The Clue of the Broken Blade by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

his game was up.
    The policemen asked Frank to come along to headquarters. Bowes was booked on a number of counts and informed of his legal rights.
    â€œYeah,” he snarled. “I won’t say a word without a lawyer!”
    As an officer led him toward the cellblock, Bowes changed his mind, however. He sneered at Frank as he passed him. “How did you like the shape I left your lab in?” he asked.
    â€œSo it was you, was it?” Frank replied. “Was Zonko with you?”
    Bowes walked on without answering.
    Frank asked one of the policemen if he could use the telephone, and called the motel.
    Joe answered. “Did you find a clue in the library?” he wanted to know.
    â€œYes. Also the guy who played games with us yesterday when we visited Jimenez,” Frank replied, and told his brother what had happened.
    â€œI’ve got news, too,” Joe said when he had finished. “But it can wait until we get there. Chet and I’ll pick you up.”
    â€œIs it good or bad news?” Frank inquired.
    â€œBad. You might even say terrible!”

CHAPTER IX
    The Old Map
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    JOE was driving the Ford when he and Chet picked up Frank outside police headquarters.
    As the car pulled away from the curb, Frank asked, “What’s this bad news?”
    â€œThe vineyard’s gone,” Joe said. “Part is already a suburb, and the last of it is being used for a new housing development.”
    â€œAs far as we could find out,” Chet put in, “the only original building left is a wine storage cellar, and they’re going to bulldoze it down this afternoon.”
    â€œThat could be the secret place where Giovanni Russo was held prisoner by his kidnapper!” Frank exclaimed. “Did you ask to see it?”
    â€œThe foreman wasn’t there,” Joe said. “He was off trying to hire a bulldozer.”
    â€œDrive out there now,” Frank said.
    The island on which the Russo vineyard had been was somewhat north of Paradise Point. Although it was in the delta area, it could be reached by car via a series of bridges. The boys arrived at the planned housing development about twelve-fifteen.
    Streets had been laid out in the tract, although they were not yet paved. The unroofed raw wood skeletons of about two dozen houses were in various stages of construction. Work crews sat near them eating their lunches.
    Joe parked in front of the contractor’s office, a small prefabricated sheet-iron hut. A short distance away was an ancient one-story stone building.
    â€œThat must be the wine storage place over there,” he said to Frank, pointing.
    â€œRight. And next to it is a bulldozer!”
    â€œJust in time,” Joe said as they got out of the car and walked into the office.
    Seated at a desk sipping coffee from a Thermos bottle was a lean, suntanned man. Another fellow had already finished his lunch. He was tall, blond and heavy-set and stood at the far end of the room, lunging with a fencing foil at a rope hanging from the ceiling.
    The man at the desk glanced up as the boys entered, but the blond man continued to practice without paying any attention to them.
    Frank asked, “Are you the foreman?”
    The lean man nodded. “Jim Emory’s my name.”
    â€œI’m Frank Hardy,” the boy replied. He introduced Joe and Chet, then explained that they wanted permission to search the wine storage building before it was bulldozed down.
    â€œWhy?” Emory asked.
    Frank told about their search for the broken blade.
    â€œIt’s all right with me,” the foreman said with a shrug. “We’re only going to tear the place down, anyway.”
    The blond fellow stopped his practice and came over, still carrying the foil. In a surly voice he said, “You’d better be out of there by one o’clock. If you aren’t you’ll be buried under a heap of stones!”
    â€œWhat’s your