They came out of the woods some distance above the mill and began to fish, working their way slowly down the river. By the time they and come within sight of the mill, Frank had caught two fish and Joe had caught one.
The mill wheel was revolving slowly and they could hear the muffled sound of machinery within the building. Down by the pool they could see a lone figure moving about.
"I believe that's Lester!" exclaimed Joe.
"That's who it is, all right," agreed his brother, after a glance. "And he's fishing, too."
Lester was standing on the bank of the pool, a fishing rod in his hand. But he did not seem to be very enthusiastic about the sport, for there was little eagerness in his expression as he eyed the motionless float on top of the water.
Frank and Joe came slowly down the bank toward him, and he looked up at their approach. He recognized them immediately and a smile came over his face.
"Hello!" he said shyly.
"Hello, Lester," they greeted him. "Any luck?"
"None yet," admitted the lad. "I don't care for fishing, anyway."
"There's supposed to be plenty of fish in this pool," Frank told him.
Lester shrugged his shoulders.
"I suppose so. I've caught quite a few. But when you haven't anything to do but fish all day long you don't care for it so much."
"Is that all you do?" asked Joe.
"That's all. It's mighty lonesome living at this old mill all the time."
"Why don't you go down to the city once in a while?"
"Uncle Dock won't let me."
The boy was evidently lonely and glad to see them. He sat down on the bank and forgot his fishing in his delight at being able to tall to boys of his own age.
"Do you go to school?" he asked wistfully.
The Hardy boys nodded.
"Every day?"
"Every day but Saturdays and Sundays."
"I wish I could go to school. You fellows are lucky."
Joe and Frank looked at one another. This was the first time they had ever met any one who considered that they were fortunate in being able to go to school.
"I suppose we are," admitted Frank, with a smile. "Although sometimes we don't think so."
"Are there lots of other fellows at the school?"
"Quite a few."
Lester sighed.
"Gee, I wish I could go," he said. "But Uncle Dock won't let me go anywhere."
"Where did you come from?" asked Frank.
"Washington. But even there I didn't know any of the boys. Uncle Dock keeps me with him all the time. But he says we'll be rich some day and then I can have all the friends I want."
"What does your uncle do for a living?" inquired Joe.
"Why, he runs the mill," answered the boy, evidently surprised by the question.
"But what does he make? Breakfast food?"
"I don't know. I don't know much about it. Uncle Dock never tells me anything."
"Did he move any new machinery into the mill?" asked Frank.
"Oh, when we first came here there was a lot of new machinery put in. It's all in a back room."
"What does it look like?" Joe inquired lazily.
"I've never seen it. It's in a stone room, and they keep the door locked all the time. Uncle Dock boxed my ears once when he saw me near the door."
"Have you ever seen any of the breakfast food?"
The boy shook his head.
"I've never seen any yet."
"Do they ship it all out?"
Lester hesitated.
"Once in a while Mr. Markel goes into the city with some packages. But they're never very large."
"Is Mr. Markel related to you?"
"No. I never saw the other two men before Uncle Dock brought me here."
"Is he your real uncle?"
"Oh, yes. He has looked after me for about a year now, ever since my father died."
"Is he good to you?" asked Frank.
"Sometimes. But he won't let me go to school or have any friends, and if I don't do just as he says, he beats me."
"What did he do when he lived in Washington?" inquired Joe. "Did he make breakfast food there, too?"
The boy laughed.
"He didn't do very much of anything. He used to go out at night a lot and leave me all alone. Sometimes he wouldn't come back until nearly morning. He told me he was working in a factory. But sometimes funny looking men would call on him and they'd talk for a long while."
"And he's never told you anything about the breakfast food?"
"Nothing."
"How long do you think you'll be here?"
"I don't know. Uncle Dock says we may be here for a month yet. But he always has a valise packed so we can go any time."
The Hardy boys looked at one another significantly.
Was the patent breakfast food enterprise legitimate or illegitimate?
From what the boy had said, there appeared to be grounds for suspicion. It did not seem that Uncle Dock was a scientist after all.
"I wish we were rich now," said Lester, "I'd like to go away from here and go to school. I wish Uncle Dock would move into Bayport so I could go to school with you fellows. But I guess there isn't much chance of that."
"Your uncle is pretty sure he's going to be rich?" said Frank.
