Footprints Under the Window (8 page)

“And our magnifying glass,” Iola added, managing a smile. “Callie and I were going to use it to study sea shells. Joe, we'll have to depend on your eagle eyes instead!”

Joe called Mr. Dykeman. Chet telephoned home. His mother was disturbed by the incident, but she insisted the group not cancel their plans.

Soon they were driving south toward Barren Sands. They talked of the theft.

“Why should he pick on me?” Iola complained. “Did he figure I had a treasure in the bag?”

“Maybe he took the bag because Joe was carrying it,” Frank suggested. “He might have hoped to get some clue to what we're doing.”

Half an hour later Frank turned off Shore Road and parked in a little-used dirt lane. The boys and girls trekked through high, coarse grass and came out on the wide, deserted beach of Barren Sands. Just south of it they could see the mouth of Cobblewave Cove.

Callie and Iola immediately kicked off their shoes and began prowling through the surf to find interesting shells. The boys, meanwhile, walked farther down the beach toward the cove. A brisk wind had come up, lashing the breakers. Thunder-heads reared up on the horizon.

“Oh, oh,” said Chet. “Storm's brewing. But it'll blow over.”

Presently Callie called, “Boys, help us search!”

“Let's eat first,” Chet insisted.

After a hearty lunch the teen-agers spread out, meeting occasionally to inspect one another's discoveries—ark shells, clam shells, channeled whelks, snail shells, and many more varieties.

“This is probably a New England Nassa.” Iola excitedly held up a yellowish, spiraled shell.

Joe grinned. “You sound like a professor.”

“Look at this one, everybody!” Callie waved from atop a slope that led down to the water. The others ran up and admired an unusual, conelike shell she had plucked from the sand.

“That's a honey!” Chet said. “What kind is it?”

Callie studied the whitish univalve, about two inches wide with a keyhole groove in its blue interior. Neither girl could identify it.

Just then Frank looked down and noticed something that aroused his curiosity. A circular pattern of large, barefoot prints surrounded the spot where the shell had lain. Before he could comment, someone ran up behind them. They turned to face a swarthy stranger, unshaven and wearing patched clothing and sandals.

He cried out angrily, “Give me that shell! It's mine!”

To everyone's astonishment, he snatched the shell from Callie's grasp!

 

 

 

“IT'S my shell—I found it!” Callie protested. But at the unkempt stranger's savage expression, she stepped back in fright.

“She did find it,” Joe asserted firmly. “What's the big idea, mister?”

The man's eyes gleamed suspiciously at the teen-agers. Gripping the shell tightly, he started down the slope.

Frank blocked his path.

“Just a minute,” he said evenly. “What right do
you
have to this shell? Who are you?”

“I'm called Sandy,” the man said sullenly. He jammed the object into his pocket. “I found this shell earlier and put it here.”

“That's not likely,” Frank disagreed, pointing toward the incline. “Those footprints up there are too big to be yours. Besides, why would you have left the shell here?”

As the others stepped closer, the man shifted uneasily, as if groping for an excuse.

“Please,” Iola spoke up, “my friend Callie and I collect shells. There are lots of other pretty ones left on the beach.”

Sandy shook his head stiffly. “No. I must take this to Mr.—” He broke off, then continued, “You see, I sell shells to get enough money so I can eat. It's my only job.”

So sudden was his change of manner that Callie relented. “All right, you may keep the shell.”

She had scarcely finished speaking when the man marched quickly away. He soon disappeared around a bend in the beach.

“You shouldn't have given it to him, Call” Chet insisted. “He as much as admitted he was lying!”

Callie sighed. “Well, he's evidently very poor, and needs the shell more than I do. Maybe we can find another!”

Both Frank and Joe were studying the circle of footprints. “They're damp,” Frank observed. “What strikes me is the perfect pattern, as if to mark where that shell was.”

Joe then noticed a jumbled series of prints leading toward the water. The brothers followed the trail down the slope. Here they diverged into two distinct sets of tracks—one coming and one going. Both ended at the water's edge.

