Footprints Under the Window (4 page)

The boys spotted Jack's blue, silver-winged plane inside its hangar. They met the lean, tanned pilot near the end of the field.

“Be glad to take you fellows up,” he said after greeting them warmly. “You're lucky to catch me between taxi jobs.” Jack explained that he had been flying scientists in and out of Bayport.

“For Micro-Eye's secret project?” Frank asked.

“Yes. What's going on over there is really hush-hush. Give me twenty minutes to finish some flight reports. Be right back.”

As Jack disappeared into the building, the boys strolled over to the terminal. They noticed an elderly man complaining to an official about a stolen suitcase. The Hardys' keen ears caught the phrase “in Cayenne.”

“That's where Aunt Gertrude's friends had all their luggage taken,” Frank said.

Minutes later, the four were airborne in Jack's sleek
Skyhappy Sal.
Chet chattered excitedly and pointed out various cloud formations.

“They're cumulus clouds,” he said, indicating large fluffy masses extending eastward. “And to the south is the stratus layer. The wispy, curly ones you see way up high are cirrus.”

“Sounds like a fruit,” Joe teased. “But I must say you talk like a scholar, Chet.”

The chubby boy beamed as Jack banked into a smoky, towering bulge of cloud. “Boy, at sunrise it must be like diving into cotton candy!”

When the
Sal
emerged into the clear ocean of air again, they spotted the Micro-Eye plant below. The panorama revealed long roofs, multiple fenced-off areas, and numerous moving dark specks—workmen and guards.

“Looks just as secure from up here,” Frank remarked. “How about a quick pass above Oak Hollow, Jack?”

“Roger! If we start buzzing Micro-Eye, they'll have me on the carpet—and I don't mean a cloudy one!”

High over the outskirts of Bayport, the boys saw the new houses nestled among the wooded slopes, along which ran a winding dirt road. Jack took the plane lower, and Frank and Joe scanned the surrounding terrain. Except for a private, fenced cemetery in the valley and a few picnic areas, there were only woods.

“Do you have some special interest in the housing development?” Jack asked.

The boys told of the vandals, and the pilot whistled. “I wouldn't buy a house there,” he remarked, “until those thugs are caught.”

Frank said thoughtfully, “That'll be hard on Chet's father. Do you suppose the men using machetes are from a tropical country?”

“Like somewhere in South America?” Joe guessed. “The guy that spoke had an accent.”

Jack was now flying south along the coast. He dropped down and circled a large inlet surrounded by a pine barren. Whitecaps washed against countless black rocks which barely projected from the water.

“Cobblewave Cove—and there's the wreck of the old
Atlantis.”
Joe recognized the tilted hulk of a freighter which lay in the midst of the rocks.

Cobblewave Cove had been a danger to incoming vessels for years. When the
Atlantis
had foundered on the sharp rocks during a violent gale, the wreck had been left as both a memorial to its crew and a warning to other seamen.

“I'd like to explore that wreck someday,” said Chet. “Maybe we'd find treasure aboard.”

“What!” Joe said in mock horror. “You don't believe the legend of the
Atlantis?”

Chet waved a disdainful hand. “You mean about wails of dying mariners inside the hold? I don't believe that ghost stuff.”

“Brave words, pal.” Joe grinned.

Jack began circling to turn northward. “I'm due back at the field, fellows.” But when the craft banked steeply into a stiff wind, they all felt a sudden lurch. Then another!

“What's wrong?” Joe exclaimed, alarmed.

“Don't know—she's not flying right!” Frantically Jack worked the controls. Despite his efforts, the plane snapped to the left. The boys peered out and gasped with horror.

Shredded pieces of metal were streaming from the outboard section of the left wing. A bend appeared about three feet in from the tip.

The outer section then began to flutter violently in the wind, as if making ready to separate itself from the airplane!

 

 

 

“The wing!” Frank cried out. “It's breaking up!”