"Oh, yes. He has told me often that we'd be rich some day and that I could have all the friends I wanted then."
"He must expect the breakfast food to be a success."
"I suppose so."
"Has he ever bought any grain from the farmers around here?" inquired Joe.
The boy shook his head.
"No. Some people tried to sell grain to him but he wouldn't buy it."
"Then what is he making the breakfast food out of?"
The boy shrugged his shoulders indifferently.
"I don't know," he answered vaguely. "I don't know much about it. He never tells me anything and he never lets me into the workroom."
That was the sum and substance of Lester's knowledge of the activities of his Uncle Dock and his two associates. The boy did not seem to object to being questioned; it was plain that he was so lonesome that he welcomed the opportunity of talking to some one. And the more the Hardy boys interrogated him the more convinced they were that their suspicions of Uncle Dock and the other two men were not unfounded.
"Doesn't he make you do any work?" asked Frank.
"I have to chop wood once in a while, and bring water up from the spring. But there's not much to do. It's pretty dull here. I wish there was more work for me to do. But mostly I just fish and swim and hang around."
"Doesn't he let you help him in the mill?"
"No. I've offered to help, but none of them will let me come into the workroom."
"Workroom? Don't they use the whole mill?"
"Only the stone room where the new machinery is."
"And the old machinery isn't being used at all?"
"No."
At that moment there was an interruption. I shout from the mill attracted their attention and, looking up, they saw Uncle Dock standing in the doorway.
"Lester!" he bellowed angrily.
"Yes?"
''Come up here this minute," ordered the old man. He left the door and came down the slope toward the river.
"Now I'm in for it," said the boy. "I suppose he'll be angry now because I was talking to you."
Uncle Dock was indeed angry. As he came up to the group he was muttering beneath his breath.
"Get back up to the mill, you young rascal!" he ordered, giving Lester a cuff on the side of the head. "How often have I told you not to be talking to strangers. You talk too much altogether. Get back up to the mill and stay there."
"We were just chatting –" began the boy, but Uncle Dock silenced him with a blow.
With an appealing glance at the Hardy boys, Lester began to make his way back up the slope toward the mill. Uncle Dock turned toward Joe and Frank, surveying them resentfully.
"What are you doing, loafing around here?" he demanded.
"We're not loafing. We have been fishing in the river," said Frank. "Not that it's any of your business, so far as I can see."
"I'll marked it my business," thundered Uncle Dock. "You two fellows had better stay away from here after this. We don't want you hanging around here."
"The river is free," Joe reminded him.
"Keep away from around this mill or I’ll make it hot for you. What was that rascal of a boy telling you?"
"We were just talking," replied Frank evasively.
"Well, don't talk to him again. I don't want him mixing up with all the riff-raff of the country and talking to every Tom, Dick and Harry that comes around. I'll thank you to stay away from here after this."
Whereupon Uncle Dock, still grumbling indignantly, went stamping up the slope again toward the mill. The Hardy boys, not a bit alarmed by the outburst, but feeling that they had gained valuable information that day, began to move slowly down the river bank away from the vicinity of the old mill.
CHAPTER XVIII
Suspicions
"What do you think, Joe?" asked Frank, as they were speeding back to Bayport on their motorcycles.
"I don't think Uncle Dock is a scientist any more than I am."
"That's my opinion, too. Why should they have so much secrecy about a new kind of breakfast food? Why won't they even let Lester into the workroom with them?"
''Something fishy about it. And it's plain by now that Uncle Dock doesn't like strangers around the place."
"That poor kid must lead a lonely life with that gang. It's a wonder he doesn't run away from them."
"He has no place else to go, I suppose. He seems a nice sort of chap, too," Joe answered.
"Well, we didn't get anything definite from him, but we know enough to make us mighty auspicious of what's going on in that old mill."
"I'd just like to get a look at that machinery in the secret room the boy mentioned."
Frank was silent for a while.
"I wish Uncle Dock hadn't seen us there today. It'll make it awkward now if we ever go back. He has told us to stay away, and now he'll be suspicious if he ever sees us around there again."
"We might tell dad what we know about the place.''
But Frank vetoed this suggestion.
"I'd rather work along our own lines until we get something more definite," he said. "If we get some real evidence we can tell dad about it. So far we have nothing to go on but our own suspicions."
