Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
“Don't worry,” Frank said.
“I wonder how this guy knew where to find you, Chet,” Joe mused.
“That makes the whole business even stickier,” Frank replied. “We're onto something big here. Whoever phoned knew the gun was down there, and must be connected with Matthews.”
“It could have been Matthews himself,” Joe said.
“Who's Matthews?” Chet asked.
Joe told about the ballistics test on the pistol.
“Hey, I'm getting out of here!” Chet quavered. “I don't want to get mixed up with any gunman.”
“You'll have to pretend you're going through with the deal,” Joe replied. “Besides, there's a thousand bucks in it for you.”
“That's what you think! He won't pay!”
Joe grinned. “True. But he won't know if you gave him the gun until he opens the bag. Meanwhile, we can get a look at him.”
Swiftly Joe outlined his plan. He took a golf bag from the closet, poured a stream of bails into it, then crumpled up some newspapers and forced them down on top of the balls. Then he lifted the bag in his two hands, testing the weight.
“That's not bad,” he said with satisfaction. “Let's hope our plan works.”
After lunch Tony and Phil left for Bayport, wishing their friends luck with their case.
“We'll need it,” Chet said, apprehensive about their impending mission.
At night the trio drove to the woods near the Olympic Health Club. Frank and Joe circled through the trees, and crouched behind a clump from which they could observe the tall elm. Chet walked openly to the tree. He placed the golf bag upright against the trunk, then went back to the car, got in and waited.
The minutes ticked away. When the moon rose, leaves and branches cast weird shadows on the ground under the elm. In the distance a dog howled.
“My foot's going to sleep,” Frank complained in a whisper.
“And I'm getting a backache,” Joe replied. “Chet always comes out on the right end of our stakeouts. I imagine he's snoozing comfortably in the carâ”
Joe stopped at the sight of a moving shadow. Someone was in the tree.
“Get ready to charge!” Frank advised. “We can't let him escape!”
The figure moved from limb to limb in an agile descent. Bounding to the ground, it turned in the direction of the Hardys, who looked directly into the leering face of Diabo!
Before either of them could move, the simian seized the golf bag and scampered off into the darkness. Pursuit was futile.
“Outwitted by that monkey again!” Joe exploded.
“But he provided a good clue,” Frank said. “Old Diabo is the pet of San Marten, so San Marten is definitely in league with Matthews or his pals. Everything points to the Olympic Health Club as their headquarters!”
“As you always tell me,” Joe said wryly, “don't jump to conclusions.”
Just then Chet ran up. As Joe had guessed, sleep had overtaken their hefty pal and he had missed the monkey episode.
They drove back to Whisperwood in silence, pondering the odd twist in the case.
At breakfast the next morning the phone rang. The same man was calling Chet.
“Buddy, you pulled a fast one on me last night. But you'd better not try that stunt any more,” the man threatened. “You'll hear from me again, and this time make it real or you'll never hunt for another golf ball!”
The phone went dead. Chet looked pale under his freckles. He stretched uncomfortably. “You know,” he said, “I'm really not anxious at all to go out of business!”
“You won't,” Frank said. “Don't worry. Just sit tight here while we go and check out the Olympic Health Club.”
“Okay,” Chet said as Frank and Joe left.
At the reception desk of the health club they met Gus McCormick, and told him that they would like to play golf.
“Impossible!” the pro snapped. “It's only for membersâthe names in here.” He slapped the register on the desk.
“Suppose we're the guests of a member?”
“Then it's okay.”
“Mind if I have a look at this book?” Frank inquired. “Maybe we know somebody who belongs here.”
“Help yourself.”
Frank ran his eye down the list of names, while Joe looked over his shoulder. Finally he came to J. G. Retson.
“Can we go in as Mr. Retson's guests?” Frank inquired. “We know him quite well.”
“He'll have to tell me so himself,” said Gus. “Sorry, those are the rules.”
“I'll call him.” Frank phoned their client, but he was not at home.
“Too bad,” said Gus.