“Let's separate and see if there are more prints along the beach,” Frank suggested.

The Hardys combed the surf in opposite directions. When they rejoined the others later, neither boy had spotted any further trace of footprints.

“Whoever made the prints must have either swum a long distance,” Joe said, “or come ashore from a boat.”

Chet glanced at the Hardys. “I'll bet you two have
some
theory cooking,” he said.

Frank nodded. “That beachcomber's fishy story, these footprints—I'll bet something important was inside that shell.”

“A message?” Callie asked.

“It's a good guess,” Frank replied.

Secretly he and Joe were wondering if the mysterious prints and shell had a connection with the Footprints plot! “Wild hunch,” Frank told himself. “But I'd like to know who's buying that shell.”

For the next hour the young people hunted shells, but found none like the beachcomber had taken. Frank and Joe scanned the area in vain for any further sign of the stranger.

Suddenly Chet shouted, beckoning to the others. “Storm's coming up fast!”

The sky was rapidly filling with black clouds. Rumbles of thunder could be heard. Iola gathered the collection of shells into a large kerchief. By this time drops of rain had become a downpour.

The girls and boys dashed to the car and clambered in. Torrents of rain drummed on the steaming roof as they rode homeward. Joe reminded Chet of his optimistic weather forecast.

Chet, in back with Joe and Iola, asked innocently, “So what am I, a barometer?”

After dropping Chet and the girls off, the Hardys stopped at the immigration office to inquire about Gomez. No trace of him or of the three thugs had been found.

“We've been turning this town upside down,” Scott told them. “If the gang hasn't left Bayport, it has certainly found good hideouts.”

Back home, the Hardys determined to return to Barren Sands and watch for another possible “pickup” by the beachcomber.

After supper an urgent phone call came from Mr. Morton. The realtor asked the brothers to hurry to the Voyager Travel Bureau. Frank and Joe lost no time in driving downtown.

Mr. Morton quickly let them into the street-level office. He looked worried.

“Frank and Joe! Glad to see you! Somebody has broken in here again!”

“When did you find out?” Frank asked.

“Just before I called you. We'd closed up, but I came back for some papers. I was just in time to spot a stocky, flat-nosed man dropping out the back window. I couldn't catch him.”

Joe whistled at the description. “Frank! Sounds like the fellow we chased at Micro-Eye—and tangled with in the boathouse!”

Frank asked what had been taken. Mr. Morton led them into the back office, switched on a light, and looked around, perplexed.

“That's just it—nothing. Same as before.” The police, he added, had found no fingerprints.

“Was
anything
disturbed tonight?” Frank asked.

“Yes.” Mr. Morton pointed to a thin sheaf of papers on top of a desk. “Records of our travel customers this week. I found the papers flipped over when I returned from chasing the intruder.”

Frank sat down and studied the booking list. It included destinations, tour plans, prices, and means of travel. Most of the clients were Bayport residents.

“What use could these be to an outsider?” Joe wondered, peering over his brother's shoulder.

Mr. Morton sank wearly into a chair. “I can't imagine. That's why I called you boys.”

Frank continued reading the list. Suddenly he pointed to an entry near the bottom:

“Hmm.” Joe's eyes narrowed. “It's the only South American destination listed for tonight!”

“Do you think this is significant?” Mr. Morton asked quickly.

“Possibly,” Frank replied. He asked Chet's father about Mr. Martin.

“I don't know him personally. I believe the arrangements were made by phone.” Mr. Morton sighed. “The Oak Hollow trouble and now this!”

“It's a puzzle,” Frank agreed. “I have an idea, but I'm going to let it simmer until we do some legwork.” He asked Mr. Morton to notify Micro-Eye Industries of the prowler he had seen.

“Sure will. Thanks for your help, boys.”

Outside, Joe started to ask Frank about his idea, but his brother rushed him into the car. “I'll tell you on the way to the airport.”

