Footprints Under the Window (16 page)

Gomez groaned. “It is no use! The openings are too small!”

“Keep looking!”

Joe, bursting above water, touched the overhead with his hand. There was almost no room left!

Then suddenly Frank felt a strong pressure against his feet. He plunged beneath the surface, fingering the bulkhead. An inrushing stream of water led him to a jagged hole about two feet high and a foot wide. Frank shot above.

“I've found the opening!” he shouted. “But we'll have to widen it!”

Joe and Chet wrenched loose a section of rusted pipe near the overhead and swam toward Frank's voice. “Here!”

With not a second to lose, the two boys dived and battered at the side of the opening. As they came up for air, Joe gasped, “We can't get enough force behind the pipe!”

Desperate, the four prisoners submerged again, each gripping the pipe. They pushed it against one end of the gash and tried to bend out the edge. Suddenly, to their amazement, the lever began to jockey with new force.

The opening grew wider!

The boys felt as if their lungs would burst, but finally Gomez wriggled through, then Joe. He pulled Chet outside, and Frank followed.

When they broke the sunlit surface of Cobblewave Cove, the four drew in long, shuddering gulps of air. Utterly exhausted, they floated to a large hump-shaped rock and collapsed onto it.

Who had been their rescuer? Frank sat up.

“Fellows, look!” From the shadow of the
Atlantis,
somebody was swimming toward them! As the figure neared the rock, the Hardys cried out in astonishment:

“Dad!”

“Frank! Joe!”

Fenton Hardy grasped his sons' hands and climbed up. He wore old, torn clothes.

“Dad! How?—Where?—”

The well-built, keen-dyed detective was equally amazed at seeing his sons. Catching his breath, he explained, “I spotted Orrin North's yacht out here an hour ago from a motorboat I'd rented, and swam to the
Atlantis.
Are you all right?”

“Barely,” Chet said with a weak smile.

Gomez was quickly introduced, then Mr. Hardy continued his story. Upon hearing men's voices from the wrecked freighter, he had dived near the stern. “When I saw the pipe coming through the hole, I knew someone was trapped, so I pitched in, not dreaming it was you at the other end!”

“You saved our lives!” Frank said. “But, Dad—you haven't been away? You've been in Bayport?”

“Yes, in order to watch North's activities. But tell me what you're doing here.”

The boys tersely recounted their involvement with Micro-Eye, and explained Bedoya's imminent plot to steal the camera.

“At eight o'clock!” the detective repeated, shocked. “I saw the
Northerly
start up the coast a short while ago.”

“With Bedoya and his men aboard!” Joe guessed. “Come on!”

Overcoming their fatigue, the five swam to shore. They raced across the beach, through the pine barrens, and up a dirt road.

Fenton Hardy looked at his waterproof watch. “It's almost eight now!”

Frank urged, “Let's flag the first car!”

Gomez, concerned for his imprisoned friends, was reluctant to leave. “You wait here,” Mr. Hardy said. “We'll notify the Coast Guard and have them send a boat to the
Atlantis.”

A sedan approached, and the boys signaled frantically. The car stopped, and the Hardys and Chet jumped in.

“Micro-Eye Industries! Quick! Emergency!”

The young driver recognized the Hardys, and though puzzled at their bedraggled appearance, reacted instantly. “You bet!”

The sedan shot north along the coast. It was now ten after eight! Reaching town, the driver sped up a boulevard leading directly to the Micro-Eye plant. They heard sirens wailing. Eight-fifteen!

As the plant came into view, they gasped. Billowing smoke almost obscured the buildings. Squad cars idled along both curbs. Policemen and armed plant guards seemed to be everywhere.

“Bedoya's smoke bombs!” Frank exclaimed. He directed the driver to stop at the main gate, as Joe yelled, “There goes the laundry truck!”

The brown vehicle was just turning the comer at the far end of the block!

“They've stolen the camera!” Joe cried out.

“Chet,” Mr. Hardy snapped, “find Mr. Dykeman! Have him call the Coast Guard!”

“Yes, Mr. Hardy.”

As Chet hopped out, the detective addressed the driver. “We need to borrow this car. Will you trust us with it?”

“Sure thing!”

The young man alighted and Frank slipped behind the wheel. He sped off, heading directly for the waterfront. As they neared Bay Street, the Hardys saw the laundry truck ahead. It swerved around a corner. Frank followed just in time to see a large white bundle tossed from the rear of the truck. It landed in an empty lot!

“The camera!” Joe cried out.

“This may be a trick!” his father argued.

Frank had already screeched to the curb. Joe sprinted over and tore open the bundle. Empty!

In a flash he was back in the car, and Frank made for the boathouse area. He braked to a halt at the
Northerly's
dock. The yacht was nearing the mouth of Barmet Bay.

“They've made the pickup!” Joe cried out. “Let's get the
Sleuth!”

The boys and their father leaped out and started for the Hardy boathouse. Suddenly, from behind a green car parked nearby, two figures rushed toward them. The hulking Walton, and behind him Greber, wielding a machete!