“Was Graham Retson a golfer?” Frank asked.
“No. He stuck to Ping-pong. Usually played with one of our caddies, Harry Grimsel.”
“Grimsel? Is he here now?”
“Yeah. In the locker room. Go right through that door if you want to talk to him.”
“Thanks.”
Frank and Joe went in and found a slim young man putting some golf clubs into a locker. When he turned around, they recognized him. One of the pair in the sideswiped car!
“H
I
, Harry!” Joe greeted him. “Long time no see!”
“Remember us?” Frank added. “We met you on the highway.”
Grimsel pushed his long hair out of his eyes. “Oh, now I remember,” he said. “What can I do for you? Want a game of golf?”
“Maybe later.” Joe said. “First we want some information.”
“Like what?”
“Does Mr. Retson play the Olympic golf course?”
“Yes. I've caddied for him lots of times. He's not much of a player, though. Too hot-tempered. Has a habit of throwing his clubs in the water hazard after a bad shot.”
“How well did you know Graham Retson?” Frank inquired.
“Pretty well. We played Ping-pong together.
He talked a lot about himself. Said he couldn't get along with his father and wanted to run away.”
“Did he ever tell you where he was planning to go?” Joe asked.
“Well, he mentioned a number of places,” the caddy said, knitting his brows as if trying to remember. “The South Sea Islands, India, Ceylon, Hong Kong, andâ”
“Brazil?” Joe interrupted casually.
“Noâyes, he did say something about Brazil, but I forget what.”
Frank realized that they would not get anything useful out of Grimsel and shrugged. “Maybe he went to the moon. How about some golf now?”
“Okay,” the caddy replied. He went off, saying he had to make a phone call first. He returned a few minutes later and supplied the Hardys with clubs and golf balls, then led the way out a side door to the first tee. They each hit a solid drive. Soon there was a putting duel on the green. Frank sank a long putt and took a one-stroke lead.
“Say, you guys play better than most of the club members,” Grimsel remarked.
The course wound around the back of the clubhouse. After sinking their shots, Frank and Joe would step aside from a hole and take a good look at it.
“This place is a lot bigger than it looks from the front,” Joe muttered to Frank while Grimsel was making his last shot on the ninth hole.
“It seems they've added an entire new wing to the old building,” Frank said. “And see that ventilator on top? Must be the biggest unit in Granite City.”
On the next hole, Joe stood a few yards to one side as Grimsel started to swing back.
“Do you know anything about howler monkeys, Harry?” Joe asked.
The question broke the flow of the caddy's movement. The ball sliced, struck Joe on the side of the head, and bounded down the fairway.
Joe slumped to the ground as if he had been clubbed with a bludgeon!
“Gosh, I didn't mean to hit him!” Grimsel exclaimed, worried.
Frank looked at the bruise over Joe's left ear.
“I don't think he's badly hurt,” he said. “But he's out for the count. We'd better get him back to the clubhouse. You stay here. I'll go for a golf cart.”
Frank started off at a run. He was hardly out of sight when Joe stirred. As his eyes focused, he saw Grimsel standing in front of him.
“Sorry I bashed you like that,” the caddy said.
“So am I. That's what I get for talking while you concentrated.”
“Think you can make it to the clubhouse?
Your brother went for a cart, but they all might be in use.”
Joe rose to his feet and took a couple of steps. “I'm okay. But what a headache I've got!”
As the two neared the clubhouse they heard loud angry voices. Rounding the corner they found Frank being escorted to the front steps by Gus McCormick. Behind him was a large stout man with a flushed face.
“That's Charles Portner, the general manager,” Grimsel whispered.
Portner was furious. “Throw this trespasser off the premises!” he ordered, pointing to Frank. Then he noticed Joe. “Bounce that one, too! He's not a member either. They've got a nerve using our private golf course!”
Portner caught the guilty expression on Grimsel's face. “You didn't give them permission, did you?”
The caddy was silent.
“Answer me!”
“Mr. Portner,” Harry whined, “I thought it was okay as long as a member of the staff was with them.”
“It wasn't okay. And it won't happen again because you're fired!”
At that moment a police car drove up to the clubhouse. Two officers got out and climbed the steps. “I'm Lieutenant Cain,” one of them said. “What's going on here?”
Portner calmed down. “Nothing to bother you with, Lieutenant. Just a couple of trespassers.”
“That's your affair,” said the other policeman. “We've come on a different matter. Concerns the wife of one of your members.”
Portner tucked his chin in and cocked his head. “Who may I ask?”
“Mrs. J. G. Retson. She's disappeared from her home in Whisperwood. We're checking the neighborhood.”
Frank and Joe listened intently as the conversation went on. They quickly realized that the police were being purposely mum about the pistol and the woman's shoe.
“Has Mrs. Retson been here at the club recently?” Lieutenant Cain asked.
Portner tapped his forehead. “No. She hasn't been around for at least three months. Of course, I can't swear to it. I might not have seen her.”
Portner hesitated, then went on, “A woman has been seen around here several times after nightfall. She ran across the golf course.”
“Did anyone recognize her?”
“No.”
“Could it have been Mrs. Retson?”
Portner frowned. “I have no way of telling. She appeared in the dark, and disappeared in the dark.”
“Okay, Mr. Portner,” said Lieutenant Cain.
“We'll continue our search. And let us know if you catch the mysterious lady of the golf links.”
As the squad car rolled off down the driveway, the Hardys strolled back to their convertible.
Joe said, “A woman's been running across the golf course. And we've found a woman's shoe at the bottom of the water hazard. How do you figure it?”
“Even if it turns out to be Mrs. Retson's shoe, it still doesn't mean she's been murdered,” Frank said, trying to cheer both of them up. “Let's give Dad a call when we get to the guesthouse. I think I'd feel better if we could talk it over with him.”
Back at Whisperwood, Frank put a call through to Bayport. His mother answered.
“Dad's out of town,” she reported. “He's checking some new clues in that passport case. How are you boys?”
Frank decided not to worry her by talking about their latest suspicion. He merely said that they were collecting evidence at the Olympic Health Club.
“A health club sounds safe enough,” Laura Hardy said with a soft chuckle. “Stay close to it. And I'll tell Dad you called when I hear from him.”
Frank hung up. “We'll take Mother's advice and stick close to the Olympic Health Club. But it may not be as healthy as she thinks!”
That night the boys left Chet in the guesthouse and drove to a road bordering the club. They turned off the lights, parked the car in a stand of trees, and set off for the golf course. At the rear of the clubhouse thick shrubbery provided good cover. They settled down here to keep the place under surveillance.
An hour dragged by. Two. Three. The drone of cicadas lulled Joe to sleep and Frank had trouble keeping his eyes open. Finally they took turns dozing off. Just before dawn headlights flashed into view and two cars turned into the long driveway leading to the clubhouse.
Tensely alert, Frank and Joe crept forward as five men got out. They entered the building and reappeared in a few minutes. One car started off with three passengers. Two men lingered beside the second car and talked in low voices.
“Let's tail this one!” Frank whispered.
They raced across the golf course and climbed into their convertible just as the vehicle came out of the driveway. In total darkness Frank shadowed it, keeping the taillights in sight.
The driver ahead sped to the Granite City airport, where he parked near the airstrip. Frank stopped at a distance. Nobody left the waiting car.
“Let's sneak up and spy on them,” Joe said.
“Okay.” Frank pulled the key from the ignition. Hunched over, they made their way close
to the other car. They noticed that only the driver was in it. Obviously the other man had stayed behind at the club.
Suddenly a plane sounded overhead. A small craft came down through the darkness for a landing. It taxied to the edge of the lighted runway and a man stepped out. He hastened to the waiting car and climbed in beside the driver. Who was he?
The boys moved closer and crouched behind a bush near the car. A match flared in the front seat. The newcomer bent forward to touch the flame to his cigarette.
The flickering light played over the man's face.
San Marten!