A Figure in Hiding (9 page)

Dropping down inside, they walked toward the house, which could be glimpsed beyond the trees. Suddenly the Hardys were chilled by ferocious snarls. They whirled, then froze in terror. Four sleek, fierce-eyed Doberman pinscher guard dogs were racing toward them!

“They're killers!” Frank cried out.

 

 

 

 

THE Hardys looked around wildly. There was no chance of getting back to the gate—the dogs were already cutting off their line of escape.

“That tree!” Frank yelled, pointing to a nearby copper beech with low-hanging branches.

The boys sprinted madly. Each grabbed a limb and swung himself off the ground.

The Dobermans came on like demons. Although lean and long-legged, they were powerful, deep-chested brutes. The dogs hurled themselves at the lower branches, baying and straining every muscle to reach their prey.

“Sufferin' catfish!” Joe quaked. “Those babies mean business!”

“If we fell out of this tree,” Frank agreed uneasily, “we'd be hamburger in two minutes!”

“Just don't let go, that's all,” Joe advised.

“Great. But what do we do for food and water?”

Both boys were perspiring as they stared around for signs of help.

“Ah! Thank goodness! Here comes someone!” Joe said.

A man—evidently a servant, wearing a house-boy's white jacket—was striding toward them. He was carrying a braided whip which Frank and Joe assumed was to use on the dogs in case they got out of hand.

“Heel!” he called sharply.

The Dobermans stopped barking and slunk close to his side. Then he glared up at the boys.

“What're you two doing up that tree?”

“Boy, there's a foolish question if I ever heard one!” Joe muttered. Out loud he retorted, “What does it look like?”

“Get down out of there and beat it before I call the cops!” the houseman ordered.

“Wait a minute—we're not burglars,” Frank said. “We rang the bell at the gate but no one answered, so we had to climb over. We came here to see Mr. Izmir—on important business.”

The servant studied the boys suspiciously. “That's out of the question,” he said. “Mr. Izmir can see no one. He has suffered a nervous breakdown. He's living in complete seclusion under a doctor's care.”

Frank thought fast. “What we have to see Mr. Izmir about is
very
important,” he said. “It has to do with a glass eye.”

The servant's eyes widened and his jaw dropped open. He wet his lips slowly, then said in a more respectful voice, “Your names, please?”

“Frank and Joe Hardy.”

“I'll inquire inside. Wait right there.”

He turned and walked toward the house, leaving the dogs behind. The four Dobermans sat watching the boys in eager silence, tongues lolling.

“Wait right here, he says,” Joe echoed resentfully. “What does he think we're going to do—climb down and play tag again with those four-legged meat grinders?”

In a few minutes the servant returned. “Mr. Izmir will see you,” he announced. Turning to the dogs, he said simply, “Guard!”

Frank and Joe climbed down warily, keeping an eye on the Dobermans. The servant accompanied the boys to the house and led them inside to a richly furnished drawing room. There was a white, thick-piled carpet on the floor and modernistic paintings on the walls.

A man who was pacing back and forth restlessly turned abruptly to face the boys. He was of medium height, with a thick neck and bulging froglike eyes.

“Mr. Izmir?”

“Yes.” He gave them each a quick handshake and waved them to a sofa. “Sit down, boys!”

Frank and Joe obeyed while mentally sizing up their host. They both thought Malcolm Izmir looked healthy enough, although he seemed rather tense and jumpy.

“I understand you fellows want to see me about a—a glass eye?”

“That's right, sir,” Frank said. “Also about a man named Lambert—or Lemuel.”

Izmir's hooded eyes blinked. “Lambert? Lemuel? ... Who's he? Does he have something to do with this—er—glass eye?”

“We're not sure. We think the eye may belong to him.” Frank told briefly how he and Joe had found the eye aboard the
Sea Spook
and what had happened later when they tried to trace Lambert through the Bayview Motel.

