CHET'S AUTO HORN
Fenton Hardy, the internationally famous detective, was reading in the
library of his home that evening when his sons tapped on the door.
Although he was a busy man, Mr. Hardy was not the type of father who
maintains an air of aloofness from his family, the result being that he
was on as good terms with his boys as though he were an elder brother.
"Come in," he shouted cheerfully, putting aside his book, and when
Frank and Joe entered the room he motioned to a deep leather sofa near
the window. "Sit down. What have you been doing all day? Burning up all
the roads in the country, I suppose?" He grinned amiably at them and
puffed vigorously at his pipe.
"Well, we didn't travel very far to-day, dad," Frank replied. "We
were--well, we--we were--"
"Investigating," prompted Joe.
"Aha!" exclaimed Mr. Hardy, in mock surprise. "So my sons were
investigating, eh? What was it? A murder? A plot to blow up the White
House? A train wreck? Something big, I hope."
"No--not quite that bad," admitted Frank. "It was a car theft."
Mr. Hardy shook his head.
"I'm disappointed in you," he said solemnly. "I really am. To think
that sons of mine should investigate a car theft. I thought you
wouldn't bother about anything less than a murder!" His eyes twinkled,
and the Hardy boys, who were accustomed to their father's good-natured
banter, smiled back at him.
"We weren't just practicing detective work, dad," explained Frank. "You
see, Chet Morton's roadster was stolen this morning."
"Is that so!" exclaimed Mr. Hardy, genuinely concerned. "Why, that's
too bad. Chet was mighty proud of that car, wasn't he?"
"Yes, he was. And it hasn't been found yet."
"No trace of the thief?"
"He tried to hold up the steamboat ticket office after he stole the
car."
Mr. Hardy whistled.
"Why you _have_ been on a case worth while. Tell me all about it."
He settled back in his chair while his sons told him the story of
the day's doings. When they told of the difference of opinion as to
the color of the man's hair he did not laugh with them, as they had
expected, over the argument between Harrity and Mr. Brown. On the
contrary, he knitted his brows and his face wore a serious expression.
"It wasn't any ordinary auto thief you were dealing with," he said
slowly. "I've no doubt the man who tried to rob the ticket office and
the man who almost ran you down on the shore road were one and the
same. And the same man stole Chet Morton's car."
"But how about the color of his hair? There must have been two men,"
said Joe.
"Think so? I have my own theories. But then--the average witness is
very unreliable. For instance, I'll give you a test. You have each seen
Superintendent Norton of Bayport high school--well, how often?"
"About two or three thousand times, I guess," answered Frank.
"Over a period of three years. Well, what color is his hair?"
Frank looked blankly at Joe.
"Why, it's--it's--"
Joe scratched his head.
"Brown, isn't it?"
"I think it's black."
"You see?" said Mr. Hardy, smiling. "Your powers of observation have
not been trained. A good detective has to school himself to remember
all sorts of little facts like that, until it gets to be a habit with
him. Both of you have been looking at Mr. Norton for about three years
and you don't know the color of his hair. And if I asked you whether
he was in the habit of wearing laced shoes or buttoned shoes you would
be stumped altogether. As a matter of fact, Mr. Norton is bald and he
wears a chestnut wig. You never noticed that? He always wears buttoned
shoes, he belongs to the Elks, and his favorite author is Dickens."
The boys looked at their father in amazement.
"But, dad, you've never met him."
"I've never been introduced to him, but I've passed him on the street a
number of times. When your powers of observation have been trained as
mine have been it's no trick at all to take away a mental photograph of
a man after seeing him once. If you are specially observant it isn't
hard to notice such details as that regarding the wig. A wig never has
the same appearance as natural hair."
"But how do you know he belongs to the Elks?" asked Joe.
"He wears the lodge emblem as a watch charm."
"And how do you know his favorite author is Dickens?"
"On three separate occasions that I met Mr. Norton I noticed that he
was carrying a book. Once it was 'Oliver Twist.' Another time it was 'A
Tale of Two Cities.' The third time it was 'David Copperfield.' So I
judge that his favorite author must be Dickens. Am I right?"
