"Is someone doing so now?" Frank asked.

Old Mr. Whittaker nodded. "Mrs. Eccles phoned a few minutes ago. When I told her I couldn't return her antique lock, she was very angry and threatened to notify the police. Why, that's what you do with a common thief!"

Frank suggested that perhaps the woman would A Worried Locksmith think things over, and realize Mr. Whittaker was not responsible for the loss of her valuable lock. To take the worried locksmith's mind off his troubles, Frank showed him Aunt Gertrude's suitcase, and asked him to make a key for it. With deft fingers the elderly man set about the task. After trying his master keys on the bag, he adjusted his machine to the proper pattern, and clamped in a blank to cut. As the locksmith worked, Frank asked him if he knew John Mead.

"I did," did," Mr. Whittaker replied. "Nice man. Too bad he died." Mr. Whittaker replied. "Nice man. Too bad he died."

Chet jumped. "What's that you said, sir? I mean, you're sure?"

"We were told that John Mead was still living," Frank explained.

Ben Whittaker shook his head. "I know better," he said.

"Please tell us about him," Frank requested.

"I know very little about him, except that at one time he was a partner in a big hardware concern in New York," the Bayport locksmith revealed. "Mr. Mead once laughingly told me he had vowed many years ago to build himself a house without a single lock or keyhole when he was ready to retire. Said he had become so tired of looking at locks he never wanted to see another one in his whole life!"

Ben Whittaker went on to say that he had spent several very pleasant evenings with the retired hardware manufacturer discussing locksmithing prob52 lems. John Mead had been extremely clever and inventive, but perhaps a little eccentric.

He had never mentioned having any family, and no will had been found after his death. So far as Whittaker knew, no one had claimed the estate.

"Don't any of the doors inside the house have locks on them?" Chet asked in awe.

"Yes, but they have all been concealed," Ben Whittaker replied. "Well, Frank, here's the suitcase key. Try it out."

The Hardy boy inserted the key in the lock. It fitted perfectly. Joe, who had gone to the rear of the shop, now returned with a telephone directory in his hand. Grinning, he pointed to a certain page and read aloud: " 'John Mead. 22 Beach St.' Guess that's your man, Chet."

Chet Morton was crushed for a moment. Then he said hopefully that it was possible this was the man the Hardy boys had met on the road.

"Why don't you go over to Beach Street and find out?" he urged.

"Not a bad idea," Frank agreed. "Tell you what. Suppose you and Joe do that while I take Aunt Gertrude's suitcase home. I'll meet you at Main and Beach in half an hour with the roadster."

"Okay." Chet felt better. The boy was sure he was about to solve one of the Hardys'

mysteries; in fact, he was so sure of it, he stepped along more jauntily than usual. "It's swell to get a mystery A Worried Locksmith

53.

ft cleared up, isn't it, Joe?" he asked enthusiastically. ''Makes a fellow feel good."

Ten minutes later the two boys paused in front o{ 22 Beach Street, then mounted the steps. Joe rang the bell, and a pleasant-looking woman opened the door.

"Is Mr. Mead at home?" Joe inquired.

"No, not at the moment. I'm Mrs. Mead. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes," Joe replied, smiling. "Have you a recent photograph of your husband?"

"So that's it! You're a photographer," Mrs. Mead said. "Well, we don't want any pictures taken!" She started to close the door.

"Oh, that's not it!" cried Chet. "Joe here just wants to look at your husband's picture.

Maybe he knows him. And if he doesn't, then the key isn't yours."

The woman looked blankly at Chet. Whatever was this boy talking about? Joe laughed, explaining that he wanted to find out if the John Mead who lived there was the one he was looking for.

"But, Joe, you said the one you're looking for is dead," Chet interrupted.

Mrs. Mead's face turned pale. Then she asked quickly if something had happened to her husband.

"Oh, I didn't mean to say that," Chet apologized hurriedly. "Joe, you tell her what I mean."

The Hardy boy straightened matters out, and at last poor Mrs. Mead understood why they had come.

