The Tower Treasure (translated) E-Book

Franklin W. Dixon

• Herausgeber: anna ruggieri
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

- This edition is unique;
- The translation is completely original and was carried out for the Ale. Mar. SAS;
- All rights reserved.
The Tower Treasure is the first book in the Hardy boys series of novels, first published in 1927. This installment follows brothers Frank and Joe Hardy as they become embroiled in a series of mysterious events in their hometown. After narrowly avoiding an accident with a red-haired driver, they find themselves entangled in a robbery and the disappearance of a friend's car. Suspicions arise when a significant theft occurs at the Tower Mansion, implicating the caretaker, Henry Robinson. As the Hardys delve deeper into the case, they uncover clues that lead them to a notorious criminal known for his disguises. With determination and resourcefulness, they work to solve the mystery, ultimately leading to a surprising revelation and a resolution that restores justice.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

I. The Speed Demon

II. The Stolen Roadster

III. Traces of the Thief

IV. The Hold-Up

V. Chet’s Auto Horn

VI. Tire Tracks

VII. The Mansion Robbery

VIII. The Arrest

IX. Red Hair

X. An Important Discovery

XI. Mr. Hardy Investigates

XII. Days of Waiting

XIII. In Poor Quarters

XIV. Red Jackley

XV. The Chief Gets a Bomb

XVI. A Confession

XVII. The Search of the Tower

XVIII. The New Tower

XIX. The Mystery Deepens

XX. The Flash in the Tower

XXI. A New Idea

XXII. The Search

XXIII. Adelia Applegate’s Compliment

XXIV. The Last of the Tower Case

The Tower TreasureFranklin W. Dixon

I. The Speed Demon

“After the help we gave dad on that forgery case I guess he’ll begin to think we could be detectives when we grow up.”

“Why shouldn’t we? Isn’t he one of the most famous detectives in the country? And aren’t we his sons? If the profession was good enough for him to follow it should be good enough for us.”

Two bright-eyed boys on motorcycles were speeding along a shore road in the sunshine of a morning in spring. It was Saturday and they were enjoying a holiday from the Bayport high school. The day was ideal for a motorcycle trip and the lads were combining business with pleasure by going on an errand to a near-by village for their father.

The older of the two boys was a tall, dark youth, about sixteen years of age. His name was Frank Hardy. The other boy, his companion on the motorcycle trip, was his brother Joe, a year younger.

While there was a certain resemblance between the two lads, chiefly in the firm yet good-humored expression of their mouths, in some respects they differed greatly in appearance. While Frank was dark, with straight, black hair and brown eyes, his brother was pink-cheeked, with fair, curly hair and blue eyes.

These were the Hardy boys, sons of Fenton Hardy, an internationally famous detective who had made a name for himself in the years he had spent on the New York police force and who was now, at the age of forty, handling his own practice. The Hardy family lived in Bayport, a city of about fifty thousand inhabitants, located on Barmet Bay, three miles in from the Atlantic, and here the Hardy boys attended high school and dreamed of the days when they, too, should be detectives like their father.

As they sped along the narrow shore road, with the waves breaking on the rocks far below, they discussed their chances of winning over their parents to agreement with their ambition to follow in the footsteps of their father. Like most boys, they speculated frequently on the occupation they should follow when they grew up, and it had always seemed to them that nothing offered so many possibilities of adventure and excitement as the career of a detective.

“But whenever we mention it to dad he just laughs at us,” said Joe Hardy. “Tells us to wait until we’re through school and then we can think about being detectives.”

“Well, at least he’s more encouraging than mother,” remarked Frank. “She comes out plump and plain and says she wants one of us to be a doctor and the other a lawyer.”

“What a fine lawyer either of us would make!” sniffed Joe. “Or a doctor, either! We were both cut out to be detectives and dad knows it.”

“As I was saying, the help we gave him in that forgery case proves it. He didn’t say much, but I’ll bet he’s been thinking a lot.”

“Of course we didn’t actually do very much in that case,” Joe pointed out.

“But we suggested something that led to a clue, didn’t we? That’s as much a part of detective work as anything else. Dad himself admitted he would never have thought of examining the city tax receipts for that forged signature. It was just a lucky idea on our part, but it proved to him that we can use our heads for something more than to hang our hats on.”

“Oh, I guess he’s convinced all right. Once we get out of school he’ll probably give his permission. Why, this is a good sign right now, isn’t it? He asked us to deliver these papers for him in Willowville. He’s letting us help him.”

