The Shore Road Mystery

I

Stolen Cars

“It certainly is a mystery how those autos disappeared,” said Frank Hardy.

“I’ll say it is,” replied his brother Joe, raising his voice to be heard above the clatter of their motorcycles. “Just think of it! Two cars last week, two the week before, and one the week before that. Some thieving, I’ll tell the world.”

“And Martin’s car was brand new,” called back Chet Morton.

“Mighty tough,” Frank affirmed. “It’s bad enough to lose a car, but to have it stolen the day after you’ve bought it is a little too much.”

“Must be a regular gang of car thieves at work.”

The three boys, on their motorcycles, were speeding along the Shore Road that skirted Barmet Bay, just out of Bayport, on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

“A person takes a big risk leaving a car parked along this road,” said Chet. “Every one of the five autos disappeared along the shore.”

“What beats me,” declared Frank, turning out to avoid a mud puddle, “is how the thieves got away with them. None of them were seen coming into Bayport and there was no trace of them at the other end of the Shore Road, either. Seems as if they just vanished into the thin air.”

Chet slowed down so that the trio were riding abreast.

“If the cars were only ordinary flivvers it wouldn’t be so bad. But they were all expensive, high-powered hacks. Martin’s car would be spotted anywhere, and so would the others. It’s funny that no one saw them.”

“Some of these auto thieves are mighty smart,” opined Joe. “They certainly have their nerve, working this road for three weeks, and with everybody on the lookout for them. It has certainly put a crimp in the bathing and fishing along the Shore Road.” He gestured toward the beach below. “Why, usually on a Saturday afternoon like this you’ll see a dozen cars parked along here. What with boating and fishing and swimming, lots of people used to come out from town. Now, if they come at all, they walk.”

“And you can’t blame ’em. Who wants to lose a high-priced car just for the sake of an hour’s fishing?”

“It’s certainly mighty strange,” Frank reiterated. “After taking two cars from almost the same place, you’d imagine the thieves would be scared to come back.”

“They have plenty of nerve, that’s certain.”

“It isn’t as if the police haven’t been busy. They’ve watched this road ever since the first car was lost, and the other autos were stolen just the same. They’ve kept an eye on both ends of the highway and there wasn’t a sign of any of them.”

“It’s strange that they haven’t turned up somewhere. Lots of times a stolen car will be recovered when the thief tries to get rid of it. The engine numbers alone often trip them up. Of course, I guess they’d clap on false license plates, but it’s pretty hard to get away with a fine-looking car like Martin’s unless it’s been repainted and altered a bit.”

“It’s no fun to lose a car,” declared Chet. “I remember how badly I felt when the crooks stole my roadster last year.”

“You got it back, anyway.”

“Yes, I got it back. But I was mighty blue until I did.”

The motorcycles rounded a bend in the road and before the boys lay a wide stretch of open highway, descending in a gradual slope. To their right lay Barmet Bay, sparkling in the afternoon sun. At the bottom of the slope was a grassy expanse that opened out on the beach, the road at this point being only a few feet above the sea level. The little meadow was a favorite parking place for motorists, as their cars could regain the road easily, but today there was not an automobile in sight.

“Look at that,” said Frank. “No one here on a nice afternoon like this.”

At that moment, however, the appearance of a man who came running up from the beach and across the grass, belied his words.

“Someone’s here all right,” remarked Joe. “And he seems in a hurry about something.”

As the boys rode down the slope they could see the man hastening out into the middle of the road, where he stood waving his arms.

“Looks like Isaac Fussy, doesn’t it?” said Chet.

“The rich old fisherman?”

“Yes, it’s Fussy all right. Look at him dancing around. Wonder what’s the matter.”

In a few moments the boys had drawn near enough to see that the old man who was waving at them so frantically was indeed the wealthy and eccentric old fisherman known as Isaac Fussy. He was a queer old fellow who lived by himself in a big house on the outskirts of Bayport, and who spent much of his time on the bay. Just now he was evidently in a state of great agitation, shouting and waving his arms as the boys approached.

The motorcycles came to a stop.

“Anything wrong?” asked Frank.

“After ’em! After ’em!” shouted the old man, his face crimson with wrath, as he shook his fist in the air. “Chase ’em, lads!”