Mystery of Smugglers Cove

Table of Contents

 

 

 

A VALUABLE painting is stolen en route to Florida, and the Hardy Boys are suspects. Determined to find the artwork and corner the real thieves, the young detectives fly to Key Blanco, Florida. They disguise themselves, and joining a group of sinister smugglers, begin a dangerous exploration of the menacing underworld.

Though the painting fails to appear, an important clue sends the boys on a perilous trek through the wilds of the Everglades. There, threatened at every turn by greedy enemies and vicious alligators, the Hardys fight a tricky and powerful battle to expose the truth.

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Copyright © 1980 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved. Published

in 2005 by Grosset & Dunlap, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group,
345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. THE HARDY BOYS® is a
registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a
trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. S.A.

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-07673-6

 

 

2007 Printing

The phone rang shrilly. Frank and Joe Hardy looked up from the game of chess they were playing in the living room of their Bayport home.

“I wonder if it's for us,” Frank said.

“We'll find out in a second,” Joe replied. “Aunt Gertrude is picking it up in the hall.”

Gertrude Hardy, who had been living with the family for quite some time, poked her head through the door a moment later. “Frank, Mr. Wester wants to talk to you.”

“Mr. Wester?”

“You remember him—the retired banker. He's also a well-known art collector. ”

“Oh yes. Thanks, Aunty.” Frank went into the hall and picked up the receiver. “Mr. Wester, this is Frank Hardy.”

“I want to see you and Joe,” said the voice on the other end. “Can you come over here right away?”

“Sure thing. What's up?”

“I'm looking for a couple of crooks that you and your brother might be interested in. I want to see you two before I call the police!”

Wester hung up and Frank returned to the living room. He told Joe what the art collector had said.

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “Those thieves sound like they have him pretty worked up! Let's go!”

The boys flew out of the house. Eighteen-year-old Frank climbed behind the wheel of their yellow sports sedan. The dark-haired boy was a year older than his blond brother, who took the seat next to him. Both were known far beyond their hometown as excellent amateur detectives.

Frank drove along Elm Street to the main avenue and soon reached Raymond Wester's house on the outskirts of Bayport. It was almost a mansion, surrounded by acres of grass and huge trees.

Frank parked in the driveway. He and Joe noticed a woman glaring down at them from a second-floor window. She lifted her arm and they saw the gleam of a blade in her hand.

Joe gasped. “Looks like that lady's holding a dagger
^!
”

“It sure does,” Frank agreed. “I wonder what she's up to.”

The woman turned away from the window and disappeared from sight. The Hardys got out of their car and went up the long front walk to the door. Joe reached for the bell, but before he had a chance to press it, the door opened a crack to reveal a gleaming blade!

Instinctively, they stepped back, and as the door swung wide open, they found themselves confronted by the woman from the second-floor window. She held a letter opener in one hand and a bunch of letters in the other.

“I saw you arrive,” she said, “so I came down to let you in. I'm Mrs. Summers, the housekeeper. Mr. Wester is waiting for you.”

She showed them through the hall into the art collector's study. The Hardys followed silently, embarrassed about mistaking the letter opener for a dagger.

Raymond Wester, a small man with white hair, was sitting behind a large oak desk. A number of paintings hung on the walls, except for an area over the fireplace where an oblong spot darker than the surrounding wall showed that a picture had recently been removed.

Wester motioned for Frank and Joe to take chairs in front of his desk.

“I suppose you're wondering why I asked you to come here,” he began.

“That's right, sir,” Frank admitted. “Except that you mentioned a couple of crooks.”

Wester nodded. “They robbed me.”

“What's missing?”

Wester pointed to the vacant space over the fireplace. “The painting that used to be there has disappeared. It was a very valuable portrait of Simon Bolivar. I suppose you know who Bolivar was.”

Joe grinned. “We studied him in history class. He was the George Washington of South America. Knocked over the Spaniards the way Washington defeated the British.”

“That's why they called him the Liberator,” Frank added.

“You know your history,” Wester complimented them. “Well, my portrait of Bolivar is gone. Vanished. ”

“When did it happen?” Frank inquired.

“Two weeks ago today. I was in Europe. When I arrived home this noon I found out it was gone.”

“And you have no idea who might have taken it?” Frank asked.

“Well, let me tell you what happened. Before leaving on my trip last month, I ordered my secretary, Mark Morphy, to have the painting taken down and sent to my brother Harrison, who lives on Key Blanco in Florida. Harrison has always admired the portrait, so last month I agreed to give it to him.”

“What method of transportation did you use?” Frank asked.

“The painting was too valuable to ship through the mails or a delivery service. I asked Morphy to hire two couriers to drive to Florida in a van. He was to go along and keep an eye on the picture at all times.”

“Could they drive all the way to Key Blanco?” Joe inquired.

“No. Only to Key West. From there they were to hire a boat. Before leaving for Europe, I phoned Harrison and told him that the portrait would soon be on its way to him. However, when I returned today, he called and said it never arrived!”

“Did you inform the police?” Frank asked. “Perhaps there was an accident, and they might be able to locate the van between here and Florida.”

Wester shook his head. “As I told you over the phone, I wanted to talk to you first. Anyway, if the van had had an accident, Morphy would have phoned me.”

“You haven't heard from your secretary at all?”

“Not a word! I'm afraid he may have been kidnapped by those couriers. You know, I just can't believe he's involved in anything underhanded—”

“Did Morphy identify the couriers he hired?” Joe asked. “Did he leave their names?”

“Yes,” Wester declared. “He also left a photograph of them.”

“Good,” Frank said. “That way we can go to Chief Collig at police headquarters and see if they're listed in his mug shot file.”

“No need to go to all that trouble,” Wester said dryly. “I think
you
can identify them.”

“Why is that, Mr. Wester?” Joe asked, puzzled.

The retired banker took a photograph from a drawer and handed it to him. “Here!”

The young detectives stared at the picture and gaped in surprise. They were looking at a snapshot of themselves!

“Morphy pulled a fast one on you, Mr. Wester,” Joe finally said. “We never saw the painting or met the man.”

“Besides, we're detectives, not couriers!” Frank pointed out emphatically.

“And not criminals either!” added Joe.

Wester appeared unconvinced. “You could be using your reputation for crime-fighting as a cover. Everyone in Bayport knows you've solved a lot of mysteries. Maybe you thought you wouldn't be suspected. That's a photo of you two, isn't it?”

“Sure,” Frank admitted. “But it doesn't prove anything. I recognize the picture. It was shot by Andy Anderson of the
Bayport Times
during an interview. Morphy must have gone to the newspaper morgue and dug it out.”

Wester shrugged. “If he did, he was still letting me know you and Joe were the couriers he hired. Where were you two weeks ago when my painting was stolen?”

“We were backpacking in Maine,” Frank replied. “Followed the Appalachian Trail. It was great hiking—”