The Sinister Signpost (2 page)

INSTANTLY the room was filled with thick, boiling clouds of smoke.

“What happened?” Joe shouted.

“It must have been a bomb!” Frank cried out.

The Hardys held their breaths and groped their way through the choking smoke. There was no sign of fire. Frank, Joe, and their father soaked handkerchiefs with water, held them over their faces, then began flinging open all the windows on the second floor. Gradually the smoke cleared.

“Eek!” they heard a woman scream. The boys turned to see the tall, angular form of their Aunt Gertrude rushing up the stairs, followed closely by Mrs. Hardy.

“Everything's all right!” Frank announced, in an effort to calm the women.

“Smoke!” Aunt Gertrude cried. “Call the fire department! Call the police! Do something!”

“No need to get excited,” Mr. Hardy said. “There's no fire. Please go back downstairs. We'll explain everything later.”

The boys dashed from the house to look for the thrower of the smoke bomb. Not finding him, the young detectives searched in a widening circle. Presently Frank noticed a small glittering object some distance away. He ran to the spot and picked it up.

“Take a look at this!” he called to his brother.

“Why—it's a rifle cartridge case,” Joe said as he examined Frank's discovery.

“Let's show it to Dad.”

The boys returned to their father's study. Mr. Hardy was examining fragments of the bomb. He held up a metal tube about a foot long. “This is all that's left of what I'm certain was a rifle grenade.”

Frank's eyes widened with astonishment. “A rifle grenade?” he echoed.

“Yes,” Mr. Hardy replied. “The explosive section is attached to one end of this tube. The other end fits over the muzzle of a rifle. It's then fired from the weapon by means of a blank cartridge shell.”

“A shell like this?” Frank said, handing his father the cartridge case he had picked up.

An expression of surprise spread across the older detective's face. “Exactly!” he declared, studying the small object. “Where did you find this?”

“Just a few yards beyond our own grounds,” Frank said. “That explains why we saw no footprints on our property.”

Mr. Hardy handed his sons a fragment of paper. “This was tied to the shaft of the smoke grenade,” he told them.

Frank and Joe were amazed to find that it was a handwritten message which read:

“Leaping lizards!” Joe exclaimed. “We haven't even started on the case yet, and already we're being threatened!”

“This is something we can't ignore,” Mr. Hardy said. “We'll have to be extra cautious. And as for your mother and aunt, I'm going to ask them to take a little trip. We can't risk leaving them alone in the house.”

During supper the two women rebuked the boys' father for suggesting that they go away.

“Would a sea captain be the first to leave his sinking ship?” Aunt Gertrude exclaimed. “Not on your life! I, for one, will not budge from this house!”

Mr. Hardy's sister, unmarried, had a peppery temperament. She was always quick to express her opinions openly, and often made dire predictions about the horrible fate awaiting all detectives.

“We know you're concerned for our safety,” Mrs. Hardy added in her soft-spoken voice. “But we will not leave here.”

“Well—all right,” her husband conceded reluctantly. “However, I'm going to call Chief Collig at headquarters and request that a couple of guards be posted near the house day and night.”

The next day, Saturday, Mr. Hardy and the boys had an early breakfast. Then, after driving to the Morton farm to pick up Chet, they headed for Alden's private race track near Clayton.

“I can't wait to see the stock-car competitions,” Chet said as he peeled a large banana. “In fact, I've been thinking of getting into the sport myself. There's an old car in my father's barn I'm planning to fix up.”

“Oh-oh,” Joe remarked jokingly. “That's one hobby you had better stay away from.”

“Don't worry,” Frank added with a laugh. “Chet's car will end up as a diner on wheels, rather than a threat to the racing world.”

“Cut the small talk,” their friend retorted. “You two masterminds are jealous because I'm the daredevil type. We're a species that eat more because we need tons of energy.”

The Hardys and Chet arrived at the track in less than an hour. The area was a beehive of activity. Bright-colored stock cars and dragsters gleamed in the sun as drivers prepared their vehicles for the day's competitions.

“You fellows enjoy yourselves looking at some of these cars,” Mr. Hardy said. “I'll locate Mr. Alden and bring him back here.”

“Okay, Dad.”

The boys began to stroll around the area. Suddenly Joe grabbed his brother's arm and exclaimed, “There's the dragster that rammed us!”

“It sure looks like it,” Frank agreed. “Same color. But let's not jump to conclusions. We'll ask the driver some questions first.”

The Hardys and Chet walked toward the dragster. A slim, sandy-haired young man was working on the engine of the car.

“Are you the owner of this dragster?” Frank queried.

“Yeah,” the young man sneered. “What's it to you?”

“Now hold on!” Joe interjected. “No need to get hot about it. He just asked a simple question.”

“Were you driving along Shore Road in Bayport yesterday?” Frank continued.

The drag-strip racer hesitated a moment. “Why don't you guys take a walk?” he shot back finally. “Especially the fat one with you. He looks like he could use some exercise.”

“Who do you think you're talking to?” Chet snapped.

“Just a second,” Joe said. He ran his hand around the outer surface of the vehicle's left rear wheel. “The wall of this tire is roughed up. It must have rubbed hard against something.”

“Such as our car!” Frank stated.

“Get away from that wheel!” the young man growled.

