The Sinister Signpost Part 1

THE SINISTER SIGN POST.

By FRANKLIN W. DIXON.

CHAPTER I.

THE KISSING RACE-HORSE.

"I'm glad there is peace and quiet in the air this morning," said Mrs. Hardy, stirring her coffee. "I really believe this is the first breakfast we've had together in weeks without a mystery of some kind to digest along with ham and eggs."

Frank Hardy, who was reading part of the morning paper, looked up.

"No mystery?" he exclaimed. "What of the football game this afternoon, Mother? Isn't it a mystery whether or not Bayport High will win?"

Joe Hardy, a year younger than his brother, looked up from another section of the news sheet.

"And there's a first-cla.s.s mystery about the ability of that marvellous new horse, Topnotch. He's going to race at Spurtown track tomorrow. Some say he can't be beaten, He's going to race at Spurtown track tomorrow. Some say he can't be beaten, but n.o.body knows for sure."

Fenton Hardy, their father, who was reading his mail, looked up a moment. "I've seen Tof notch run in the South, and he certainly is a remarkable horse," he said. run in the South, and he certainly is a remarkable horse," he said.

Then he turned to his letters, and tore open aa envelope. The famous detective smiled at his wife.

"There is still another mystery, as I see from this note," he said. "Are certain foreigners, plotting against our government, secretly buying munitions and hiding them in this country? If so, where are they concealing them? That's what I should call a Number One, Cla.s.s A mystery.'r Aunt Gertrude, who had been fussing about in the kitchen, poked her head in the doorway and peered at them over her spectacles.

"And it's another mystery how those two boys can dawdle so long over their breakfast when I'm waiting to give them some work," she snapped.

"I give up," laughed Mrs. Hardy. "I merely have to mention the word mystery to be overwhelmed with several of them. That's what comes of living in a family of detectives."

Mr. Hardy had been connected at one time with the New York City Police Department, but had later organized his own private detective agency. So successful had he been that he was now internationally famous, and recognized as one of the most brilliant men in his profession in the country.

Frank and Joe, his sons, had inherited much of his ability, and had succeeded in solving many puzzling mysteries independently. It was only natural, therefore, that mention of the word "mystery" in the Hardy household should have brought such a ready response from everyone.

The two boys left the table and went out into the hall to telephone to their chum, Chet Morton, who was to play for Bayport High hi the football game at Seneca that afternoon.

"How are you feeling, big fella?" asked Frank, when his friend answered the phone.

"Couldn't be better. How is Joe?"

"His arm is still out of commission. He'll be just a spectator today."

"Tough luck."

Joe Hardy had injured himself in a game the previous Sat.u.r.day, and, much to his disgust, the doctor had ordered him to play no more the rest of the season.

"It will be up to you and Tony Printo to bring home the bacon," said Frank. "We'll be rooting for you, Chet."

"We'll miss Joe against that Seneca outfit. You're driving over, I suppose?"

"Yes, we'll go in the roadster. Good luck, Chet."

"So long."

The boys spent the rest of the morning was.h.i.+ng the car. Shortly after lunch they set out for Seneca, which was the goal of all Bayport football fans that day. The local High School and Seneca Tech were old football rivals, and their annual grid-iron struggle was a county cla.s.sic. The loss of Joe Hardy, star half-back of the Bayport eleven, was a serious blow, for their opponents had an unusually strong team.

"Makes me furious I can't play," grumbled the younger brother as the two drove along.

Fifteen miles out of Bayport the roadster suddenly came to a stop.

"Now what's wrong?" said Frank. "I thought we checked everything."

He got out, raised the hood, and explored the car's interior. After twenty minutes of fuming and fussing he discovered the trouble.

The petrol tank was empty!

"I thought you bought petrol yesterday," said Frank to his brother.

"I thought you you did." did."

Car after car had been pa.s.sing them on the way to the football game. Now, when they wanted help, there wasn't any in sight. A truck finally came along but the driver refused to stop. A big pa.s.senger auto also sped by. Another ten minutes flew along before a friendly motorist drew up and agreed to tow them to the nearest petrol station.

"Going to the game?" asked the attendant, as he filled up the tank.

"What's left of it," said Joe. "I expect we'll be late."

"Why don't you take the short cut through Kemp-ton?" the man suggested, indicating a side road. "It wifl get you over to Seneca in twenty minutes. Don't take the turn to the left about three miles down, though, for that leads across to Spurtown."

The Hardy boys thanked him and set off down the side road, but after a few minutes'

travel they were wis.h.i.+ng they had taken the longer route. Recent rains had left the highway in bad shape. To add to their grief, a rear tyre blew out with a dismal bang, and they lost further time replacing it with the spare.

"What a trip!" groaned Frank, toiling with the wrench.

A big box truck just then lumbered down the road and drew to a stop abreast of them. A coloured mam in the driver's seat leaned out.

"Kin you gemmen tell me which is de right way to Spurtown?" he drawled.

13.

"Straight ahead and first turn to your left," Frank told him.

The man touched his cap.

"Thank you, suh," he said, and drove on.

