The Crisscross Shadow (5 page)

“Sure,” Chet answered. “Iola, make twice as much batter. That'll be enough for a starter.”

“I don't know about that,” his sister replied teasingly. “Perhaps I'd better mix three times as much.”

The chunky football center was known for his appetite, and despite needling from his friends, never reduced his intake of food.

Supper was a jolly affair, but eventually the talk got around to the mystery of Wylie Breck. Frank told of the slim clue they had picked up from Mr. Parks.

He concluded the story by telling them that the moccasin had been made by an Indian tribe. As he was saying, “If only we knew the name of a tribe that begins with R,” Iola and Chet looked at each other strangely.

“You know of one?” Joe asked.

“N-no,” Chet replied, and in a moment disappeared from the room.

The Hardys continued to eat waffles with syrup.

As Joe got up to get more butter from the refrigerator, he gave a strangled cry. Frank turned to see what had startled him.

Standing in the doorway was an Indian in battle regalia!

He raised his hand commandingly. Then a deep but strangely familiar voice intoned: “I am Chief Wallapatookunk.”

“Chet!” whooped the Hardys, roaring with laughter as they recognized their buddy.

“Where in the world did you get that outfit?” Frank asked.

Chet himself was struggling to maintain a dignified and fierce look.

“This Indian warrior's suit,” he replied solemnly. “Chief say you his prisoners.” He pointed to Iola. “Bring um white girl to Wallapatookunk.”

Iola now was giggling but pretended to be alarmed and shrank toward Joe.

“I will defend this maiden to the last arrow!” Joe said, then added, “Have a heart, Chet, before I die laughing. Where did you get that Indian costume?”

“It's this way, fellows,” Chet began, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping some of the red, black, and white crayon from his face. “My great-grandfather was a member of the Pashunk tribe.”

“What!” Frank cried.

“Honest Injun,” Chet insisted, “my great-grandfather belonged to the Pashunk tribe.”

“He's right,” Iola chimed in.

“Great-grandfather Ezekiel Morton was honorary Chief Wallapatookunk of the Pashunks. This getup I'm wearing is a ceremonial outfit used only on special occasions. It's been in our family for generations, and I just thought of it again when you mentioned those Indian moccasins.”

“What does Wallapatookunk mean?” Frank asked.

“Gee, fellows,” Chet stammered, “you really don't want to know, do you?”

“We certainly do,” Frank insisted.

“Well, it means ‘Eat-a-Whole-Moose,' ” Chet answered reluctantly.

“Boy, your great-grandfather must have had some appetite. Say, why didn't your folks call you Ezekiel?”

“Whoever heard of a center called Ezekiel?” Chet countered, ignoring the gibe.

“We don't know exactly how our great-grandfather got the Indian name,” Iola spoke up, “but we do know a very strange legend that he used to tell. It has been handed down in our family.”

“What is it?” Joe asked eagerly.

“According to the legend, a fabulous treasure is buried in the territory where the Pashunks used to live!”

“Buried treasure!” The Hardys whistled in amazement.

“Where?” Joe inquired.

“No one knows.”

“But there must be some clue,” Frank insisted.

“Yes,” Chet assented. “The legend says the treasure is buried in a crisscross shadow!”

“The shadow of what?” Joe asked.

“That's what we don't know, but I sure wish we could find the treasure,” Chet concluded.

Just then the doorbell rang and Iola excused herself to answer it.

“Hi, Frank! Hello, Joe! Chet! What in the world!” cried Callie Shaw as she saw the boy's costume and his multicolored streaked face.

“Callie,” Joe said solemnly, with a sweep of his arm, “let me present Great Chief Walla—er —anyhow, heap big wheel among Indians!”

Callie, though still puzzled, joined the outburst of laughter at Joe's introduction of the disguised Chet.

Then Frank brought her up to date on news in the Morton household and also what he and Joe had learned at Hopkinsville.

“You've really made progress in your detecting,” Callie commented. “If you could only find out something further about that R imprint.”

“Say, why don't we get out our collection of old Indian books, Chet?” Iola spoke up. “Maybe we'll find some tribes that begin with R.”

“And then we'll check on whether they're the ones who do leatherwork,” Frank added enthusiastically.

Iola excused herself and returned a few minutes later with an armload of old volumes.

Immediately all the young people started thumbing through the books, intently scanning the fine print. The pages were yellowed with age.

There were dozens of tribes that no longer existed—names that had meant so much in the early days of the country—Abnakis, Shawnees, Narragansetts, and others that reminded the Bayport High students of the exciting days of the early colonists.

“This tribe we're looking for is probably so small that it didn't even make history,” remarked Joe, breaking the silence. Everyone nodded agreement, but kept on leafing the pages determinedly.

Finally it was time for the Hardys to start home, since they did not wish to break football training rules. Frank rode with Callie as far as her house, with Joe following, then transferred to the convertible.

“I guess we're at the end of the Indian trail with that moccasin,” Joe remarked.

“We may still find the R tribe,” Frank said more hopefully. “I'm not giving up yet.”

“I'm with you on that score,” Joe agreed as they turned the corner near the Hardy home.

Suddenly Frank gave a start and sat bolt upright. “Look!” he whispered excitedly. “Coming out of that window!”

Joe followed his brother's gaze to the second floor of the Hardy house. In the moonlight they could see a man climbing out!