He gave Joe a shove that sent the boy crashing to the ground. Like a flash Joe was up on his feet. He rushed at his attacker and pinned his opponent's arms behind his back in a jujitsu maneuver.

“Let me go!” the young man cried.

At that moment Mr. Hardy appeared with Keith Alden. He was a tall, slim man with patrician features. His dark hair was slightly gray at the temples.

Mr. Alden looked troubled “What's going on here?” he demanded.

“Are you boys having trouble?” Mr. Hardy asked quickly.

The car manufacturer spoke to Joe in a displeased voice. “Why are you holding onto my son like that?”

“Your—your son?” Frank stammered.

Joe released his grip on the young man.

“Yes,” Alden continued. “This is my son Roger”

Mr. Hardy introduced his client to the boys. Except for Roger, everyone was mutually embarrassed.

“These guys,” the young man shouted, “are trying to pin some sort of car accident on me!”

Alden eyed Roger suspiciously. “I don't think the Hardy boys would accuse anyone without good reason. If you were involved in an accident, it wouldn't be the first time.”

Frank and Joe glanced at each other. It seemed wise not to force the issue. They told Mr. Alden about their encounter with a dragster the previous day, but could not say for certain that the driver of the bright-orange car was Roger.

“Then only my son can clear up this matter,” Alden said. He put the question to Roger.

The young man became even more arrogant. “I didn't ram into anybody's car, and I never heard of Shore Road!”

His father was in a quandary. Finally he said, “Until this matter can be investigated further, I forbid you to drive your dragster in the competitions today.”

“We'll see about that!” Roger muttered defiantly. He glared at the Hardys, then turned and walked off at a furious pace.

“I don't know what to do about my son,” Alden said with remorse. “His mother died several years ago, and I haven't been able to spend much time with him. He's been getting more difficult to live with every day.”

“I'm sure he'll straighten out,” Mr. Hardy remarked sympathetically.

“I hope so,” Alden replied. Suddenly his mood changed. He turned to Frank and Joe. “Now down to business. Your father tells me you two are going to work with him on the case,” he said.

“That's right,” Frank replied.

“Excellent! I'm sure you have some questions of your own you'll want to ask me. However, I must fly to Washington immediately after the competitions. How about all of us meeting in my office Monday morning?”

The Hardys nodded.

Alden looked at his wrist watch. “It is time for me to get to my post. I'm the official timekeeper for the stock-car runs. Perhaps you would like to join me out on the track.”

“Would we!” the boys answered excitedly.

As they started to Walk off, Frank bent down and picked up a small packet which had fallen from his brother's pocket during the scuffle. It was Joe's detective kit. Each of the Hardys carried one. Among the items that had spilled out was a magnifying glass and a metal signaling mirror. He handed the kit to Joe.

Suddenly a voice crackled from the loudspeaker of the P.A. system.

“The first trial run will be made by car number twenty-two. The driver is Roger Alden!”

“What!” exploded Alden. “How did he get his hands on a car? I must stop him! Roger doesn't have enough experience for closed-circuit racing!”

ALDEN rushed toward the starting line with the Hardys close at his heels.

“Stop that car!” he shouted.

But it was too late. Roger roared off.

“Flag that car down!” Alden ordered one of the track officials.

“I'll try to signal him with my mirror when he comes along the straightaway,” Joe said.

Frank and Joe ran alongside the track opposite to the direction Roger was headed. They watched him as he skidded dangerously on the far turn.

“Did you see that?” Frank yelled.

“Yes. He took that curve too fast.”

The boys hurried down the straightaway. As Roger came around the second far turn, his car spun out of control and crashed through the fence on the sideline. A huge geyser of dust erupted from the spot.

Frank and Joe rushed to the scene of the accident. An ambulance sped by them with its siren screaming. They arrived just as two white-coated men were helping Roger move away from the damaged vehicle.

“Is he hurt?” Joe asked quickly.

“No,” one of the men replied. “He's lucky. I think he just had the wind knocked out of him. But we'll take him to the hospital for an examination, anyway.”

Shortly Roger's father and Mr. Hardy came running up.

“Are you all right?” Alden asked his son nervously.

“I—I guess so,” Roger gasped, still trying to catch his breath. Then he glared at the Hardys and pointed an accusing finger at them. “You guys are the cause of this!” he screamed. “You reflected sunlight into my eyes with that mirror of yours!”

“You're crazy!” Joe retorted.

A rangy young man appeared and gazed at the wrecked car in disbelief. “My car!” he groaned. “It's almost totally demolished!”

“Are you the owner?” Alden queried.

“Yes, I am.”

“How is it my son was driving your racer?”

“Roger offered me a hundred bucks if I would let him make the trial run,” the young man explained. “Now all I have is a pile of junk.”

“Serves you right,” Alden snapped, “but I'll pay for the damage.”

Roger was helped into the ambulance and taken to the hospital. Although his father was greatly upset over the incident, he did not request that the competitions be discontinued. Instead, Alden told the participants to carry on. At the signal, engines began roaring to life. The Hardys and Chet watched the day's activities and were thrilled by the performance of the skillful drivers.

After dropping Chet off at the Morton farm, the three detectives headed home. When they arrived, Mrs. Hardy announced that supper was ready to be served. As they ate, the boys discussed the day's events.

Aunt Gertrude looked at them scornfully. “Racing of any kind is just dreadful! It should be outlawed!”