As the vehicle disappeared over the brow of a hill, the Hardy boys noticed that it had Kentucky licence plates.

"That truck is from Old Kentucky, eh?" said Joe. "It wouldn't take much guessing to tell what's inside."

"Race-horse," replied Frank promptly. "That fellow is on his way to the Spurtown track.

The races open tomorrow."

"Let's go."

"We'd better get to that football game first. Time enough to think about the races afterward."

Suddenly, in the distance, they heard a sharp report that sounded like a pistol shot. It appeared to come from some point at the right of the road a short distance ahead.

"Shooting?" said Joe.

"Sounded like it. Perhaps that truck turned to the right instead of the left, and something happened to it."

The boys climbed into their car and drove on. After a ride of a quarter of a mile they reached a crossroad. One branch led to the left, with a sign post proclaiming, "Spurtown, 3 Miles"; the other wound off toward a wooded section to the right.

There was no sign of the truck. The boys agreed that they had no time to spend investigating the mysterious , shot, so they sped on without further delay toward Seneca.

14 They got there just in time for the opening kick-off, and were soon raising their share of the bedlam created by the Bayport High rooting section as Chet Morton and his cohorts went into action.

"Please," said a guttural voice at Frank's elbow, "vould you be so good as to explain dis game to me? I do not onnerstand."

Frank looked up. A swarthy, well-dressed stranger was raising his hat politely.

"Well, you see, sir, it's this way-Yeah, Bayport!" the Hardy boy roared exultantly as Chet Morton caught a forward pa.s.s and raced down the field to be tackled on Seneca's twenty-yard line. "Oh, boy, did you see that?" For a moment the man at his side was forgotten while Frank joined in the Bayport yell.

"It is permit to t'row de ball?" inquired the stranger.

The lad tried to explain the game to the man, but the foreigner, who introduced himself as a Mr. Vilnoflf, and who said he was living near Bayport, became more and more muddled. He plied Frank with countless questions, and when the first half was called, with Bayport leading 13 to 7, the boy was heartily sick of the task of introducing the stranger to the mysteries of American football. It was spoiling his own enjoyment of the game, and he was quite sure Vilnoff was not gaining anything from the explanations. During intermission Frank tried to lose his interrogator in the crowd, but when the third quarter began the swarthy gentleman popped up beside him.

"Now tell me if you vould be so good," he resumed, "why is it dat man always blows his vistle?" as a Seneca player was thrown for a loss.

15.

Patiently Frank attempted to explain the reason for this, but the middle of an exciting grid-iron struggle is no time to attempt to give a lesson in football. Vilnoff made himself a nuisance throughout the game. The only redeeming feature of the afternoon, as far as Frank was concerned, was the fact that Bayport High marched off the field victorious. At that, he had to tell VilnofI the name of the winning team.

"It was so good of you. I am afraid I have been very stupid," apologized the man. "You go to Bayport High School, yes?"

"I'm a senior," admitted Frank.

"I once knew one of your teachers, Monsieur Carriere."

"Oh, yes. He teaches French."

"I met him in Europe, at a university," said Vilnoff. "T'ank you so much."

Frank escaped as soon as he could. After visiting Chet and the other members of the victorious team in the dressing room, he joined Joe at the car.

"Have a nice time?" grinned his brother, who had been greatly amused by Frank's plight all afternoon.

"Don't mention it," retorted the lad. "That fellow Vilnoff is a real nuisance."

The next morning, however, he had forgotten all about the too affable Mr. Vilnoff. A message from Chet Morton gave the Hardys other things to think about. He telephoned before the boys sat down to breakfast.

"Listen, Frank," he said excitedly. "I think I've a first-rate mystery for you. Want to hear about it?"

"Shoot."

l6 "You remember reading about Topnotch, Topnotch, that valuable race-horse that was going to run that valuable race-horse that was going to run at Spurtown today?"

"Was?"

"It doesn't look as if he'll run! He's disappeared 1 The owner is just about frantic.

Topnotch was s.h.i.+pped to Spurtown and should have arrived yesterday. He hasn't reached was s.h.i.+pped to Spurtown and should have arrived yesterday. He hasn't reached the track 1"

CHAPTER II.

THE JOCKEY.

"the horse never arrived?" exclaimed Frank. "Was he sent by train?"

"No, by truck. And even the truck has disappeared," Chet said.

"The driver may have taken the wrong road. It's pretty hard to lose a truck."

"Just the same, the owner of the race-horse believes Topnotch Topnotch didn't disappear by didn't disappear by accident. I thought I should call you up and tell you about it, anyhow. You and Joe may get some bright ideas that will help out.

"And here's something else: there was a bad explosion in the munitions factory at Renside last night and the police think foreign agents may have been at the bottom of it.

That's another mystery for you."

"We can't do anything about the factory," Frank answered, "but I have a hunch about the horse."

"What is it?"

"Can't tell you just now. I may be all wrong, but Joe and I will go to work on it. Much obliged, Chet."

Frank hung up the receiver and told his brother the news. Joe whistled in surprise.