The Twisted Claw (5 page)

“We have four, but will get more from an agency as soon as we can.”

At that moment a staff member told the curator that he was wanted on the phone. He excused himself and hurried off.

Frank returned to the DeGraw collection and examined it more closely. Then he strolled around the other rooms. He entered one which contained large monoliths from a Pacific island, and stopped for a moment to admire the exhibit.

As he stood there, one of the stone columns behind him silently began to topple forward. Frank was directly in its path!

FRANK suddenly spotted the reflection of the falling column in the highly polished floor of the room. He gasped, and in a lightning move, he threw himself to one side.

Crash!
The column hit the floor with an ear-splitting impact.

Frank was sprayed with bits of shattered rock as he tumbled across the floor. The curator, a guard, and several staff members came running.

“What happened?” one of them shouted.

Frank sprang to his feet. “I was almost flattened by that column,” he said grimly. “It toppled over.”

The curator stared in disbelief. “How could such a thing happen?”

“The column had rather a broad base,” a staff member interjected. “It stood firmly in the upright position.”

“Someone must have pushed it over,” Frank remarked.

“Nonsense!” Watkins exclaimed, obviously startled by the suggestion He hesitated for a moment. “Although I suppose it could be done by a man with exceptional strength.”

“See here!” another staff man interrupted. “Are you suggesting that someone deliberately toppled the column?”

“Under the circumstances,” Frank mused thoughtfully, “I must consider it a possibility.”

“Why would anyone do such a thing?”

“For reasons I can't divulge right now,” Frank replied.

He drew the curator aside. “I have a hunch this museum is next on the thieves' list. Somehow the gang must have discovered who I am, and why I'm here. Pushing that column over could have been an attempt to get me out of the way.”

“Oh, come now,” Watkins retorted. “Aren't you jumping to conclusions? I'm sure the whole thing was just an accident.”

“All the same, we'd better assign more men to guard the DeGraw exhibit,” Frank urged.

“I've already decided on another course of action,” the curator said. “The entire collection will be taken to our basement storeroom immediately. It'll stay there until this whole affair of museum robberies is ended.”

Watkins ordered all available staff members to begin work at once. Nearly two hours went by before the last item of the collection was carried into the storeroom and the door securely locked by Watkins.

“I still recommend that guards be posted,” Frank said. “A locked door alone is not going to stop the thieves.”

“Well—all right,” Watkins agreed, shrugging his shoulders. “But I can spare only two men. The rest will have to go about their regular duties.”

“We can ask the local police to help,” the young sleuth suggested. “Perhaps they can spare a couple of—”

“Out of the question!” the curator declared indignantly. “Policemen attract newspaper reporters. I'm not going to risk wild rumors being circulated that something is wrong here at the museum.”

Frank was annoyed by the man's attitude. Watkins was more worried about his personal image than about the protection of the collection.

“Anyway,” the curator continued, “you're only acting on a hunch.”

“Have it your way,” Frank said tartly. “I hope you won't have reason to regret your decision.”

“Hardly,” Watkins assured him. He grinned. “You detectives tend to be overly suspicious. I doubt if the thieves are within a thousand miles of this museum.”

At that moment a tall, muscular, hard-faced man entered the basement. He was carrying a pair of shears which he placed in a tool chest. Then he hurried away. Something about the man made Frank uneasy.

“Who was that?” he asked the curator in a low voice.

“Our gardener,” replied Watkins. “He takes care of the grounds around the building as well as other odd jobs.”

“How long has he been employed here?”

“Less than a week, actually. We're lucky to have him. We can't pay very much and it's difficult to find someone to do the work.”

The curator added that the man's name was Starker, and that he had excellent references.

After the guards were posted, Watkins invited Frank to his home for dinner.

“Thank you. But I'd better stick around here. I'll have a quick meal at one of the local restaurants later.”

As night approached, Frank had the guards help him check all doors and windows. Then he decided to have some food. One of the men recommended an eating place about seven blocks from the museum.

Frank strolled out of the building and down the street. He had not walked very far when he realized that two men were following him.

As he quickened his pace, so did his pursuers. Gradually they gained on him. As the gap between them narrowed, Frank arrived at the restaurant and dashed inside.

“Soup's all gone, and so are the menu specials,” a waiter announced as Frank quickly sat down at a table. “We're closing in half an hour.”

Frank did not speak He stared at the door apprehensively. The men did not follow him into the restaurant. Obviously they wanted to avoid being seen, and were waiting for him outside.

“How about a sandwich?” the waiter went on as he glanced at his watch impatiently. “Best I can do.”

Frank made a selection and was quickly served. As he ate, he desperately tried to think of a way to escape his pursuers. He finally decided to call the police.

“Where's the telephone?” Frank asked the waiter.

“There's none here in the restaurant,” the man replied. “You'll find a public booth on the comer half a block down the street.”

“But you must have a phone here somewhere!” the boy insisted.

“Sure,” the waiter said icily, eyeing Frank with suspicion. “We have one in the kitchen. It's strictly for business, not for customers.”

“This is an emergency! You must let me make a call!”