“I’d rather get in on a real, good mystery,” said Frank. “It’s all right to help dad, but if there’s no more excitement in it than delivering papers I’d rather start in studying to be a lawyer and be done with it.”

“Never mind, Frank,” comforted his brother. “We may get a mystery all of our own to solve some day.”

“If we do we’ll show that Fenton Hardy’s sons are worthy of his name. Oh boy, but what wouldn’t I give to be as famous as dad! Why, some of the biggest cases in the country are turned over to him. That forgery case, for instance. Fifty thousand dollars had been stolen right from under the noses of the city officials and all the auditors and city detectives and private detectives they called in had to admit that it was too deep for them.”

“Then they called in dad and he cleared it up in three days. Once he got suspicious of that slick bookkeeper whom nobody had been suspecting at all, it was all over but the shouting. Got a confession out of him and everything.”

“It was smooth work. I’m glad our suggestion helped him. The case certainly got a lot of attention in the papers.”

“And here we are,” said Joe, “plugging along the shore road on a measly little errand to deliver some legal papers at Willowville. I’d rather be on the track of some diamond thieves or smugglers—or something.”

“Well, we have to be satisfied, I suppose,” replied Frank, leaning farther over the handlebars. “Perhaps dad may give us a chance on a real case some time.”

“Some time! I want to be on a real case now!”

The motorcycles roared along the narrow road that skirted the bay. An embankment of tumbled rocks and boulders sloped steeply to the water below, and on the other side of the road was a steep cliff. The roadway itself was narrow, although it was wide enough to permit two cars to meet and pass, and it wound about in frequent curves and turnings. It was a road that was not often traveled, for Willowville was only a small village and this shore road was an offshoot of the main highways to the north and the west.

The Hardy boys dropped their discussion of the probability that some day they would become detectives, and for a while they rode on in silence, occupied with the difficulties of keeping to the road. For the road at this point was dangerous, very rough and rutty, and it sloped sharply upward so that the embankment leading to the ocean far below became steeper and steeper.

“I shouldn’t want to go over the edge around here,” remarked Frank, as he glanced down the rugged slope.

“It’s a hundred-foot drop. You’d be smashed to pieces before you ever hit the shore.”

“I’ll say! It’s best to stay in close to the cliff. These curves are bad medicine.”

The motorcycles took the next curve neatly, and then the boys confronted a long, steep slope. The rocky cliffs frowned on one side, and the embankment jutted far down to the tumbling waves below, so that the road was a mere ribbon before them.

“Once we get to the top of the hill we’ll be all right. It’s all smooth sailing from there to Willowville,” remarked Frank, as the motorcycles commenced the climb.

Just then, above the sharp put-put of their own motors, they heard the high humming roar of an automobile approaching at great speed. The car was not yet in sight, but there was no mistaking the fact that it was coursing along with the cut-out open and with no regard for the speed laws.

“What idiot is driving like that on this kind of road!” exclaimed Frank. They looked back.

Even as he spoke the automobile flashed into sight.

It came around the curve behind and so swiftly did the driver take the dangerous turn that two wheels were off the ground as the car shot into view. A cloud of dust and stones arose, the car veered violently from left to right, and then it roared at headlong speed down the slope.

The boys glimpsed a tense figure at the wheel. How he kept the car on the road was a miracle, for the racing automobile swung from side to side. At one moment it would be in imminent danger of crashing over the embankment, down on the rocks below; the next instant the car would be over on the other side of the road, grazing the cliff.

“He’ll run us down!” shouted Joe, in alarm. “The idiot!”

Indeed, the position of the two lads was perilous.

The roadway was narrow enough at any time, and this speeding car was taking up every inch of space. In a great cloud of dust it bore directly down on the two motorcyclists. It seemed to leap through the air. The front wheels left a rut, the rear of the car skidded violently about. By a twist of the wheel the driver pulled the car back into the roadway again just as it seemed about to plunge over the embankment. It shot over toward the cliff, swerved back again into the middle of the roadway, and then shot ahead at terrific speed.

Frank and Joe edged their motorcycles as far to the right of the road as they dared. To their horror they saw that the car was skidding again.

The driver made no attempt to slacken speed.

The automobile came hurtling toward them!

II. The Stolen Roadster

The auto brakes squealed.

The driver of the oncoming car swung the wheel viciously about. For a moment it appeared that the wheels would not respond. Then they gripped the gravel and the automobile swerved, then shot past.

