037 The Ghost at Skeleton Rock by Franklin W. Dixon

Author:Franklin W. Dixon [Dixon, Franklin W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XII

The Tattooed Prisoner

BACK at the warehouse, Frank, Chet, and Tony waited anxiously for Joe to return. The police had come and gone. The boys had given the watchman first aid and he was now feeling better.

“Joe’s been gone almost an hour,” muttered Frank, glancing worriedly at his watch.

“Why don’t we get a taxi,” Tony suggested, “and see if we can find him?”

“Second the motion!” Chet responded.

But finding a taxi at that hour was not easy and the boys finally had to go to the airport to round one up. Since the thieves’ car had sped away in the direction of Santurce, Frank ordered the driver to try that part of the city first. But fifteen minutes of cruising up and down the darkened streets proved fruitless.

“Take us into Old San Juan,” Frank said.

As they drove into Columbus Plaza, Chet exclaimed, “There’s the motorcycle Joe borrowed!”

It was standing parked at the curb where Joe had left it, but the young sleuth was nowhere in sight. Frank paid their driver, and gave him an extra dollar to take the motorcycle back to the watchman at once.

The three boys began a search of the surrounding streets for Joe. But the hunt was unsuccessful and finally they gave up in despair.

“Guess we may as well go back to the hotel,” Frank said glumly. “But I sure hate to tell Dad that Joe’s missing.”

Mr. Hardy was greatly dismayed by the news. “With the gang we’re up against, anything may have happened to Joe!” he declared.

Before he could formulate a plan of action, there was a knock on the door of the hotel room.

“You are Senor Fenton Hardy?” a Puerto Rican police officer asked.

“That’s right.”

“You have a son named Joe Hardy?”

“I certainly do. You have news of him?” Mr. Hardy asked anxiously.

“I regret to inform you, señor, that your son is in jail.”

The officer, expecting to hear alarmed protests from the group, was amazed to see looks of relief on their faces.

“We’ll go to see him at once,” Mr. Hardy told the officer.

A police car took them to San Juan Police Headquarters. Here they learned, to their amazement, that Joe was being held for attempted burglary. A turnkey took them to his dimly lighted cell.

“There he is, senor,” said the jailer.

The blond figure inside was slumped dejectedly on his cot, a livid bruise on one temple. But at sight of Mr. Hardy and the others, he brightened and jumped to his feet.

“Am I ever glad to see you people!”

Mr. Hardy was about to greet his son when Chet cried out in alarm. “Look! It’s not Joe! It’s that fellow who resembles him!”

Chet pointed out that on the prisoner’s left forearm was a pineapple tattoo! To everybody’s surprise, the prisoner merely laughed.

“Had you fooled, Chet,” he said. “It’s only a joke. I put the pineapple on myself with this indelible pencil I borrowed from the guard.”

Frank chuckled with relief. “You’re Joe, all right. Someday that stunt may come in handy.”

“Now that you have been identified,” said Mr.

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