“That's interesting. Very interesting,” the auto dealer commented. “But what makes you think I might know anything about this fellow?”

“We know he called Izmir Motors from his motel three times,” Joe said. “But your sales manager knows nothing about him and says he's not a customer or a prospect.”

“Strange.” Izmir frowned. “I can't imagine what his business with us would be—unless he knows someone who works for me. I'll have Sykes check into it. Do you have this glass eye with you?”

Frank shook his head. “No, sir. We left it back home for safekeeping. You see, the thieves who stole your car waylaid us the other night—and we think they were after the eye.”

The Hardys watched Izmir's reaction closely. Again his reptilian eyes blinked. He seemed disappointed. “Too bad,” he muttered. “I was hoping it might give us a clue—in fact, I had hoped you boys might even be able to help
me.”

Frank and Joe looked at each other.

“How do you mean, sir?” Frank asked.

“No doubt you were wondering about my watchdogs,” Izmir replied, “and the fact that no one answered your ring at the gate. Well, it's because I've been receiving threats lately.”

“What sort of threats?” Joe asked.

“Messages threatening my life. They come unsigned—except for a drawing of a horrible-looking eye.” Izmir licked his lips. “That's why I agreed to see you at once when I heard you'd mentioned a glass eye. I thought there might be some connection.”

The Hardys were startled.

“Our dad's a private detective,” Frank said. “He's going to look into all this as soon as he winds up another case. We'll certainly let you know if we find out anything, Mr. Izmir.”

The auto dealer nodded. “I appreciate that. But I won't be here after tomorrow.”

“You're going away?” Joe asked.

“Yes, on a long cruise.” Izmir stood up and began pacing about restlessly. “These threats have left my nerves all shot. I can't eat or sleep. So my doctor has advised a complete rest and change of scene. I'm sailing from New York Monday on the ocean liner
Cristobal.”

The Hardys thanked him for his time, and the houseman escorted them back to the gate.

“What do you make of Malcolm Izmir?” Joe asked his brother as they drove away.

“He must be scared of
something,
all right,” Frank mused, “or else he wouldn't be holed up with those dogs guarding the place. Also, how did that car thief get past them? Anyhow, I'd like to know more about Izmir. Maybe Chief Collig can help us.”

As soon as they reached Bayport, the boys drove to police headquarters. They told the chief what had happened at Ocean City and asked him if he knew Malcolm Izmir.

“I've heard of him,” Collig replied. “He's one of the biggest businessmen in Ocean City—and quite a community leader. Has all sorts of projects. Izmir Motors is just one.”

Joe shot his brother a puzzled glance. “He doesn't sound like the kind of person who would be mixed up in anything crooked.”

Collig chuckled. “Not likely. I'll check on him, though, with Ocean City police.”

Frank and Joe had a postponed picnic supper with Iola and Callie and it was close to midnight when they reached home. The hall telephone was ringing. Frank answered it as Joe waited.

“You're one of the Hardys?” a muffled voice asked.

“Yes—Frank Hardy. Who's speaking, please?”

“Never mind that. You know a peddler named Zatta? He's a stoolie for your father.”

Frank was instantly alert. He signaled Joe to listen in. “What about Zatta?”

“I'm offering you Hardys a chance to save his life—
if
you promise not to call in the cops.”

“What do you mean ‘save his life'?” Frank said.

There was moment's silence. Then another voice, which Frank recognized as the one-eyed peddler's, came on the line.

“These guys are holding me prisoner!” Zatta croaked fearfully. “You've gotta help me! They'll kill me if you don't! Do what they ask you—please!”

Zatta's voice was choked off suddenly, as if he has been yanked away from the phone. The muffled voice returned. “Okay. You heard him. We're offering you his life for that glass eye.”

Frank tried to stall for time, but the voice cut him short. “Yes or no? Is it a deal?”

“What are the terms?” Frank asked.

The voice instructed the Hardys to drive to a certain spot atop Lookout Hill, leave their car, and walk down to a meeting spot on the open hillside. The transfer would then be arranged.

