The Disappearing Floor Read Free Page A

Dad?” Frank asked worriedly. “The call may be a trick.”
    â€œIt’s a chance I’ll have to take, son.”
    Mr. Hardy telephoned Suffolk County Police Headquarters on Long Island to report the tip. Before leaving the house, he suggested that the boys restudy the photo of Strang in his file, and also the typewritten data on the reverse side of it.
    â€œMind you, we have nothing on him,” the detective said. “But I think he’s one of the few jewel thieves in the country capable of master-minding a series of robberies like the ones I’m investigating.”
    â€œDo you want the police to take him in for questioning?” Joe asked.
    â€œNo, that would only put him on guard. But I would like to know what he’s doing in Bayport!”
    â€œWe’ll keep an eye out for him,” Frank promised.
    Mr. Hardy then placed a long-distance call to his top-flight operative, Sam Radley. Sam had flown to Florida with a charter pilot named Jack Wayne to wind up another case. Fenton Hardy instructed Sam to join him at East Hampton the following day.
    Next morning, Frank and Joe ate a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs, and homemade muffins, then started off in their convertible to pick up Chet Morton. After some grumbling, the stout boy agreed to help them search for the curious tiled square he had seen the night before. Frank pulled up on the dirt lane near the big oak tree.
    â€œI don’t know why I let you two talk me into this,” Chet complained as they started up the slope. “I can’t seem to stay out of danger when you’re around.”
    Joe laughed. “Stop griping. You don’t expect to hear any spooks in broad daylight, do you?”
    When they reached level ground, Frank remarked, “Say, I see a house over there!”
    Joe and Chet looked in the direction he was pointing. A large, weather-beaten mansion was visible through the trees some distance away.
    â€œDidn’t notice any lights over that way last night,” Joe said. “Wonder if anyone lives there.”
    â€œMaybe not,” Frank said. “Looks pretty run down.”
    For half an hour the boys searched among the tall weeds and overgrown shrubbery. They failed to sight the tiled surface Chet had described, or to find Frank’s knife.
    â€œSure you weren’t just seeing things last night?” Frank asked Chet.
    Joe chuckled. “Maybe just hearing things, too?”
    Before Chet could reply, a voice barked out, “Stand right where you are! Now turn around, all three of you!”
    The boys whirled in surprise. A tall, hawk-faced man with a thin, prominent nose was standing among the trees watching them. He had one hand in his suit-coat pocket, as if concealing a gun.
    Frank and Joe gasped. The man looked like the one in the photograph of Noel Strang their father had in his files!

CHAPTER III
    The Purple Stone
    â€œDON’T stand there gawking!” the man snarled. “What are you kids looking for?”
    Chet gulped. “W-well—uh—you see, 1-last night—”
    â€œI lost my pocketknife,” Frank spoke up. “We were trying to find it.”
    â€œYour pocketknife, eh?” The man scowled at the boys suspiciously. “You had no business nosing around here last night or anytime. This is private property. Now clear out!”
    Chet, overcome with jitters, hastily started walking back to the car. Frank and Joe did not budge, and continued to stare at the man.
    â€œYou heard me!” he said in a loud, belligerent voice. “Beat it! And don’t come back!”
    He took a few steps toward the Hardys and crooked his arm as if he were about to jerk his gun hand out of his pocket. Without a word, the brothers turned and followed Chet.
    â€œThat is Noel Strang!” Joe whispered. “Think we should call his bluff?’”
    Frank shook his head. “Not now. Remember what Dad said.”
    â€œHe may not own