Simultaneously the Hardys and Chet were flung against their seat belts. The engine screamed. The plane plunged into a downward spiral. After four turns, the gyrations tightened into a spin.

“We must be losing nearly a fourth of our lift on the left wing!” Jack shouted. “Our aileron is almost useless!”

He chopped engine power, shoved full right rudder, and snapped the stick forward. Recovery was slow, but Jack finally maneuvered the plane back to straight and level.

Looking out, the boys saw the damaged wing section still attached. But jagged ribbons of metal were trailing from its lower surface.

“Will we make the airport?” Joe asked.

Jack stared tensely ahead, then glanced back. “We've already stretched our luck, but if we take it slow, we should make it. Don't move around!”

Carefully he guided the craft back to the outskirts of Bayport. Chet, his face white, crouched next to Joe with his fingers crossed. “M-me and m-my big hobbies!” he groaned.

In silence Jack maneuvered the plane skillfully out over Barmet Bay. Descending, he banked west toward the airport. Minutes later, he brought the craft to a safe landing. Relieved, everyone climbed out.

Jack and the boys looked at the damaged wing. The pilot frowned. “I don't understand how it could've happened.”

The outer section of the wing hung slightly awry from an uneven breach in the metal. Aghast, Joe spotted several dents around the cut.

“This was no accident—the wing was slashed!”

Jack grimly affirmed Joe's suspicion of sabotage. “One clean blow—clean enough for us not to notice it before taking off. The wind did the rest. It could have been an ax—”

“Or a machete!” Frank broke in. “That green sedan behind us on the way here—maybe those vandals were tailing us, and did this job.”

“For revenge!” Chet said, rolling his eyes in fear.

Frank disagreed. “That's a pretty strong dose of revenge coming from vandals—unless they aren't just vandals.”

Jack led them back to the hangar. “Whoever slashed the wing was willing to take me into the nose dive too. I'm wondering if it had any connection with my taxiing scientists who are working for Micro-Eye. I've flown several of them.”

“You mean somebody intended to put a cog in the plant's project—to slow it down?” Joe asked.

“It's possible,” the pilot said grimly. “I hope he doesn't try again.”

At the hangar one of the ground crew informed Jack and the boys he had seen two swarthy strangers leaving the field in a run-down green sedan. His descriptions fit the vandals.

Joe whistled. “You're right, Frank. Those two are mixed up in something worse than house-wrecking.”

Frank nodded. “All we have to find out is—what?”

Jack promised to notify them of any leads, then the three sleuths returned to the jalopy and headed back to Bayport.

Chet spoke up glumly. “From now on, I'll study clouds from the ground!”

Frank nudged his brother. “We can always use a weather prognosticator. Right, Joe?”

“You bet. How's the forecast for sleuthing?”

“Stormy! That I can tell you.” Hopefully Chet changed the subject. “Say, don't forget about our going to Cobblewave Cove!”

“Okay, we'll make it soon,” Joe said.

Chet dropped the brothers off at Elm and High and chugged along homeward. Frank and Joe headed up the walk to their house.

“Maybe there'll be some word from Dad,” Frank said. “We've—” He broke off abruptly. A man was peering at them from behind a large spruce tree across the lawn. The Hardys started toward him, but the man ran off.

“He's the stowaway!” Joe cried out. “Stop!” But the slender fugitive leaped a hedge and tore across the street. Joe bounded off the curb in pursuit, but was grabbed by Frank just as a car swerved to avoid hitting him. By now their quarry had disappeared. After searching the neighborhood for twenty minutes without luck, the brothers returned home.

“Boy, he's a slippery eel,” Joe said as they went inside.

“I can't figure him out. Was he spying on us, or—”

“Spies!” Aunt Gertrude sailed into the hall “Who? Where?”

Frank quickly explained. Miss Hardy's lips tightened. “More desperadoes!” she exclaimed. “What is this house coming to?”

Frank and Joe had decided not to mention the machete attack or plane sabotage. Their aunt told them Sam Radley had called. “He still hasn't heard from your father,” she added..