54.

She showed them a photograph of her husband, and Joe shook his head. This was not the man from whom he and Frank had received the key.

"I'm sorry to have bothered you, Mrs. Mead," Joe said. "Well, we'll run along."

On the way back to the corner of Main and Beach streets, Chet was silent for several minutes. His great idea had fallen completely flat. Under such circ.u.mstances the only thing that could revive his spirits was food. Now, as they pa.s.sed a bakery window, Chet's eyes fell upon a tray of doughnuts. He remembered that he had been unable to finish his good breakfast at the Hardy home.

"Say, Joe," he called suddenly, "we ought to stock up a bit for the job we have to do."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning there's no telling how long we'll have to work, nor how far we may have to go to find the man who sold me the dory," Chet explained. "So-let's get a few doughnuts in here, and maybe a pie------"

"There's a better bakery in the next block," Joe told his chum, urging him along. "And anyhow, Frank may be waiting."

At the corner stood a covered truck, the rear of which was open. As the boys came abreast of it, Chet let out a yelp.

"It's-it's my man!" he cried. "That truck driver! He's the fellow who sold me the boat!"

The two boys raced into the street and pulled themselves up onto the back of the truck just as the 55 traffic light changed. But Chet and Joe had not reckoned with an unseen possibility.

Before they could get their balance, a giant figure suddenly arose from the floor of the dark interior, and two huge fists swung toward them.

An instant later Joe and Chet, powerless to defend themselves, were knocked to the pavement!

CHAPTER VII.

The Search.

A woman screamed. A car swerved sharply, missing Joe Hardy by inches as he fell sideways from the back of the moving truck. Chet Morton lay in the middle of the street, the breath knocked out of him. Several pa.s.sers-by rushed to the a.s.sistance of the two boys, but they picked themselves up, insisting they were all right.

Frank Hardy, parked at the next corner, saw the crowd gathering. He raced to the scene. Seeing his brother and Chet with a circle of people around them, he pushed his way through to find out what the trouble was. Someone was saying: "Well, you kids are lucky, all right. How that guy kept from running over you is a miracle."

Joe and Chet agreed. They followed Frank along the sidewalk, and tumbled into the roadster. Frank drove off. It was not until then that he heard the full story of what had happened.

"That boat fellow got away," Chet groaned in con56 57 elusion. "What luck, just when I thought I had him, too!"

"I certainly didn't like his friend in the back of the truck," said Joe. "Wow, he had hands like a gorilla! Don't let him get at your throat if you meet him!"

He then told Frank of their disappointment at the Mead house on Beach Street. Frank in turn brought Chet up to date on the mystery of the kidnaped doctor, the clue of the humming traffic light, and how Mrs. f.a.n.n.y Stryker had asked the Hardys to locate her wounded son Lenny.

"Whew!" said Chet. "You fellows certainly have been busy. Where are you off to now?"

"I think we should call on Mrs. Stryker and see if she's heard any more from Lenny," said Frank.

"Good idea," Joe agreed. "Want to trail along, Chet?"

"Sure do, but I'll wait outside while you talk to her."

Frank had been driving along rather aimlessly. Now he headed toward the Stryker apartment, which was located in a shabby neighborhood. The Stry-kers' quarters were clean and tidy, and Lenny's mother was neatly dressed this morning. Though her eyes were red from weeping, they lighted up hopefuly when she saw the Hardy boys.

"Have you any news for me?" she asked eagerly.

Frank shook his head. "Not much. One little clue, perhaps. A doctor came to our house this morning and said he was kidnaped last night to take 58 care of a young man who had been shot in the leg."

"He may have been my Lenny!" the woman cried. "Where did the doctor say he is? I've got to get to him at once."

"The doctor couldn't tell us where the patient was. He was blindfolded and taken there in a car. However, he gave us some good clues. Don't worry, Mrs. Stryker, we'll try to find out where your son is and let you know," Frank said kindly.