“The airport!”

Frank slipped behind the wheel and headed west. “Raymond Martin,” he explained, “is scheduled to leave by plane tonight. We might be in time to get a look at him.”

Joe snapped his fingers. “You figure the intruder was after something in particular—like Mr. Martin's name?”

“Right—and that could be an alias.”

Frank recalled the luggage thefts Jack Wayne was to investigate. “This plane stops over in Cayenne. Martin could either be slated as a possible victim of the thieves—or in league with the spy ring!”

The Hardys parked near the main terminal at Bayport Airport. Inside the spacious building, they quickly found the passenger gate for Flight 54.

“Martin should come through here,” Frank whispered, checking his watch. “The plane takes off in ten minutes.”

Frank asked the gate attendant if a Mr. Martin had yet boarded the plane. The man shook his head. “I doubt it. Nobody by that name has shown me a boarding pass. But he'd better hurry—plane's readying for take-off.”

The attendant agreed to nod to the Hardys if Martin appeared. Frank and Joe went to stand inconspicuously against a baggage locker nearby and watched boarding passengers file through the gate. Beyond a steel-laced glass wall, landing planes blinked like huge fireflies.

Both boys felt tense. Would they recognize Raymond Martin? Was he an ordinary traveler, or could his name be an alias for Gomez or any of the other elusive suspects?

Five minutes passed. The jets of the silver Brazil-bound liner screamed to life.

“No, you haven't missed him,” the attendant assured the Hardys. “Mr. Martin's the only passenger not aboard.”

“It looks as if he's not going to show,” Joe concluded, disappointed.

“Maybe he spotted us here,” Frank said. “Quick! Let's pretend to leave.”

The boys hurried off through the crowd. Joe turned his head casually. The next second he grabbed Frank's arm. “Look!”

A middle-aged, well-dressed man was rushing toward the Flight 54 gate, trailing a white raincoat from his arm.

“Wait!” he shouted. “Hold the plane!”

The Hardys were close enough to see that the man's face was completely unfamiliar. As the passenger darted through the gate, his coat hem caught on the end of the metal railing. The man snatched the coat free, but a large piece of lining was torn off and dropped to the floor.

The man did not stop. He ran to the landing ramp and climbed into the jetliner. A minute later the huge craft taxied off and soon rose into the night sky. Frank and Joe stood at the gate staring in chagrin after the plane.

“That was Mr. Martin, all right,” the attendant affirmed. “Too bad you boys didn't get a chance to visit with him.”

Frank retrieved the piece of bright plaid lining, and the brothers walked back across the terminal. “Well, I guess I led us on a wild-goose chase,” Frank apologized.

But as he examined the torn material, he noticed a glossy, black edge protruding from a ripped seam.

“Joe, look at this!”

Frank pulled at the edge. A small roll of celluloid fell to the floor!

 

 

 

FRANK stooped and picked up the celluloid coil from the floor of the air terminal.

“Joe, it's film!”

The Hardy boys examined the torn patch from the stranger's raincoat. A tiny pocket, now ripped, was visible in the plaid lining.

“Pretty clever,” Joe murmured. “The film must have been sewn in to avoid detection.”

“Something tells me we'd better take a good look at this film,” said Frank.

The brothers hastened to a quiet corner of the terminal. Frank unfurled the strip of small film and held it up to the overhead lighting.

“What does it show?” Joe asked excitedly.

“It's hard to make out.” Frank squinted up at the tiny frames. “Machinery of some sort—maybe a factory interior—wait! Jumping crickets, look at this!”

Joe grabbed the bottom of the strip and inspected the frame near his brother's thumb. It was an outdoor view showing a high, steel fence and two uniformed figures. Joe gasped.

“The Micro-Eye plant!”

“You bet it is—and taken from
inside
the fence!”

Half-incredulous, the Hardys scrutinized the film's other frames—close-ups of the complex and labeled diagrams.