Disappointed, the boys followed their aunt to the luncheon table. Joe sighed. “Well, if we wanted a mystery, we sure got one. Do you think that fellow was casing our house?”

“He acted that way. I wonder if he took Dad's papers, and came back to steal some others,” Frank speculated. “Could be he's part of a plot against Dad.”

“But why? Dad's not even home. But maybe the guy doesn't know that.”

Frank's eyes narrowed. “The
Dorado
thief's from South America,” he reasoned. “And maybe those vandals are, too.”

“I wouldn't bet against it. Sure wish we could consult Dad.”

“First thing we'd better do is report to the immigration people,” said Frank.

When the meal was over, the brothers drove to the dock area and pulled up at a small building which housed the office of the United States Customs and Immigration departments. The boys were directed into an inner office where a young immigration officer named Scott sat at a desk.

The Hardys introduced themselves and Frank explained their two contacts with the
Dorado's
escapee.

The officer nodded. “We've been giving your first report close attention. You're sure it was the same man you saw this morning?”

“Yes, sir,” Joe replied. “Dark-complexioned, slender, with a thin mustache. But this time he had on old faded clothes.”

Scott snatched a sheet of paper and quickly took down the information. Suddenly Joe noticed two well-dressed men standing at a nearby desk, obviously taking an interest in the boys' statements.

The young officer, meanwhile, knit his brows and drummed his pencil. “Very odd,” he said. “The switchboard operator reported a man came here this morning to see me. I was out. Her description of him matched the one you gave of the stowaway last night—except today's caller wore no uniform, and was poorly dressed.”

The revelation was perplexing. “It sounds crazy,” Frank remarked. “A wanted thief daring to show up at your office. What did he want?”

“Information, apparently. He mentioned several South American names and asked if any such persons from the Huella Islands had ever sought political asylum in this area.”

The Huellas, Frank and Joe recalled, were an island group off the coast of French Guiana, South America. The largest of them, Baredo, had been in the news recently due to the repressive actions of its ruler, Juan Posada, a dictator known to be unfriendly to the United States.

“But we have no record of anyone arriving from the Huellas,” the officer added. He showed the list of names to the Hardys, but they recognized none of them.

Mr. Scott shook their hands. “We appreciate your help. We're concerned these days with illegal entrants, since some of them may be sent here for espionage purposes. This escaped man could actually be assigned to spy on Huellan refugees, some of whom may be in or near Bayport without our knowledge.”

He added that the bald immigration officer the boys had met was an impostor. “The authorities would like to get hold of him too.”

“We'll keep a sharp lookout for both men,” Frank promised.

The Hardys said good-by and hurried across the office. “We must find out more about this ‘footprints' business,” Joe muttered.

As they reached the doorway, the Hardys were astonished to find their path suddenly blocked by one of the two strangers they had noticed.

“Just a minute!” he said. “You boys aren't going anywhere!”

 

 

 

THE HARDYS stood dumfounded as the tall, expressionless stranger rooted himself firmly in the doorway.

“There must be some mistake—” Frank began. A voice from behind cut him off.

“No, there's not, boys. Come with us. We'd like to have a word with you.”

They turned to face a distinguished-looking, gray-haired man, the other stranger Joe had seen. The boys started to protest, then saw Scott nod reassuringly. Puzzled, the Hardys followed the two men into an unoccupied file room.

As the taller man closed the door, the other held out a leather identification case. “Roy Dykeman, United States Intelligence.”

Frank and Joe examined the credentials, then handed them back. Dykeman introduced his companion as Mr. Crothers, also of Intelligence.

“I'm sorry to detain you, but something you said to Mr. Scott caught our attention.” Dykeman looked directly at the Hardys. “What do you two know about ‘footprints'?”

“Footprints?” Frank glanced at Joe. “Not much, sir. We heard the word last night, and then we found something at our house later that made us wonder whether there was a connection.”