The huge man lunged for Mr. Hardy, but the detective side-stepped nimbly and jarred him to the ground with an uppercut. Frank and Joe tackled Greber. Two punches to the midriff sent the machete flying and he sank to his knees.

“Leave them for the police!” Mr. Hardy said.

He and his sons rushed into their boathouse and boarded the
Sleuth,
with Frank at the wheel. He sped across the bay. The yacht had already reached the open sea.

“They're going to transfer the camera to another boat!” Joe shouted, recalling the spies' planned “offshore pickup” by “41.”

“Probably in international waters!” the investigator guessed as the
Sleuth
streaked from the bay.

The
Northerly
now raced full speed ahead, some hundred yards to port. In the distance the pursuers saw a small, net-draped sailing vessel. The
Northerly
plied directly for it, cutting speed.

“A fishing trawler!” Mr. Hardy exclaimed. “‘41'!”

“I'll try to get between them!” Frank steered straight for the tip of the
Northerly's
bow.

The yacht's pilot swung left to avert a collision. The maneuver had worked! But as Frank looped back toward the yacht, the larger ship veered sharply, and came at the
Sleuth.
The Hardys could see Manuel Bedoya, enraged, shouting to the pilot, Decker.

Joe yelled at his brother, “Look out, they'll cut us in two!”

Frank was forced to turn aside, and the
Northerly
resumed course for the trawler. Suddenly there came a thunderous boom!

The Hardys looked south at a rising patch of smoke. Two sleek, gray cutters with forward guns were advancing at full steam.

“The Coast Guard!”

Instantly the trawler's motors chugged to life. It headed out to sea, away from the Northerly. Bedoya's frantic shouts could be heard.

“Stop! You cannot desert us! Wait!”

But already one of the cutters blocked the
Northerly's
path, and a stern voice blared out:

“Heave to!”

The yacht throbbed to a halt. At the same instant, Bedoya darted to the rail and flung a bundle overboard.

“The camera! Frank, quick!”

The
Sleuth
shot to where the object splashed into the sea. Joe dived and grasped the sinking bundle. He brought it up and was helped aboard by his father. By this time the trawler was a speck on the horizon.

Meanwhile, six Coast Guard men had boarded the
Northerly
and ordered Decker to head back. Manuel Bedoya stood sullenly in the grip of two officers.

With a Coast Guard cutter on either side, the Northerly returned to Barmet Bay. The
Sleuth
kept close behind. Within an hour after docking, Bedoya and all his cohorts had been arrested, and the camera found intact in a waterproof bag.

Soon afterward, a large jubilant group sat in the Hardy living room, awaiting lunch. Aunt Gertrude was spellbound by the whole story.

Mr. Dykeman arose from a chair. “Fenton,” he said warmly, “words can't express what you, your sons, and Chet Morton have done for our government.”

The boys beamed, then Joe remarked, “The great ‘liberator,' Orrin North, is out of business for good, I guess.”

“I should think so,” Aunt Gertrude said tartly. “And to think that I actually was on board ship with Posada's head spy!”

Dykeman reported that the smoke bombs had caused little damage to Micro-Eye and no one had been injured. “But the confusion did allow the phony guard Raker to take the camera—supposedly to safety, then to knock out two plant guards before he put the camera in the truck.

“By the way, Pryce has been exonerated,” the intelligence man said. “Raymond Martin was found half-starving but alive in a remote shack outside Cayenne. The two suitcase thieves were with him. They confessed to having left ‘his skeleton' to fool any prowlers.”

Captain Burne and the
Dorado
crew had been apprehended in South America. The boys were pleased to learn that Gomez and the Huellan refugees had been assured of homes and a new start in the United States.

“Let's hope the spies' failure puts a big dent in Posada's power,” Frank said. “By the way—that fishing trawler—does it just get away?”

“I'm afraid so,” Mr. Hardy replied, “but empty-handed, at least. Authorities believe the vessel belongs to a large, anti-American country—and, as you and Joe suspected, that Posada did plan to trade the satellite camera for money and arms.”

Mr. Dykeman chuckled. “Not even I suspected your whereabouts, Fenton.”

Chet was still puzzled by the theft of Iola's shopping bag. “I can explain that,” Mr. Dykeman said. “When your dry cleaning was left at Corporated Laundries, Bedoya's spies mistakenly sewed the film into your clothing. They confused Morton for Martin, so Valdez had to get them back.”

“One more unsolved mystery,” said Joe. “Those footprints under the window, both at our house and North's.”

Mr. Hardy burst into hearty laughter. “Remember, you weren't the only sleuths around here.”

“Dad! They were
your
footprints?”

“Guilty.” The detective's eyes twinkling. He added, “To crack this spy plot, it was important that no one knew I was in town.” The “stolen” papers, he revealed, were part of a dossier on North which he had to pick up.

Joe gaped. “Well, if that doesn't beat everything!” Unknown to him, however, the Hardys would soon be challenged by an even more baffling case,
The Mark on the
Door.

“Anyway,” Chet said, sighing and relishing the prospect of a titanic meal, “one thing's sure about this mystery. There was an awful lot afoot!”

The others laughed heartily.