Bits of sand and gravel were flung about the two boys as they crouched by their motorcycles at the edge of the embankment. The car had missed them only by inches!

Frank caught a glimpse of the driver, who turned about at that moment and, in spite of the speed at which the automobile was traveling and in spite of the perils of the road, shouted something they could not catch at them and shook his fist.

The car was traveling at too great a speed to enable the lad to distinguish the driver’s features, but he saw that the man was hatless and that he had a shock of red hair blowing in the wind.

Then the automobile disappeared from sight around the curve ahead, roaring away in a cloud of dust.

“The road hog!” gasped Joe, as soon as he had recovered from his surprise.

“He must be crazy!” Frank exclaimed angrily. “Why, he might have pushed us both right over the embankment!”

“At the rate he was going I don’t think he cared whether he ran any one down or not.”

Both boys were justifiably angry. On such a narrow, treacherous road there was danger enough when an automobile passed them traveling at even a reasonable speed, but the reckless and insane driving of the red-headed motorist was nothing short of criminal.

“If we ever catch up to him I’m going to give him a piece of my mind!” declared Frank. “Not content with almost running us down he had to shake his fist at us.”

“Road hog!” muttered Joe again. “Jail is too good for the likes of him. If it was only his own life he endangered it wouldn’t be so bad. Good thing we only had motorcycles. If we had been in another car there would have been a smash-up, sure.”

The boys resumed their journey and by the time they had reached the curve ahead that enabled them to see the village of Willowville lying in a little valley along the bay beneath them, there was no trace of the reckless motorist.

Frank delivered the legal papers his father had given to him, and then the boys had the rest of the day to themselves.

“It’s too early to go back to Bayport just now,” he said to Joe. “What say we go out and visit Chet Morton?”

“Good idea,” agreed Joe. “He has often asked us to come out and see him.”

Chet Morton was a school chum of the Hardy boys. His father was a real estate dealer with an office in Bayport, but the family lived in the country, about a mile from the city. Although Willowville was some distance away, the boys knew of a road that would take them across country to the Morton home, and from there they could return to Bayport. It would make their journey longer, but they would have the pleasure of visiting their chum. Chet was a great favorite with all the boys, not the least of the reasons for his popularity being the fact that he had a roadster of his own, in which he drove to school every day and with which he was very generous in giving rides to his friends after school hours.

The Hardy boys drove along the country roads in the spring sunlight, enjoying the freedom of their holiday as only boys can. When they had reached a culvert not far from the Morton place Frank suddenly brought his motorcycle to a stop and peered down into a clump of bushes in the deep ditch.

“Somebody’s had a spill,” he remarked.

Down in the bushes lay an upturned automobile. The car was a total wreck, and lay bottom upward, a mass of tangled junk.

“Must have been hitting an awful clip to crumple up like that,” Joe commented. “Perhaps there’s some one underneath. Let’s go and see.”

The boys left their motorcycles by the road and went down to the wrecked car. But there was no sign of either driver or passengers.

“If any one was hurt they’ve been taken away by now. Probably this wreck is a day or so old,” said Frank. “Let’s go. We can’t do any good here.”

They left the wreckage and returned to the road again, resuming their journey.

“I thought at first it might be our red-headed speed fiend,” said Frank. “If it was, he was sure lucky to get out of it alive.”

The boys gave little further thought to the incident and before long they were in sight of the Mortons’ house, a big, homelike, rambling old farmhouse with an apple orchard at the rear. When the boys drove down the lane they saw a figure awaiting them at the barnyard gate.

“That’s Chet,” said Frank. “I’m glad we found him at home. I thought he might have gone out in the car.”

“It is strange,” Joe agreed. “On a holiday like this he doesn’t usually stay around the farm.”

As they approached, they saw Chet leave the gate and come down the lane to meet them. Chet was one of the most popular boys at the Bayport high school, one reason for his popularity being his unfailing good nature and his ability to see fun in almost everything. He was full of jokes and good humor and was rarely seen without a smile on his plump, freckled face.

But to-day the Hardy boys saw that there was something wrong. Chet’s face had an anxious expression, and as they brought their motorcycles to a stop they saw that their chum’s usually cheery face was clouded.

“What’s the matter?” asked Frank, as their friend hastened up to them.

“You’re just in time,” replied Chet hurriedly. “You didn’t meet a fellow driving my roadster, did you?”

The brothers looked at each other blankly.

“Your roadster? We’d recognize it anywhere. No, we didn’t see it,” said Joe. “What’s happened?”

“It’s been stolen.”