Frank looked at his brother. Joe nodded. “Okay, we accept,” Frank said.

“Remember—no double cross! You bring in the cops and Zatta's a dead pigeon! Be there in fifteen minutes—after that, it'll be too late.”

Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude had awakened and asked what the message was. After a family conference it was decided that the boys would call Sam Radley, a trusted operative of their father's. He agreed to approach the hillside cautiously from the opposite direction and be ready to cover them in case of trouble.

Frank went upstairs for the glass eye, then the brothers hurried outside to their convertible and drove to Lookout Hill. They parked at the appointed spot near a narrow turnoff which led steeply downward to Shore Road, bordering Barmet Bay.

Frank and Joe left the car and made their way cautiously through a screen of trees. A dark figure on the hillside waved his arms. Hearts thumping, the Hardys walked toward him.

 

 

 

 

As THE Hardys came close enough to make out the figure, they saw the reason for the glowing eyes. The man was wearing spectacles with bulging phosphorescent eyeballs. His head was shrouded in a stocking mask.

“Someone from the Goggler gang!” Joe hissed.

In the midnight silence the boys' footsteps crunched loudly in the grassy underbrush. Far below them, moonlight glinted on the waters of the bay.

“Okay. Stop right there!” the man ordered.

Frank and Joe obeyed. Both thought the masked man's voice sounded faintly familiar. They wondered if he might be Spotty Lemuel, but neither could be sure.

“Did you bring the glass eye?”

“We brought it,” Frank said, “but we're not handing it over till we have Zatta.”

The man turned and shone a flashlight down the hillside. He flicked the beam on and off twice.

The Hardys watched tensely. They saw an answering glow from Shore Road.

The masked man removed a pair of binoculars which were slung around his neck. He handed them to Frank and pointed toward the light. Frank raised the glasses to his eyes, then gasped.

“What is it?” Joe whispered.

“Zatta! They have him tied up down there at the foot of the drive!”

Frank passed the binoculars to Joe, who peered through them. The light on Shore Road was evidently coming from a bull's-eye lantern. It was aimed to illuminate the captive peddler. Zatta was lying bound and gagged.

“It looks as if he's unconscious!” Joe muttered. “His eyes are closed!”

“Don't worry—he's alive,” the masked man said.

“He'd better be,” Frank said. “You'll get the glass eye when we have him in the car and we're sure he's all right. Not before.”

“And you two had better not try pulling any fast ones,” the masked man retorted. “Wait right here till I get down the hill. Then drive your car there. You can load Zatta aboard and hand over the glass eye. After that, clear out and don't look back. Get me?”

Frank nodded. “Check.”

The gangster strode off into the darkness, picking his way down the incline.

“I wonder if Sam got here,” Joe whispered.

“I sure hope so,” Frank replied. “Goggle Eyes could be pulling us right into a trap!” He added, “We'd better go through with it, though, for Zatta's sake. He must have stuck his neck out, giving Dad that tip.”

Crickets chirped in the stillness. The eerie call of a night bird sounded somewhere overhead. Presently the light on Shore Road went out.

“That must be the signal,” Frank murmured. “Let's go!”

The boys hurried back to their convertible and climbed in. The engine roared to life. Frank swung out from the curb, then turned right into the long, steep drive leading to Shore Road. Beyond was nothing but a gleam of water as the cliff sheered abruptly into the bay.

The car headlights revealed Zatta's motionless figure still lying across the foot of the drive. The masked man and whoever had come with him were nowhere in sight.

Joe glanced over at the grassy hillside. In the distance his eye caught a darting figure.

“Sam Radley!” Joe guessed.

Frank toed the brake pedal as he turned to look. The pedal caught for an instant—then sank to the floorboard without slowing the car!

Horrified, Frank pumped the pedal.
No response!
He yanked the hand brake and it gave easily without the slightest effect!