All the way back to Bayport, the Hardy boys discussed the various aspects of the case, and although they agreed that the mysterious activities of the three men at the old mill tended to indicate almost anything but scientific endeavors, they realized that if they investigated too thoroughly they might get into serious trouble.
"We'll just wait a while and keep our ears open," Frank decided. "If those fellows are in the counterfeiting game they'll do something to give themselves away. And then we'll be right on the job."
When the boys arrived home they amused themselves in the gymnasium in the barn for some time, had an impromptu boxing match and finally, after a shower bath, went down street. It was a sleepy Saturday afternoon and the city was very quiet.
"Nothing much doing around here," remarked Frank. "We should have stayed out in the country."
"We could go out in the motorboat for a while."
"Fine. Let's go."
But at that moment they heard the whistle of the afternoon express. Like most boys, they had a weakness for trains. There was a fascination about the great locomotives that held them spellbound and they liked nothing better than to watch the trains that passed through Bayport and to speculate on the towns and cities they had come from or were bound for. At times when school became exceptionally distasteful they had often gone down to the railway station and wished they could board the first train that came by, to travel on to strange countries. Somehow, they had never been so daring as to do this, common sense invariably coming to the rescue, but the lure of locomotives and shining rails still held them in its grasp.
They moved down the street toward the station and came out on the platform just as the express was pulling in. Idly, they watched the few passengers who emerged from the coaches, envied the engineer who was lolling majestically in the cab, watched the conductor in his smart uniform, and looked at the people who were boarding the train.
Suddenly Frank nudged his brother.
"Isn't that Markel?" he asked.
Joe followed his glance. Near the steps of one of the Pullman coaches was a familiar figure, with cap pulled down over his eyes. There was no mistaking the fellow; he was indeed Markel, one of the associates of Uncle Dock at the old mill.
What particularly attracted the boys' attention, however, was the fact that Markel carried a bulky paper package under his arm.
He had not seen them, but there was something so furtive in his manner that the Hardy boys made themselves as inconspicuous as possible in the shadow of one of the pillars near by.
Markel lounged about near the coach, now and then glancing up anxiously, as though expecting some one.
Within a few minutes, just as the conductor shouted, "All aboard!" a tall, thin-faced man with a neat black mustache, emerged from the coach. He glanced hastily down at Markel, nodded swiftly, said something in a low tone, and Markel forthwith handed him the package. The tall man snatched it from his grasp, turned and retreated quickly into the coach again.
Markel, as soon as this transaction had been completed gave a shrug of his shoulders as though he had been relieved of an unpleasant burden, turned swiftly on his heel and walked away. He disappeared into the station just as the train began to pull out.
The whole affair had occupied but a few seconds and had passed almost unnoticed by any one on the platform save the Hardy boys. Any who may have noticed the handing over of the package doubtless attached little importance to it. The Hardy boys themselves would not have given it more than a passing glance had it not been for Markel's connection with the mystery of the old mill.
"What do you make of that, Frank?"
"Markel must have passed on a sample of the new breakfast food."
"He seemed mighty secretive about it."
"I'll say he did. You'd think it was a bomb he was handing over instead of breakfast food. He waited until the train was just pulling out before the other man came for it.
"No breakfast food about that performance."
"I don't think so either. Evidently Markel and the gang are in touch with some one in the city. You remember that Lester said Markel came into Bayport every little while with a package under his arm. That must have been one of them."
"Well, that's a little more evidence to go on."
"Give them enough rope and they'll hang themselves. I'll just bet dollars to doughnuts that there is counterfeit money in that package instead of breakfast food. This man Markel looks to me like a crook, and his tall friend on the train didn't look any too trustworthy either. My idea is that they are using the mill as a plant where they turn out the money, then they give it to one of their men on the train and he takes it to some other city for distribution."
"That looks like it," Joe agreed. "You could tell that Markel had something on his conscience when he handed that package over. He looked mighty shifty about it."
The boys walked back down the street, still discussing the events of the day. They spent the rest of the afternoon out in Barmet Bay, in the Sleuth. For the time being, they dismissed the affair of the mill from their minds, being content, as Frank had said, that the counterfeiters, if they were such, would ultimately betray themselves.
