“Not more than fifteen minutes ago, because that’s when I came home with the car.”
“We’re wasting time!” Joe cried out. “Let’s chase that thief!”
“But I don’t know which way he went,” Chet protested.
“We didn’t meet him, so he must have gone in the other direction,” Frank reasoned.
“Climb on behind me, Chet,” Joe urged. “The Queen can’t go as fast as our motorcycles. We’ll catch her in no time!”
“And there was only a little gas in my car, anyway,” Chet said excitedly as he swung himself onto Joe’s motorcycle. “Maybe it has stalled by this time.”
In a few moments the boys were tearing down the road in pursuit of the automobile thief I
CHAPTER II
The Holdup
CHET MORTON’S jalopy was such a brilliant yellow that the boys were confident it would not be difficult to pick up the trail of the auto thief.
“The Queen’s pretty well known around Bay-port,” Frank remarked. “We should meet someone who saw it.”
“Seems strange to me,” said Joe, “that a thief would take a car like that. Auto thieves usually take cars of a standard make and color. They’re easier to get rid of.”
“It’s possible,” Frank suggested, “that the thief didn’t steal the car to sell it. Maybe, for some reason, he was making a fast getaway and he’ll abandon it.”
“Look!” Chet exclaimed, pointing to a truck garden where several men were hoeing cabbage plants. “Maybe they saw the Queen.”
“I’ll ask them,” Frank offered, and brought his motorcycle to a stop.
He scrambled over the fence and jumped across the rows of small plants until he reached the first farm hand.
“Did you see a yellow jalopy go by here within the past hour?” Frank asked him.
The lanky old farmer leaned on his hoe and put a hand to one ear. “Eh?” he shouted.
“Did you see a fellow pass along here in a bright yellow car?” Frank repeated in a louder tone.
The farmer called to his companions. As they ambled over, the old man removed a plug of tobacco from the pocket of his overalls and took a hearty chew.
“Lad here wants to know if we saw a jalopy come by,” he said slowly.
The other three farm hands, all rather elderly men, did not answer at once. Instead, they laid down their hoes and the plug of tobacco was duly passed around the group.
Frank grit his teeth. “Please hurry up and answer. The car was stolen. We’re trying to find the thief!”
“That so?” said one of the men. “A hot rod, eh?”
“Yes. A bright yellow one,” Frank replied.
Another of the workers removed his hat and mopped his brow. “Seems to me,” he drawled, “I did see a car come by here a while ago.”
“A yellow car?”
“No-‘twarn’t yeller, come to think of it. I guess, anyhow, it was a delivery truck, if I remember rightly.”
Frank strove to conceal his impatience. “Please, did any of you-?”
“Was it a brand-new car, real shiny?” asked the fourth member of the group.
“No, it was an old car, but it was painted bright yellow,” Frank explained.
“My nephew had one of them things,” the farmer remarked. “Never thought they was safe, myself.”
“I don’t agree with you,” still another man spoke up. “All boys like cars and you might as well let ‘em have one they can work on themselves.”
“You’re all wrong!” the deaf man interrupted. “Let the boys work on the farm truck. That way they won’t get into mischief!” He gave a cackling sort of laugh. “Well, son, I guess we ain’t been much help to you. Hope you find the critter that stole your hot rod.”
“Thanks,” said Frank, and joined the other boys. “No luck. Let’s go!”
As they approached Bayport, the trio saw a girl walking along the road ahead of them. When the cyclists drew nearer, Frank’s face lighted up, for he had recognized Callie Shaw, who was in his class at Bayport High. Frank often dated Callie and liked her better than any girl he knew.
The boys brought their motorcycles to a stop beside pretty, brown-eyed Callie. Under one arm she was carrying a slightly battered package. She looked vexed.
“Hi, Callie! What’s the matter?” Frank asked. “You look as if your last friend had gone off in a moon rocket.”
Callie gave a mischievous smile. “How could I think that with you three friends showing up? Or are you about to take off?” Then her smile faded and she held out the damaged package. “Look at that!” she exclaimed. “It’s your fault, Chet Morton!”
The stout boy gulped. “M-my fault? How do you figure that?”
“Well, dear old Mrs. Wills down the road is ill, so I baked her a cake.”
“Lucky Mrs. Wills,” Joe broke in. “Callie, I’m feeling terribly ill.”
Callie ignored him. “That man in the car came along here so fast that I jumped to the side of the road and dropped my package. I’m afraid my cake is ruined!”
“What man?” Joe asked.
“The one Chet lent his car to.”
“Callie, that’s the man we’re looking for!” Frank exclaimed. “Chet didn’t lend him the car. He stole it!”
“Oh!” said Callie, shocked. “Chet, that’s a shame.”
“Was he heading for Bayport?” Joe asked.
“Yes, and at the speed he was making the poor Queen travel, you’ll never catch him.”
Chet groaned. “I just remembered that the gas gauge wasn’t working. I guess the car had more gas in it than I thought. No telling where that guy may take my Queen.”
“We’d better go to police headquarters,” Frank suggested. “Callie, will you describe this man?”
“All I saw,” she answered, “was a blur, but the man did have red hair.”
“Red hair!” Frank fairly shouted. “Joe, do you think he could be the same man we saw? The one who wrecked his own car?”
Joe wagged his head. “Miracles do happen. Maybe he wasn’t hurt very much and walked to Chet’s house.”
“And helped himself to my car!” Chet added.
Frank snapped his fingers. “Say! Maybe the wrecked car didn’t belong to that fellow-“
“You mean he’d stolen it, too!” Joe interrupted.
“Yes-which would make him even more desperate to get away.”
“Whatever are you boys talking about?” Callie asked.
“I’ll phone you tonight and tell you,” Frank promised. “Got to dash now.”
The boys waved good-by to Callie and hurried into town. They went at once to Chief Ezra Collig, head of the Bayport police force. He was a tall, husky man, well known to Fenton Hardy and his two sons. The chief had often turned to the private detective for help in solving particularly difficult cases.
When the boys went into his office they found the police chief talking with three excited men. One of these was Ike Harrity, the old ticket seller at the city ferryboat office. Another was Policeman Con Riley. The third was Oscar Smuff, a short, stout man. He was invariably seen wearing a checkered suit and a soft felt hat. He called himself a private detective and was working hard to earn a place on the Bayport police force.
“Smuff’s playing up to Collig again,” Joe whispered, chuckling, as the boys waited for the chief to speak to them.
Ike Harrity was frankly frightened. He was a timid man, who had perched on a high stool behind the ticket window at the ferryboat office day in and day out for a good many years.
“I was just countin’ up the mornin’s receipts,” he was saying in a high-pitched, excited voice, “when in comes this fellow and sticks a revolver in front of my nose.”
“Just a minute,” interrupted Chief Collig, turning to the newcomers. “What can I do for you boys?”