Frank cut the engine and stopped at the curb. The boys leaped from the car and dashed up the driveway.

As they looked up again, the intruder was dropping to the roof of the kitchen porch. Then a cloud passed in front of the moon and hid the scene in darkness.

“Come on! He mustn't get away!” Joe cried.

The boys heard a thud on the ground, and reached the porch just as the moon broke through the clouds.

In the second that the clouds had obscured the moon, the intruder had disappeared as if the earth had swallowed him up!

WHERE had the man who had climbed out the second-story window gone?

“Quick!” Joe said to his brother. “I'll circle this side of the house. You take the other.”

Finding no one, they searched the neighboring yards. It was no use. The intruder had disappeared.

“Let's go inside and see if he took anything,” Frank urged.

Noticing that several lights had been turned on upstairs, the boys dashed to the second floor.

“It's Frank and Joe,” Frank called. “Are you all right, Mother?”

“Oh, boys, what a relief to see you!” Mrs. Hardy cried as they reached the hall.

Aunt Gertrude stood menacingly, an umbrella clutched in her hand.

“We saw a man crawling out of the second-story window,” Frank told them.

“Then why didn't you catch him?” Aunt Gertrude bristled.

“We tried,” Frank confessed, “but he got away.”

“Did he steal anything?” Joe put in. “Did you see him?”

“See him?” Aunt Gertrude echoed with indignation. “We saw him, and if I ever get that fellow, I'll give him the thrashing of his life.”

“Aunt Gertrude and I came home from the movies. When we got upstairs we heard a noise in your father's study,” Mrs. Hardy explained. “We looked in and saw a masked man. As soon as he spotted us, he dived for the window and climbed out.”

“What was he doing?” Frank asked.

“He was standing in front of the file cabinet with a key in his hand!”

The boys rushed into Mr. Hardy's study and examined the file carefully. Apparently it had not been disturbed.

“Good thing we changed that lock,” Joe said.

“Right. But the criminal might have forced it open.” Frank turned to his mother and aunt. “I guess you frightened him off in time.”

“I wonder what he was after,” Joe pondered.

“It could be almost anything,” Frank replied thoughtfully. “Let's fine-tooth-comb this room. Maybe the fellow left a clue that may help us track him down.”

They examined the study from wall to wall but found nothing. As Joe leaned against the cabinet, a disappointed frown on his face, suddenly something caught his eye. Reaching down, he pulled at a bit of wool snagged on the corner of one drawer.

“We missed this,” he said. “Oh boy! What a clue!”

Triumphantly he flashed a strand of royal-blue wool! “That man in the house in Southport! Remember? He was wearing a royal-blue sweater!”

“Correct.” Frank beamed. “Now we're beginning to get somewhere on this case!”

“That proves Breck
did
take the key!” cried Joe. “After he skipped Bayport, either he or his lawyer gave it to the man in the royal-blue sweater and he came here tonight.”

“Maybe those two guys who slugged us in that Southport tenement house were Breck and Kamp!” Frank reasoned. “They were just arriving to give Mr. Blue Sweater the key.”

“Everything ties together.” Joe nodded in satisfaction. “But the important question's still not answered. What did this gang want from Dad's file?”

“Let's go back to Southport tomorrow and call on that blue-sweater guy again,” Frank proposed.

Since the football squad was excused from practice on Monday, the Hardys were able to start for Southport as soon as classes were over.

“How about coming along, Chet?” Frank asked as they got ready to leave.

“Sorry, fellows. I promised Dad I'd help around home. But listen, you two, don't get yourselves in the hospital. We've got a tough game to play on Saturday and—”

“Where're you going?” Tony Prito spoke up. “Maybe I can be your bodyguard.”

“Swell.”

The three boys drove to the dock where the Hardys' small powerboat the
Sleuth
was moored. They would make the trip to Southport by water.

When they arrived, Frank and Joe asked Tony to guard the
Sleuth
while they were gone. Then they headed up a steep cobblestoned alley to the street and walked into the main entrance of the tenement where Philip York lived.

Joe rapped on the apartment door while Frank kept an eye on the dim corridor to avoid another surprise attack.

The door was opened by the man they had come to see. He was wearing the telltale blue sweater.

“What do you want?” he asked roughly.

“To talk to you.”

The man's eyes widened when he recognized his callers. “You boys are going to get hurt coming around here,” he said threateningly. “I can't give you any information.”

“Oh no?” Joe retorted skeptically, then shot the question, “What were you doing in our house last night?”

“Your house? I've never been near the place in my life,” York replied angrily.

“That's your story,” Frank spoke up. “Here, take a look at this,” he said, forcing his way in and suddenly confronting the man with the piece of blue yarn. “It came from that sweater you're wearing,” he declared, pointing to a tear in the front of it.

The man looked blank, then recovered. “Maybe it did, maybe it didn't. Anyway, it ain't my sweater,” he said defensively. “I borrowed it.”

“We don't believe you,” Frank answered firmly. Both boys were in the room now. “You'd better start talking.”

“Look, fellows,” York said meekly. “Take it easy on a guy that ain't to blame, will you? I'll do anything you ask. You've got the goods on me.”

The Hardys had not expected to get a confession that easily. They looked at each other with satisfaction. At last they were making headway on the case !

“Come along to the police station with us,” Frank said sternly. “They'll want to hear what you have to say.”