When they returned home that evening for supper they did not tell their father what they had learned. But Fenton Hardy himself brought up the question of counterfeit money when he told them that he had that afternoon received a telegram from Federal authorities asking him to further his investigations.
They have evidence that more than ten thousand dollars in counterfeit money was put into circulation within the past three days," he told the boys. "The affair is going beyond all bounds."
"And Paul Blum is still silent?" asked Frank.
"Can't get a word out of him. I'm inclined to believe he doesn't know anything about the men who are at the head of the organization. I think he was only a tool, employed to get the money in circulation. But I wish you two lads would keep on the lookout for any clues. It will help me a lot if we can run these counterfeiters to earth. Then, besides, there is a big reward."
"We'll do our best," they promised.
And, secretly, they wondered what Fenton Hardy would think if he knew how much work they had already put on the case and how much evidence they had already gathered, tending to indicate that the old mill on the Willow River was in some way connected with the activities of the counterfeiting gang.
"If you can get anything definite in this case," said Fenton Hardy, with a smile, "I'll be ready to admit that you have some abilities as detectives –"
"Fenton, don't encourage them," objected Mrs. Hardy.
"Nonsense, Laura," he replied. "If they want to be detectives and if they have the talent for it, you might as well try to keep water from running downhill as to stop them. They've done good work on two difficult cases already."
"And I have a hunch that we'll do something on this case, too," said Frank, with confidence.
CHAPTER XIX
The Bug Buyer
Two days later an event occurred that wrought the activities of the counterfeiters much closer home.
Frank and Joe returned from school on Monday afternoon to find their mother in a state of great agitation. The moment they entered the house they could tell that something unusual had happened, for Mrs. Hardy was sitting by the living-room table gazing disconsolately at a great heap of bills in her lap.
"Where'd you get all the money, mother?" asked Frank, jokingly at first. But his expression became serious when he saw the anxiety and distress in Mrs. Hardy's face. Her fingers were trembling as she picked up the bills and put them on the table.
"What's the matter?" asked Joe quickly, "What's wrong?"
Mrs. Hardy got up and walked across the room toward the window. She looked out at the street for a while, then turned to her sons.
"You didn't see a foreign rug buyer around the streets this afternoon, did you?" she asked them.
The Hardy boys shook their heads.
"Just came from school," they told her. "We didn't meet anybody on the way." Suddenly Frank glanced at the floor. "Why, you've sold the rug!" he exclaimed, in surprise.
The living-room floor had hitherto been covered by a valuable old Persian rug, as soft as moss. It had been bought by Mr. Hardy when on a trip to the city, but Mrs. Hardy had never cared for it. Fenton Hardy had thought to surprise his wife when he brought the rug home, but in a masculine indifference to color schemes he had neglected to see to it that the rug matched the rest of the room. Its color was not what Mrs. Hardy wanted, and inasmuch as the rug had been purchased at an exclusive sale, they had found it impossible to exchange it at the time.
Mrs. Hardy had always said that if she had an opportunity she would get rid of the rug and purchase something different. However the opportunity was long in coming. Although she had received several offers for it, none of these had been for more than five hundred dollars.
"And," as she said, "I refuse to sell a nine hundred dollar rug for that price."
Now, as the Hardy boys noticed, the rug was gone.
"How much did you get for it?" asked Joe eagerly.
"I gave it away."
"Gave it away?" they exclaimed.
Mrs. Hardy nodded.
"Not intentionally. I've been cheated."
"How?" demanded Frank quickly.
Mrs. Hardy motioned toward the money.
"I've just been to the hank to deposit that money –"
"You don't mean to say it's counterfeit?"
"So the bank cashier told me."
Frank sat down heavily in the nearest chair.
"Well I'll be gosh-hanged!" he exclaimed. "How did this happen? How much did they siting you for?"
"Eight hundred dollars," answered Mrs. Hardy gravely.
Joe whistled in surprise.
"How did it happen?"
"He came here shortly after you hoys left for school,'' began Mrs. Hardy. "It must have been a little before two o'clock."
"Who came here?"
"The rug buyer. He was a queer little fellow, very short and dark. He was a foreigner, you could tell by his appearance. He didn't speak very good English. He was dark and swarthy, with little, keen black eyes. He came up to the front door and asked me if I wanted to buy rugs. When I told him that I didn't want to buy he asked if I had any to sell. He said he was a traveling rug merchant and that he went from city to city, buying and selling and trading rugs."