The Hardys were glad Mrs. Stryker asked no more questions. They thought it best not to divulge too much to her. In the first place, they did not want to speak of their father's suspicion that Lenny might have been mixed up in the museum robbery. Moreover, Doctor Lyall did not want his name made known, or his part in the affair publicized.

"We'll keep you posted on any new developments," the boys promised Mrs. Stryker as they left her apartment.

When they reached the car Chet was not in it, but they spied him at a near-by street intersection. The stout youth was standing perfectly still, looking up intently at the traffic light, his head c.o.c.ked to one side. When Frank and Joe reached him, he announced there was no noticeable sound to the signal.

"Thanks, Chet," said Joe. "Well, that eliminates one light. Let's investigate some others."

The three boys drove without success from one traffic signal to another. At the corner of Hampton and Liberty streets they found that the light, which 59 was high over the center of the roadway, was not working. Frank, wondering if the trouble might be burned-out bulbs, climbed up on the hood of the car to investigate. As he raised his arms high over his head, a squeaky voice said from the sidewalk: "Well, of all things! What next?"

Frank looked down to see an elderly man leaning on a cane. The stranger gazed disapprovingly at the boy, then vigorously thumped his cane on the pavement.

"You come down, young man!" he said. "Hear me? And leave that light alone or I'll call the police!"

"I'm not doing any harm, sir," said Frank.

"He's just trying to find out if it sings," Chet spoke up.

The old gentleman focused beady eyes on the stocky boy. "Don't be impudent, young man. I'm a public-minded citizen and I won't have any public property tamp-What's that you say?" he interrupted himself. "A light that sings?"

Frank explained they were hunting for a traffic signal that made a humming sound. The old gentleman looked mystified for a moment. Then he banged his cane several times and finally pointed it at the boys. Forgetting his annoyance completely, he told them where such a light could be found.

"At Fourth and Upton," he said. "Know where that is?"

"Yes, sir," Frank replied, climbing down and get60 ting back behind the wheel. "Thank you very much, sir. We'll go right over there."

They were off for Fourth and Upton in a jiffy. The old gentleman, suddenly realizing he had not asked why the boys were hunting for a humming light, hobbled up the street after them to find out. But his pace was too slow.

Reaching the intersection, the boys listened attentively to the traffic signal. Yes, the timer inside it made a humming, almost singing sound as the lights changed.

"Now we're getting somewhere!" cried Joe. "Doctor Lyall said he was driven for about ten minutes from this very spot. Which direction shall we take first?"

It was decided to go north at the rate of thirty miles an hour, as Doctor Lyall had suggested. Joe kept his eye on his watch, while Frank took note of stores and houses on the left. Chet watched the right-hand side of the road.

"Stop!" cried Joe at the end of ten minutes.

Chet's face broke into a broad smile, for they had stopped directly in front of a roadside restaurant. "Well, fellows," he said, "you two can go hunting for kidnaping gangsters and secret panels all you like. I'm going to eat!"

A sign advertising lunches and dinners swung in front of a small white cottage. Flowered curtains hung at the windows and a rosebush was in bloom outside the door.

61 "Doesn't look like a hangout for racketeers," said Joe, disappointed.

Frank pointed out that the attractive front might be only a blind for sinister doings within.

He insisted they should find this out, adding: "Guess we all could eat, anyway. Let's go inside."

The cottage door was locked, so Chet pushed the doorbell. Several minutes went by before anyone came to answer it. Then a white-haired woman opened the door a few inches.

"Sorry, but lunch won't be ready till twelve o'clock," she said crisply.

"But I'm starved, madam," Chet protested.

The woman repeated her remark, and Frank felt she was only making an excuse to keep visitors out, at least for the time being. He was determined to get in and look around, so he smiled at her disarmingly and said: "I ought to telephone and tell Mother we'll not be home to lunch," he said. "Do you mind if I use your phone?"

There was a moment of suspense as the boys waited for the woman's answer. Would they get in to investigate or not? Finally she opened the door.