The motorcycle was parked in a shed, but its rider was nowhere to be seen.

Frank's eyes quickly scanned the shed. In a corner of the flimsy building was a door leading to the boat landing.

"He must have gone that way!" the youth said.

He flung open the door and they rushed out on the landing. A few feet away, a tall, thin man stood at the wheel of a speedboat.

"It's Sweeper!" Frank exclaimed excitedly.

The boys heard the sputtering roar of a motor, and the craft curved out into the bay.

"Come on!" Frank cried, racing for the Sleuth, "We'll Sleuth, "We'll follow him!" follow him!"

"Go ahead, Frank!" Joe yelled after him. "I'll try try to trace the owner of the motorcycle!" to trace the owner of the motorcycle!"

Frank waved his hand, making an okay sign with his thumb and forefinger. A moment later, the Sleuth Sleuth sped away from the landing and roared in pursuit of the other craft. sped away from the landing and roared in pursuit of the other craft.

Joe went back to the shed and examined the motorcycle carefully. There was a leather pouch attached to the seat, but it contained only a pair of goggles and a few greasy rags.

He studied the license plate. It was the familiar red-and-black license issued by the adjoining state.

"Well, that's something," he told himself, memorizing the number.

Returning to the roadster, he headed for the Hardy home. Luckily, Mr. Hardy was still there, and Joe apprised him of the new developments.

In fifteen minutes, Fenton Hardy had the information his son needed. The motorcycle's license had been issued to Mr. Timothy Kimball of Brook-side.

"Brookside!" Joe exclaimed. "That's just across the state line! I could drive there in an hour!"

"What will you do when you get there?" his father asked.

"Why, I-I'll-" Joe stopped, nonplussed. "Golly," he said, thrusting his fingers through his hair, "I hadn't thought of that!"

"It's best to plan before you act," the detective 94 advised him. ''Kimball may be the man in the speedboat-the one called Sweeper. Or the motorcycle may have been borrowed by a friend of Kimball's-or by someone in Kimball's employ."

"Maybe the motorcycle was stolen from Mr. Kim ball," Joe suggested.

"Maybe," Mr. Hardy admitted. "The point is, you may have to rely on Kimball's word."

"That's true," Joe said slowly.

"Your best bet is to find out all you can about Kimball before you see him," the boy's father went on. He scribbled something on a slip of paper and handed it to Joe. "Here's the name of the city editor of the Brookside News. News. He's an old friend of mine. If anyone can give He's an old friend of mine. If anyone can give you information about Timothy Kimball, he can."

"Thanks, Dad," the boy said gratefully. "I'll talk to him."

One hour later, Joe stepped into the offices of the Brookside News. News. He walked past He walked past reporters busily tapping out the day's news on their typewriters, rushing copy boys, jangling phones and clicking teletype machines.

Beyond the main office was a door lettered "Tom Taylor, City Editor." Joe opened the door and went in.

Tom Taylor was a huge, red-faced man who chewed savagely on a fat cigar and issued orders to his secretary in a voice that was close to a bark. But 95 when Joe introduced himself, the editor became surprisingly genial.

"So you're Fenton Hardy's boy!" He studied the youth keenly. "Your Dad and I have tackled some cases together." He grew suddenly businesslike. "What can I do for you?"

Joe told him.

' 'K imball, eh?" Tom Taylor chewed thoughtfully on his cigar. "I guess I can give you a few facts about him." He turned to his secretary. "Mary, get me the clips on Timothy Kimball."

A few minutes later, a sheaf of news clippings from the morgue-the reference file room of the newspaper-was placed on Taylor's desk.

The city editor scanned the clippings quickly. "Timothy Kimball," he recited. "Age, sixty-five. Occupation: President of the Kimball Construction Company. Has a son, Timothy, Jr.-"

"How old is the son?" Joe interrupted.

"Thirty-one," Taylor told him.

Joe repressed a feeling of excitement. The man called Sweeper was just about that age!

"I happen to know Timothy, Jr. is a pretty worthless sort," the editor said. "He's given his father a great deal of trouble-pa.s.sing bad checks, getting involved with shady characters and generally making life miserable for the old man."

Joe listened attentively. This information, too, seemed to tie in with the thin man!

96 "Kimball thought responsibility might straighten out his son so he made him manager of the company," Tom Taylor continued, "but I understand the experiment has been pretty much of a dud. Young Kimball is too shiftless to stick at a job."

He pushed the clippings away from him. "Anything else you need to know?" he asked.

"No, thanks!" Joe replied. "That's plenty!"

He copied down the address of the Kimball Construction Company, shook hands with the city editor and departed.

Twenty minutes later, he stood in the Kimball Company's reception room.

"Whom shall I say is calling?" the girl at the switchboard asked him.

"Joe Hardy."

She relayed this information to Mr. Kimball, then turned to Joe. "You may go in," she said. "Mr. Kimball's office is right through that door."

