THE HARDY BOYS
THE TOWER TREASURE
By FRANKLIN W. DIXON
AUTHOR OF
THE HARDY BOYS: THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF
THE HARDY BOYS: THE SECRET OF THE OLD MILL
_ILLUSTRATED BY_
WALTER S. ROGERS
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Made in the United States of America
GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
Copyright, 1927, by
GROSSET & DUNLAP
[Illustration: "THESE BOYS WANT TO LOOK THROUGH THE OLD TOWER."
(Chapter XVII)]
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 HARDY BOYS_
THE TOWER TREASURE
CHAPTER 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!