"So you told him about the living-room rug?" suggested Frank.
"I just thought of it then, and I thought it might be a good chance to get rid of it and perhaps get a better rug in its stead. I mentioned that I had a rug that I might sell, but I told him I didn't think he could pay the price."
"And he asked to see it anyway?" Frank went on.
"When I told him I didn't think he could buy it he merely laughed in a very shrewd sort of way and said that money was no object to him, that he had bought rugs costing as much as two thousand dollars and turned them over at a profit. So I asked him to come into the house and the moment he saw the rug he admired it very much. He asked me how much I wanted for it, so I told him I wanted nine hundred dollars. Of course, I didn't expect to get that much, because that is all the rug cost, but these fellows always haggle over price, so it's best to name a good stiff figure right at the start."
The Hardy hoys smiled at this evidence of their mother's shrewdness.
"He said he wouldn't give me nine hundred dollars hut he offered seven hundred dollars. I told him that his price was ridiculous, but asked if he had any rugs he wanted to trade for it. He looked rather dubious when I mentioned a trade, and said that while he carried some medium priced rugs with him he carried nothing that could equal the one I wished to sell."
"Did he say where he kept these other rugs?" Frank asked.
"He said they were at his hotel but that his more valuable rugs were all in the city and that it would take a day or so before he could have them sent here. However, he said that he would buy the rug from me for eight hundred dollars and take a chance on being able to sell me a good rug when he should have them sent down from the city."
"Fair enough," remarked Joe.
"It seemed fair enough to me, for of course the rug was worth only about eight hundred dollars, perhaps less, because it has been used for several months. I was under no obligation to buy a new rug from him unless I wished, so I accepted his offer and he paid me the money."
"Eight hundred dollars!"
"In cash. He seemed to carry a great deal of money in a heavy leather wallet. He gave me the money in fifties and fives, and I thought very well of myself for making such a good bargain."
"Until you came to bank the money," Frank said.
"Until I came to bank the money. The cashier glanced at the bills, then told me he was sorry, but that he couldn't accept them. For a moment I didn't understand him, because I had forgotten all about this scare about counterfeit money and hadn't given the matter a thought. Then he told me that the bills were counterfeit. So there was nothing left for me to do but come back home, realizing that I had been very neatly tricked."
"But perhaps you haven't been tricked after all," suggested Frank. "It may be possible that the rug buyer didn't realize the money was bad. Did he say what hotel he was staying at?"
"Yes, he told me, but I called up the police and asked them to find him for me. They investigated and found that there had been no rug buyer staying at that hotel all week, nor at any other hotel in Bayport, so far as they could find."
"That doesn't look so good."
"What's more, they made inquiries at the Station and found that a man answering to his description had taken the early afternoon train out. He took the rug with him – not only my rug, but a rug that he had bought from another woman in Bayport."
"He'll probably sell them in some other town."
"Just what he did. They found that he had bought a ticket to the next city but when they got in touch with the police there they found that he had sold the two rugs to a wholesale firm and disappeared. He sold my rug for five hundred dollars, and the other one for three hundred dollars."
"Did he give the other woman counterfeit money, too?"
"Yes."
"He cleaned up on that afternoon's work," remarked Frank. "He didn't lose any time in getting away, either."
"If I had only gone to the bank early it might have been different," said Mrs. Hardy. "As it was, I got there only a few minutes before three o'clock, and by the time I got in touch with the police and by the time they had tried to trace the man here and later found where he had gone – you know how slow they are – it was too late."
"I guess there's no chance of seeing him back in two days with the rug he wanted to sell you," observed Frank "Either he is in league with the counterfeiters or else he was stung himself for a lot of counterfeit money and decided to get rid of it as smoothly as possible."
Mrs. Hardy was downcast.
"I should have been on my guard," she said 'There has been so much of this bad money going around that I should have been on watch for it, especially with a big sum like eight hundred dollars. It's my own fault, I suppose, but it's hard to lose that much money." She glanced at the heap of bills on the table. "It's not worth the paper it's printed on."
Frank picked up one of the bills and examined it.
"Looks just like the five that the fellow passed on to Jo