"He always talks Dickens to us at school," said Frank.
"It's simple enough, once you get the habit," remarked Mr. Hardy.
"You must train yourselves to be observant, so that in time you
will automatically remember little details about people you meet
and places you've visited. Now, if Harrity and Mr. Brown had been
at all observant, in spite of the fact that they were surprised and
frightened, they would have been able to give the police a very
thorough description of the man who tried to hold up the steamboat
office. And if the man happened to be a professional thief the
description would have helped the officers ascertain who he was,
because once a man has served a prison term his description is kept
on file. As it is, all we know about him is that he is probably
red-headed. That isn't very much to go on."
"I'm afraid Chet hasn't much chance of recovering his roadster," said
Joe.
"You never can tell," remarked his father. "It may turn up some time.
Perhaps the thief will get himself into trouble yet. Keep your ears and
eyes open. And now, if you don't mind, I have some reports to write--"
Frank and Joe took the hint and left their father to his work. But
although they talked long into the night on possible ways and means of
recovering Chet's car, they were able to devise no plan for tracing the
thief.
And through the week that followed there were no further clues. Chet
had given up all hope of seeing the roadster again.
"I sure miss the old bus," he told the Hardy boys after school on
Friday afternoon. "I have to take my chances on catching rides in and
out of town now. Why, last night I walked half way home before a car
came along and gave me a lift."
"Saturday will be a pretty dull day for you now."
"You just bet your sweet life it will be dull! Nothing to do but sit
around the farm."
"Better come with us to-morrow," suggested Joe. "A bunch of us are
going fishing up near the dam. You can meet us at the crossroads near
Willow River."
"Good idea!" said Chet. "What time?"
"Ten o'clock."
"Fine! I'll be there. Gosh, I see where I get a ride home. There goes a
hay wagon, and it's heading right for the next farm."
A long wagon rumbled slowly toward the boys. A lean and solemn farmer
perched on the front seat, half asleep. The horses dawdled along.
"That's Lem Billers--the laziest man in nine counties," said Chet.
"Watch me have some fun with him."
Chet took from his pocket an automobile horn. He had originally bought
it for the roadster but had not had time to install it before the
car was stolen. The horn was of a new type, very small, yet it had a
particularly raucous shriek.
The Hardy boys grinned as they saw Chet step out into the road and
swing himself lightly up on the back of the wagon. Mr. Billers was
bringing some supplies back to the farm and Chet was hidden from view
by a bag of flour.
As the wagon rumbled past, Chet sounded the automobile horn.
It shrieked sharply and insistently.
Mr. Billers, being a lazy man, did not even look behind. He simply
tugged lightly at the reins and the horses edged over to the side of
the road.
Having heard the horn, Mr. Billers expected an automobile would pass.
But when no car flashed by he turned indolently in his seat and looked
behind. The roadway was clear. There was not an automobile in sight.
He did not see Chet, doubling up with laughter, on the back of the
wagon. He gazed doubtfully at the Hardy boys, who were standing at the
curb, trying to conceal their smiles.
"Could 'a' swore I heard a horn," grunted Mr. Billers. Then he tugged
at the lines and brought the horses into the middle of the road again.
Instantly the horn shrieked again. This time it was even louder and
more insistent than before. It seemed that an automobile was right
behind the wagon, clamoring to pass.
Almost automatically, Mr. Billers yanked at the reins and the horses
again went to the side of the road.
But again no car went by.
Again Mr. Billers looked behind. Again, to his astonishment, he saw
that the roadway was clear.
"Hanged if I didn't think I heard a horn!" exclaimed Mr. Billers,
greatly puzzled, as he drove on again. "My ears must be goin' back on
me."
But in a few minutes the horn shrieked again. Frank and Joe, who were
walking along the sidewalk, keeping abreast of the wagon so as not to
miss the fun, chuckled as they saw Mr. Billers once more pull on the
reins to guide the horses to the roadside. Then the farmer recollected
how he had been fooled on the previous occasions and he looked quickly
around. But there was no car in sight.
