The Shore Road Mystery by Franklin W. Dixon

from the windows again, trying to determine the source of the bullets. But the altitude was too great.
    Larry landed the plane safely. When investigators from the Civil Aeronautics Board arrived, the Hardys were looking at one of the slugs in the fuselage.
    â€œThey’re from a submachine gun of foreign manufacture,” one of the men reported.
    Frank whispered to Joe, “That dud grenade was foreign made too! Makes me think of Dad’s case.”
    The Hardys apologized to Larry for the trouble they had caused. “Nonsense.” He smiled, wiping grease off his T-shirt. “I’ll let you know if we get any leads to the sniper.”
    The boys rode to the Hardy home. There was no news of the missing Dodds or of the recently stolen cars.
    Chet stayed to supper but proudly partook only of Mrs. Hardy’s cooked vegetables. Aunt Gertrude stared incredulously, but offered him no dessert.
    Later, Chet borrowed an old shirt and dungarees from Frank for the night’s watch on Shore Road. After reassembling their gear they drove out to Route 7, the turnoff four miles south of Springer Road. The boys stationed themselves on a pine slope some fifty yards down the turnoff.
    â€œWe’ll have to be on our toes tonight, men,” Frank said. “There’s more traffic on Route 7 than on Springer or Pembroke.”
    As darkness fell, the three arranged their shifts for the night. Joe propped up a twig fork-support for the binoculars while his brother stationed their motorcycles. Chet, who was to have the third shift, settled down on his sleeping bag with a small flashlight, engrossed in a thick book on botany.
    â€œYou fellows are pretty lucky to have a botanist at your service,” he boasted, then yawned.
    â€œBoy, are you going to itch tomorrow!” said Joe, and pointed to where Chet’s bag rested in a patch of poison ivy.
    â€œOh, all right, maybe I don’t know everything about botany,” Chet grumbled, dragging his gear to another spot.
    Hours later Chet took his watch. He sat cross-legged before the field-glass tripod listening to the police calls and looking over the Hardys’ log of the cars which had passed that night. Presently he heard a motor.
    â€œMaybe this is it!” he thought as two headlight beams appeared. The next instant Chet saw the dark-colored sedan suddenly speed up and roar wildly toward him on Route 7. It swerved, caromed off a bush, and raced down the road.
    The noise awakened Frank and Joe. “That may be our first bite!” Frank yelled. “Let’s go!”

CHAPTER VIII
    The Ring of Fire
    IN seconds Frank and Joe had started their motorcycles, the headlights cutting the darkness of the woods. Racing along, the boys could see the red taillights of the speeding sedan ahead.
    â€œAnything come over the police band?” Joe shouted back to Chet.
    â€œNothing about a theft.”
    The gap diminished, and the boys realized the car was slowing down.
    â€œMaybe he thinks we’re the police,” Frank called out.
    But the sedan cut speed still more and began to make a U-turn. “He’s coming back. Let’s keep with him!” Frank urged.
    The driver appeared to take no notice of their pursuit. The boys followed him back to the turnoff and then down Shore Road.
    Joe called to Frank, “He’s heading for Bayportl”
    Dropping back, the boys trailed the car through the quiet city streets until it drew up before the Excelsior Hotel in the waterfront area. The Hardys swung behind a parked truck.
    Frank motioned for the binoculars. When Chet handed them over, Frank focused on the sedan’s driver, a bald thick-set man. He still did not seem to notice the boys as he crossed the street and entered the hotel.
    Frank flashed an excited look at the others. “I think we’ve finally found our man!”
    â€œSlagel?” Joe guessed hopefully.
    â€œThat’s right.”
    Chet spoke up. “No wonder