“Stolen?”

“An auto thief stole it from the garage not half an hour ago. He just went in as cool as you please and made away with the car. The hired man saw the roadster disappearing down the lane, but he supposed I was in it so he didn’t think anything of it. Then he saw me out in the yard a little while later, so he got suspicious—and the roadster was gone.”

“Wasn’t it locked?”

“That’s the strange part of it. The car was locked, although the garage door was open. I can’t see how he got away with it.”

“A professional job,” commented Frank. “These auto thieves always carry scores of keys with them. But we’re losing time here. The only thing is to set out in pursuit and to notify the police. The hired man didn’t see which way the fellow went, did he?”

“No.”

“There is only the one road, and we didn’t meet him, so he must have taken the turning to the right at the end of the lane.”

“We’ll chase him,” said Joe. “Climb onto my bike, Chet. We’ll get the thief yet.”

“Wait a minute,” cried Frank suddenly. “I have an idea! Joe, do you remember that car we saw wrecked in the bushes?”

“Sure.”

“Perhaps the driver stole the first automobile he could lay his hands on after the wreck.”

“What wreck was that?” asked Chet.

The Hardy boys told him of the wrecked car they had found by the roadside. It had occurred to Frank that perhaps the smash-up might have occurred just a short while before and that the driver of the wrecked car had resumed his interrupted journey in a stolen automobile.

“It sounds reasonable,” said Chet. “Let’s go and take a look at this wreck. We can get the license number and that may help us find the name of the owner.”

The motorcycles roared as the three chums set out back along the road toward the place where the upturned automobile had been seen among the bushes. The boys lost no time in reaching the place, for they realized that every second was precious and that the longer they delayed the greater was the advantage to the car thief.

The car had not been disturbed and apparently no one had been near it since the boys had discovered the wreck. They parked their motorcycles by the roadside and again went down into the bushes to examine the wrecked car.

To their disappointment the car bore no license plates.

“That looks suspicious,” said Frank.

“It’s more than suspicious,” said Joe, who had withdrawn a little to one side and was examining the automobile from the rear. “Don’t you remember seeing this car before, Frank? It didn’t occur to me until you mentioned the matter of license plates.”

“I have been wondering if this isn’t the same car that passed us on the shore road at the curve,” replied Frank slowly.

“It is the same car. There’s no doubt of it in my mind. It didn’t have a license plate, I noticed at the time, for I wanted to get the fellow’s number. And it was a touring car of the same make as this.”

“You’re right, Joe. There’s no mistake. The red-headed driver came to grief in the ditch, just as we said he would, and then he went on to the nearest farmhouse, which happened to be Chet’s place, and stole the first car he saw.”

“The busted car was the one the fellow was running who nearly sent us over the cliff,” Joe declared. “And it’s ten chances to one that he’s the fellow who stole Chet’s roadster. And he’s red-headed. We have those clues, anyway.”

“And he went on past our farmhouse instead of turning back the way he came,” cried Chet. “Come on, fellows—let’s get after him! There was only a little bit of gas in the roadster anyway. Perhaps he’s stalled by this time.”

Thrilling with the excitement of a chase, the boys clambered back onto the motorcycles and within a few moments a cloud of dust rose from the road as the Hardy boys and Chet Morton set out in swift pursuit of the red-headed automobile thief.

III. Traces of the Thief

Chet Morton’s roadster was a brilliant yellow, not easily mistaken, and the Hardy boys were confident that it would not be difficult to pick up the trail of the auto thief.

“The car is pretty well known around Bayport,” said Chet. “It was certainly a gay-looking speed-wagon. Any one who saw it would remember it.”

“Seems strange that a thief would take a car like that,” remarked Frank. “Auto thieves usually take cars of a standard make and standard color. They’re easier to get rid of. He would know that a car like yours could be easily traced.”

“I don’t think he stole the car to sell it,” Joe pointed out. “Take it from me, that chap was getting away from some place in a hurry and when his own car was smashed he just took the first one that came to hand. If we keep after him before he has a chance to get rid of it we’ll run him to earth.”

A number of men in a hay-field near by attracted Frank’s attention, and he brought his motorcycle to a stop.

“I’m going to ask these chaps if they saw him pass.”

Frank scrambled over the fence and went over to talk to the farmhands, who watched his approach with curiosity.

“Didn’t see a yellow roadster pass here within the last hour, did you?”

One of them, a lanky old farmer with a sun-burned nose, carefully laid down his scythe, put his hand to his ear and shouted: