The Twisted Claw (12 page)

“You're right,” his father agreed. “And a clever plan, too. Disguised as the curator, the impostor had no trouble entering the building after hours. Then he was free to let his cohorts inside without attracting attention.”

At that moment a patrolman rushed up to Spencer. “Sir, a trailer-truck was found abandoned on a side road twelve miles north of here,” he said. “The crime lab has been checking for fingerprints and other clues. So far they've uncovered nothing.”

Frank turned to the detective chief. “Would you issue an alert requesting a check of any flatbed trucks carrying logs?” he asked.

Spencer was a bit puzzled. “Sure—I can do that. But why a truck carrying logs?”

“I can't explain now,” Frank replied. “It's only a hunch of mine and may not amount to anything.”

Shrugging his shoulders, Spencer walked to a telephone, called headquarters, and ordered a general alert.

Exhausted, the Hardys went to the curator's office and settled down into comfortable chairs. Soon they were asleep.

It was nearly dawn when a policeman awakened them. “Chief Spencer is back at headquarters,” he said. “He just called. The State Police in New Hampshire stopped a flatbed truck hauling logs outside the town of Newland. It was headed north. They checked and found that the license plates were phonies.”

“Where's the truck now?” Frank asked quickly.

“At the police garage in Newland. They're also holding the driver and another man who was with him.”

The Hardys were driven to the airport in a patrol car. They found Jack Wayne sleeping soundly on a sofa in the operations room.

“Jack!” Frank said as he gently shook the pilot awake. “We've got to fly to Newland, New Hampshire, right away. Is there a field nearby?”

“New-Newland, New Hampshire,” Jack murmured as he rubbed his eyes wearily. “I'll check my chart.”

He unfolded a map and examined it. There was a small airport located two miles north of the town.

“I'll call the police in Newland and ask if they can have one of their men pick us up at the field,” Mr. Hardy said. “How long will it take to get there?”

Jack measured the distance and made a quick mental calculation. “Approximately two hours.”

They had a quick breakfast at the airport before taking off.

When they landed, a uniformed policeman was waiting for them. He led the Hardys to a patrol car and drove to Newland Police Headquarters.

There they were shown the flatbed truck. About a dozen huge logs were piled aboard it.

Frank stared for a moment, then picked up a large stone and walked toward the vehicle.

“What are you up to?” Joe asked.

“If my hunch is correct,” his brother replied, “you'll see in a minute!”

FRANK began to hammer away at each of the logs in turn. Suddenly he struck one that gave off a slightly hollow sound. Then he found another, and another.

“They're not solid!” exclaimed Mr. Hardy.

After close examination Frank gripped the end of one of the logs and began twisting it.

“Give me a hand!” he said to Joe.

Together, they worked on the log. Presently its butt started to turn like a threaded bottle cap. Soon it dropped free.

“Good grief!” Joe cried. “It is hollowl”

“Exactly.”

Mr. Hardy looked on in amazement as his sons reached inside the log and pulled out crowns, orbs, and several jeweled scepters. Labels on the items proved they were from the DeGraw collection.

“Now we know,” Frank said excitedly, “how the thieves transported their loot right under the very noses of the authorities.”

“Congratulations!” his father interjected. “Your hunch has solved one aspect of the case.”

Arrangements were made to place the truck and its cargo under strict guard. Then the Hardys asked to see the driver and his companion. The policeman who had picked them up at the airport led them into the interrogation room, and the prisoners were brought in.

The driver, who gave his name as Gaff Parkins, was a stocky, tough-looking man. The second man identified himself only as Miker. He was tall, lean, and the deep lines on his face emphasized his hard features. The men were asked if they wanted a lawyer, but both shook their heads.

“Why are we bein' locked up in a cell?” Parkins demanded. “We don't know anythin' about bad license plates. We're just a couple of hired hands.”

“Yeah!” Miker added. “Tell us what the fine is and we'll get outta' here.”

“You're involved in more than just a motor-vehicle violation,” Mr. Hardy informed the prisoners.

“What do you mean?” snarled Parkins. “We ain't done nothin'.”

“Except help to rob the State Museum!” Joe snapped.

“I don't know what you're talking about!” Miker declared. “We didn't steal anything. Our job is to haul logs.”

“Filled with stolen loot?” Frank put in.

The prisoners glanced at each other with startled expressions.

“I knew there was more to this than we were told,” Miker addressed his companion nervously.

“Shut up!”

“I won't!” Miker exclaimed in defiance. “This sounds like big trouble, and we're caught in the middle. Before we get in any deeper, I'm for telling what we know.”

Parkins settled back in his chair and sighed. “Maybe you're right,” he said.

“Understand,” Mr. Hardy told him, “you're not being asked to give a confession. But if you help us, it'll go in your favor.”

“Okay,” Miker agreed. “A little over a year ago Gaff and I tried to break into the freight-hauling business. Money was a problem, and the only thing we could afford was one flatbed truck.”

He went on to explain that recently they ran out of funds and were unable to renew their vehicle registration and to pay for other annual fees necessary to operate the truck.

“Then late yesterday afternoon we got a call from a stranger,” Miker continued. “He asked if we could pick up a pile of logs that had been shipped to Wilmington. The money he offered would've put us back in business for at least a year.”

“Didn't that make you suspicious?” Frank questioned.

“I was too excited to think straight,” the man answered. “He offered to pay us half in advance. But then I remembered we couldn't legally run the truck. I asked the stranger if he could wait a day or two so that I could clear up the matter. He said not to worry, he would give us a special set of Canadian license plates that would get us through.”

“I didn't like the whole thing from the start,” Parkins put in. “But the guy said the job had to be done that night, or the deal was off.”

“Finally we decided to take a chance because the money was just too good to turn down,” Miker added. “So we picked up the logs at a dock in Wilmington.”

“Where were you supposed to deliver them?”

“To Stormwell, a port in Canada. But first we were to meet a van outside of Wilmington.”

The Hardys looked knowingly at one another. Frank asked what took place at the rendezvous.

“When the van arrived, some guy told us to take a walk and return in an hour,” said Miker. “We started out, then doubled back to see what was going on. We spotted those guys loading all sorts of junk into the logs. I was ready to call the deal off right then and there.”

“Why didn't you?” Mr. Hardy inquired. “Since it looked crooked, you should have called the police.”

“I talked him out of it,” Parkins admitted. “I know hoods when I see them. Those guys would never let us quit!”

“And that's all we know,” Miker insisted.

“Can you give us a description of any of the men you saw?”

“No,” Parkins replied. “It was too dark.”

The prisoners were led out of the room. Then the Hardys discussed the situation.

“I'll call the police in Wilmington,” Mr. Hardy said. “I would like to find out how the logs got to the dock.” He put through a call and the police chief of Wilmington promised to track it down.

“The logs were to be taken to Stormwell,” Frank said. “That means one of the Parrot ships must be heading there for the pickup.”

“You can bet on it,” agreed his father. “And our first concern is to prevent information about this from leaking out. We don't want to alert the thieves before the ship docks.”

The desk sergeant called out to the Hardys as they hurried from the interrogation room. “It looks as if you fellows are going to get your names in the newspaper today,” he announced with a grin.

“What do you mean?” Frank asked.

“Ed Watts, the police reporter for the
Newland Record,
was here about half an hour ago,” the sergeant replied. “He checked the police blotter as he usually does. Sure got excited when he learned that you had found the museum loot inside those logs. Didn't even wait for an interview. You should have seen him dash off to make the morning edition with his scoop.”

Mr. Hardy rushed to telephone the managing editor of the newspaper. He pleaded with the man not to print the story.

“Sorry,” the editor informed him, “but the presses are already rolling. Anyway, it wouldn't do any good. The wire services have picked it up.”

The boys were crestfallen when their father told them the situation. He suggested they all return to Bayport and plan a new course of action.

The drivers were released in bail and drove away with their truck, but the logs were kept as evidence.

It was evening by the time the Hardys arrived home. Too exhausted to think clearly, they decided to retire immediately after supper, since Chet had agreed to stay on radio watch one more night.

Before they undressed, a telephone call from the Wilmington police advised that there had been no record of the log shipment. “It obviously was strictly illegal,” the officer reported.

Next day the boys rose early and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, then joined their father who was already at work in his study.

“The morning edition of the
Bayport News
came a little while ago,” he said with a frown. “Take a look at the front page, third column.”

Frank and Joe looked glum when they saw the headline:

 

HARDYS FIND MUSEUM LOOT IN HOLLOW LOGS

 

It read in part: “The Hardys did it again! Officials of the State Museum in Delaware were astounded to learn that the famous Bayport detectives had uncovered an invaluable collection recently stolen from the institution. The loot was cleverly hidden in hollow logs which were being hauled aboard a flatbed truck with Canadian license plates. Police are looking for a possible Canadian contact....”

“This ruins everything!” Joe declared angrily.

Mr. Hardy picked up the phone and placed a call to the Port Authority in Stormwell. He requested any recent information they might have concerning the
Parrot
ships. From the expression on their father's face, the boys concluded that the news was not encouraging.

“You're in for another letdown.” Mr. Hardy sighed as he hung up the phone. “The
Black Parrot
was due to dock last night. So far there's no sign of her.”

“Someone must have radioed the captain,” Frank said, “and told him about our finding the loot.”

“He must be making a run for it,” Joe added. “And you can be sure Stormwell has seen the last of the
Parrots.”

“If only we had more leads,” Mr. Hardy said. “The Stormwell authorities tried to find the location of the ship but to no avail. And where to look next is a problem, because the
Black Parrot
did not report its last position.”

“Too bad Parkins and Miker couldn't give us more information about the gang,” Joe muttered. He glanced at his brother. “I wonder where the thieves are now.”

“Scattered like geese in a hurricane, if they read the newspapers,” Frank said glumly.

“As I see it,” Mr. Hardy announced, “our only hope of ending this case quickly depends upon one thing.”

“What's that, Dad?” Frank asked.

“That your friend Ellis contacts us.”

“By this time,” Joe said dejectedly, “Ellis might not even be aboard the
Yellow Parrot
any more.”

“Possibly,” Frank agreed. “He might have decided to escape from the ship. Or the captain could have found out that he had helped us and took him prisoner. But we're just guessing. We have nothing to lose by sticking close to the radio.”

That afternoon Chet's jalopy screeched to a halt in front of the Hardy house. The stout youth leaped from his car and jabbed at the doorbell excitedly.

“What's going on?” Joe asked as he admitted his friend to the house. “You look as if you've just discovered the secret of perpetual motion.”

“Everybody brace themselves for the unexpected!” Chet declared. “I'll be acclaimed by archaeologists in every corner of the globe!”

“You haven't been digging again?” Joe questioned apprehensively.

“Well—er—yes,” his pal admitted with a certain aloofness. “But I made sure there weren't any water mains around.”

The commotion brought Mr. Hardy and Frank to the scene. It was then that Chet pulled a small, weathered bowl from his pocket and displayed it proudly.

“Consider yourselves privileged to be among the first to set eyes upon this ancient artifact,” he announced. “Study its lines closely.”