A gray-haired, ruddy-cheeked man looked up as the youth entered. He rose from his chair behind a large desk and extended his hand.

"Aren't you Mr. Hardy's son?" he said, smiling a bit nervously. "Fenton Hardy, the detective?"

Joe acknowledged that he was. Mr. Kimball motioned Joe to a chair and resumed his seat behind the desk.

"What did you come to see me about?" he asked after a moment, his hands fidgeting with a paper knife.

97 "Your son," Joe wanted to say. But he decided on a more indirect approach.

"Mr. Kimball," he said, "I found a motorcycle registered in your name in Bayport. I have a hunch it was stolen."

Mr. Kimball's brows lifted. "I own such a machine," he admitted. "It's used to carry messages from my office to the field engineers. But what makes you think it's been stolen?"

"The man who was riding the motorcycle I had seen before," Joe replied tactfully, "in rather suspicious circ.u.mstances."

Mr. Kimball stared at his hands.

"What does he look like?" he asked after a while.

"He's tall and thin," Joe told him. "About thirty-one years old."

The paper knife fell from the man's fingers, and his mouth twitched.

"I'll see if there's anyone answering that description in our employ," he said slowly, picking up the phone.

He turned away from the boy and shielded his lips with his hand. Joe strained to hear what Mr. Kimball and the voice at the other end of the wire were saying, but all he could make out was a murmur.

Mr. Kimball put down the receiver and looked at the youth.

"There is such a man working for us," he said pleasantly. "But you're mistaken about the motor98 cycle being stolen. He was sent to Bayport on an errand by my plant foreman." He gave a little laugh. "Doubtless your imagination was playing you tricks when you thought you saw the young man in, er-suspicious circ.u.mstances. My foreman tells me he has a fine record."

"I see," said Joe. He paused, then added: "Would you mind telling me the man's name?"

Mr. Kimball spread his hands with a deprecating smile. "I'm sorry," he said. "I really don't think I should."

"Was it-Sweeper?" Joe put in quickly.

For an instant, the boy imagined a look of panic came into Mr. Kimball's eyes, but he shook his head firmly.

"I'm sorry-no." He glanced at a small clock on his desk, then rose. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment."

Joe stood up also. He turned as if to leave, then tried one more shot.

"Mr. Kimball," he said, "may I see a picture of your son?"

The gray-haired man stared at him.

"My son?" he stammered. "What for?"

"I have reason to believe he is the man who took the motorcycle," Joe told him quietly.

Mr. Kimball's face reddened and he took a step toward the boy.

"Get out of here!" he ordered, his voice shaking.

99 "I had an idea your father sent you to question me-and now I'm sure of it! What my son does is n.o.body's business but his and mine!" He raised his fist threateningly. "Get out!"

Joe returned to the car. He felt his line of questioning had been a little rough on Mr.

Kimball, and he was sorry, for he sympathized with the father's loyalty to his son. But the youth was now more than ever convinced that the man called Sweeper was Timothy Kimball, Jr.!

CHAPTER XII.

Search at Sea.

back in Bayport, Joe was surprised to find that Frank had not returned home. Nor was Mr. Hardy there, either, having gone out on a mission of his own.

"This house is worse than a railroad station!" Aunt Gertrude stormed. "People racing in and out at all hours-and expecting Laura and me to run a twenty-four-hour restaurant service!"

Joe knew his aunt must have prepared some special dish for her brother and was afraid he would not return in time to eat it.

The boy pretended to sniff the air.

"Mmmm!" he said. "Something in this house smells mighty good!"

His aunt beamed, then set her lips.

"It's about time you noticed it!" she said tartly.

She led him into the kitchen. On the table was a plate heaped with fresh jelly doughnuts.

"Wow!" Joe exclaimed. "You're not going tc make me wait until dinner to eat one of these?"

"Humph," Aunt Gertrude sniffed. "As if I didn't know you'd steal one of them the minute my back was turned!"

She gave him a doughnut and studied his face anxiously for approval. It was not long in coming.

"Best doughnut I ever ate!" Joe told her, wolfing another bite.

"Don't talk with your mouth full!" his aunt snapped. And with a smug look at the doughnuts, she went upstairs.

Joe grinned and took another huge bite. It was a good thing Chet wasn't around, he reflected. Chet would go through that plate of doughnuts like a blitz!

Thinking of Chet reminded Joe of the decoy duck, the barrel stave and the yellow-pine board they had planted in the reservoir. It would soon be time to set up a watch in the bay, to determine whether the articles had been carried by an underground stream from the reservoir.

He dialed the number of the Morton farm. lola answered. She told him of the party she and Gallic were planning, and made Joe promise to come and bring Frank. Then she put Chet on the phone.

"Hi, Chet," Joe said. "How about meeting me at the boat landing in a half hour?"

"What for?" Chet questioned him warily.

102 Joe grinned. It was just like Chet not to take any chances where work might be involved!

"We've got to post a lookout for the stuff we dropped in the reservoir," he explained.