“Don't give me that,” the man snarled. “What's wrong? Too lazy to walk half a block?”

The situation was becoming more desperate. It was now closing time and several of the employees were preparing to leave.

Frank did not like what he was about to do, but he had no choice. “I—I don't think I could walk that far. I feel sick. It—it must've been the sandwich I just ate.”

“Just a second, kid,” the waiter fumed. “Don't accuse us of serving bad food. All our stuff is the best.”

Frank settled into a chair. “Maybe,” he groaned. “But I felt fine till now. Ugh—this is awful.”

The waiter rushed off and returned with the proprietor of the restaurant.

“What's going on here?” the man demanded. “I hear you don't feel good. I've been in this business twenty years and never poisoned a customer yet!”

“There's always a first time,” Frank muttered weakly. “Somebody get me a taxi.”

The proprietor turned to the waiter. “Call him a cab,” he ordered. “This kid must be some sort of mental case. The sooner we get rid of him the better.”

Minutes later a taxi rolled up in front of the restaurant. The owner and several of his employees accompanied Frank as he trudged toward it and climbed in.

“Take me to the museum,” he told the driver. As they sped off, he peered out the rear window in time to see two men leap out from a dark alley-way.

Arriving at his destination, Frank went to the basement to check on the storeroom. There the two guards were engaged in idle conversation.

“Everything okay?” Frank asked.

“Yeah,” one of the guards replied. “Our only problem is trying to stay awake.”

“Whatever you do,” Frank warned, “don't fall asleep. I'll get a couple of the other men to relieve you in two hours.”

He then hurried to the curator's office to telephone his father and report what had happened.

“You had a close call,” Mr. Hardy commented. “From what you tell me, I don't think the column fell over by accident, either. And what about the men who followed you?”

“No sign of them,” answered Frank. “But I did catch a glimpse of one man. He was tall and muscular. I'm sure he was Starker, the museum gardener.”

“Get help,” his father urged. “Call the police in on this. Never mind what the curator said. This could be serious!”

Just then a loud noise echoed through the museum. Frank asked Mr. Hardy to stand by for a moment and quickly placed the phone down on the desk.

“Who's there?” he shouted.

No answer. Frank raced down into the basement. The two guards were on their feet, poised for action.

“We heard a noise!” one of them said excitedly. “What was it?”

Frank was about to reply when his attention was seized by a hissing sound. Then a white, odorless smoke began to filter into the room.

“What's that?” a guard shouted.

In the next instant several men wearing gas masks appeared. Frank lunged at the intruders, but his body seemed to be drained of energy. He fell to the floor, unconscious!

“WHAT—what happened?” Frank asked groggily as he regained consciousness. He found himself staring into the face of a police sergeant.

“You were knocked out by some kind of gas,” the officer replied. “So were all the guards in the building.”

Still dazed, Frank struggled to sit up. “But how come you're here?” he inquired. “Who notified you?”

“Your father called headquarters,” the sergeant explained. “He said you'd heard a noise in the museum and went to check it out. When you didn't return to the phone, he suspected something was wrong.”

Frank glanced around. He saw several policemen inspecting the area. Others were helping to revive the two guards posted at the storeroom door.

Suddenly Frank sprang to his feet. “The DeGraw collection!” he cried. “Is it gone?”

“The storeroom is empty, if that's what you mean,” the sergeant replied.

At that instant the curator arrived on the scene. “I received a telephone call to come here at once. What's—?” His words trailed off as he peered into the empty storeroom.

“The collection's been stolen,” Frank said.

Watkins's face turned pale. “This is outrageous!” He glared at Frank. “Why didn't you stop the thieves?”

Frank fought hard to control his temper. “I warned you, sir. We should have called in the police.”

“Are you trying to blame me for what happened ?”

Frank said nothing. He did not want to waste precious time by getting involved in an argument with Watkins. Instead, he began to search the area for clues.

On the floor he spotted a short piece of rope. He examined it closely, then showed it to the police sergeant. “Do you mind if I keep this for a while?” he asked.

The officer looked at it, then returned it to Frank. “We might need it later.”

“Certainly.”

“I have a couple of men coming over from the crime lab to check for fingerprints,” the sergeant went on. “You get some sleep. I'll let you know if we find anything.”

“Think I will,” Frank agreed wearily. He went to the curator's office and settled down into a comfortable chair.

He slept several hours before he was gently shaken awake. “Hello, son,” came his father's voice.

“Dad! When did you get here?”

“A couple of hours ago. I decided to let you sleep a while longer.”

Frank grimaced. “Then you know about the robbery.”

“It wasn't your fault. I had a talk with the curator. Never met such a stubborn man. He should have given you more cooperation.”

Frank filled his father in on all the facts. Then Mr. Hardy said, “We're dealing with a shrewd ring of thieves. But they must know we're on to their game. I have a hunch the gang will wait for a while before they pull off another robbery.”

“What's our next move?”

“Breakfast and then back to Bayport. I've already called Joe and the others. The local police have agreed to take over in the other towns and will guard the museums heavily for an indefinite period of time.”