Part 1 (1/2)

THE SIGN OF THE CROOKED ARROW.

By FRANKLIN W. DIXON.

CHAPTER I.

The Mysterious Car.

The Hardy boys' new club coupe, heading for the open country, whizzed past a road sign inscribed Bayport City Limits. Bayport City Limits.

Frank, the elder brother, fingered the wheel lightly. Joe sat beside him, his blond hair whipping in the breeze.

”What's all this business about somebody forgetting a car?” Joe asked.

”A man and his wife left it at Slow Mo's garage in Pleasantville two months ago and never called for it,” Frank replied.

The boys' father, Detective Fenton Hardy, had given Frank the details of the case and suggested that his sons follow it up. The garage proprietor had appealed to him to find the owner of the car.

”Why didn't Slow Mo contact the license bureau?” Joe put in.

2 ”Dad asked him that. When Slow Mo went to look at the plates, they were gone!”

”Who took 'em off?”

”That's what we're to find out,” Frank said. ”It seems they were stolen.”

”Sounds like a good case.” Joe grinned. ”One tiling's sure: the car owner wouldn't take them.”

”Strike one,” Frank agreed. ”It sounds as if Slow Mo might be in a jam.”

Half an hour later Frank pulled up in front of a rickety building in the sleepy town of Pleasantville.

”That must be Slow Mo,” Frank declared, as an Elderly man in overalls shuiBed toward them.

”h.e.l.lo, boys,” he said. ”What can I do for you?” When he learned who they were, he asked in surprise, ”Where's your pop?”

”He's busy on another case,” Joe replied. ”He sent us to help you.”

The old man frowned. ”I sure wanted your pop to figure this thing out. He's the best detective in this part of the country.”

”You're right there,” said Frank. ”But I think we can make a start on solving the mystery.

We often work with Dad on cases.”

Slow Mo, who had been dubbed Slow Motion in his youth, rubbed his whiskers with a grimy finger. He was a man of medium height, but he looked taller because of a thatch of bristling gray hair which 3 stuck up on top of his head like a paint brush, ”Well, I dunno,” he said. ”But come in my office and I'll tell you what happened, anyway.”

”What do the police think?” Frank asked him, as jhey followed.

”Didn't ask the police,” Slow Mo said. ”Jake, the chief-he's my brother-in-law-ain't solved a case in thirty years. That's why I called your pop.”

The old man crossed the floor of the musty-smell~ ing garage and entered a two-by-four room. It was Stacked high with empty oil cans and old tires.

On the wall hung a faded calendar dating back years. It was the only calendar in the place. Slow Mo had kept it, he said, because he liked the fisherman pictured on it.

”Haven't you a calendar for this year?” Frank queried.

Slow Mo gave a sheepish smile. ”Never thought of that,” he said.

”Where's your office?” Joe asked with a wink at Frank.

”Why, gol hang it, boy,” Slow Mo said, ”I can see right now you're not the detective your father is. This is the office. He'd of knowed that right off.”

”Sorry,” Joe replied, keeping a straight face.

”Set down here,” the proprietor offered, motioning toward a couple of kegs.

The brothers seated themselves as Slow Mo un 4 folded his story. Most of it they already knew. At one point Joe interrupted to ask for a description of the couple who had left the car.

Slow Mo looked blank for a moment, then said, ”Why, they're kinda ordinary-lookin'

folks, middlin' height, dressed like reg'lar people-”

Joe shook his head. Slow Mo's description would apply to a million other strangers!

”Where did the couple go after they left their car?” Frank asked.

”Took a train from here,” Slow Mo replied. ”Station's right over there,” he said, pointing.

Pleasantville's one pride was being the terminal of a railroad spur. It served several towns along its route to Bayport.

”What's the engine number of the car?” Frank quizzed.

”Why, I dunno,” Slow Mo answered. ”Guess I should 'a' looked at it. Never thought of that.”

He led the Hardys to the rear of the garage, where a black sedan stood in a corner.

Frank threw up the hood of the automobile and glanced at the engine.

”Got a flashlight?” he asked Slow Mo.

When the proprietor handed him one, Frank scanned the motor.

”Just as I thought!” he exclaimed. ”The engine number has been filed off.”

3 ”What would anybody do that for?” Slow Mo asked, running his fingers through his bristle top.