Mr. Billers gazed down the roadway for a long time. Then he sighed,
with the air of one whose patience has been long tried.
"Must be somethin' the matter with my ears," he muttered, and drove on.
At this moment a luxurious sedan swept around a corner and drew up
close behind the wagon. There was a chauffeur at the wheel and he
sounded his horn impatiently, for the road was narrow and he was unable
to get past.
Lem Billers smiled darkly to himself and paid no attention.
"There it goes again," he grumbled. "I _must_ be hearin' things.
Hang me if I'll turn out any more when there ain't no car there to turn
out for."
The wagon continued in the center of the road. The chauffeur of the
car glared at Lem Billers' back and sounded the horn again. Still the
farmer paid no attention.
Chet, limp with laughter, almost rolled off the wagon. Frank and Joe
could control their mirth no longer, and leaned against a telephone
post with shouts of glee.
The chauffeur, believing that the boys were laughing at him because
he could not get past, became purple with anger. He sounded the horn
again and again, and finally, when Lem Billers obstinately refused to
pay any attention, he looked wildly about for a policeman.
As luck would have it, Constable Con Riley was ambling along Main
Street at that moment, wondering if it would soon be supper time and
hoping his wife would serve corned beef and cabbage that evening. He
was aroused from his trance by the chauffeur, who brought the sedan to
a stop and ran over to him.
"Officer--arrest that man!" roared the chauffeur, pointing to Lem
Billers.
"What for?" demanded Con, taking off his helmet and scratching his head.
"Obstructing the traffic. He won't let me pass. I've been sounding my
horn for the last five minutes, and he won't let me go past."
"Oh, ho!" said Constable Riley. "He can't get away with that. Not while
Con Riley's on the beat." And with that he ran out into the road,
shouting to Lem Billers to stop.
At the constable's command, the farmer halted his team and gazed in
amazement at the chauffeur and the officer as they came running up to
him.
"Why won't you let him pass?" demanded the constable.
"Don't say you didn't hear me?" roared the chauffeur. "I sounded my
horn fifty times."
"Sure, I heard a horn," admitted Billers. "But," he added triumphantly,
"I didn't see no car."
"Are you blind?" asked Riley. "There's the car."
Lem Billers looked behind. At sight of the sedan, his jaw dropped.
"Well, I'll be hanged!" he declared sadly. "It must be my eyes is goin'
back on me. Not my ears. I looked behind three times and I couldn't see
no car."
"Don't believe him, officer," said the chauffeur. "He didn't even turn
around."
"I did so!" contended Mr. Billers.
"Then why didn't you let me pass?"
"You didn't have no car. I heard a horn but I didn't see no car."
Thereupon the argument grew fast and furious. Constable Riley was
vastly puzzled. He didn't know what to make of it. Both the chauffeur
and Lem Billers appeared to be telling the truth, yet there was
something wrong somewhere. He took it all down in a notebook, while Mr.
Billers and the chauffeur grew angrier and angrier at each other until
finally they were on the point of settling the matter with their fists.
In the meantime there was a steadily lengthening line of cars and
wagons blocking the street, unable to get past because of the hay
wagon and the sedan. A constant chorus of automobile horns sounded.
Angry drivers roared at the officer to clear the road.
Constable Riley threw up his hands in disgust.
"Get on your way, both of you," he commanded. "I can't stand here
arguin' all afternoon."
And while Lem Billers, wondering whether his eyes or his ears had
deceived him, drew his horses to the side of the road and muttered
strong threats of vengeance against the chauffeur, the traffic tangle
gradually abated. When he finally resumed his journey, the Hardy boys
could see Chet Morton lying limply in the back of the wagon with
tears of laughter running down his face. As for Frank and Joe, they
laughed all the way home and during supper that evening their spasmodic
outbursts of chuckles puzzled their parents extremely.