CHAPTER V
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's 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 om 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 instal 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.