The Shore Road Mystery by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

no hotel day clerks recognized his picture—he works—or steals—at night!”
    â€œI don’t get it,” Joe said. “If Slagel stole that car, would he park it right in Bayport? And why the U-turn back on Route 7?”
    â€œOr why speed up suddenly when he made the turn off Shore Road?” Chet interrupted.
    â€œI don’t know,” Frank said, “but I’m going in the hotel for a second. Joe, take down the license and description of the car.”
    Frank came out of the hotel a few minutes later and rejoined the boys.
    â€œThe night clerk knows Slagel under the alias of James Wright,” he reported. “Apparently Slagel has kept these late hours since checking in two weeks ago.”
    â€œThat’s about when the Shore Road thefts began!” Chet exclaimed.
    The Hardys felt they should go to police headquarters and report the episode.
    While Joe watched the motorcycles, Frank and Chet ran up the steps to headquarters. But when they reappeared, they looked disappointed.
    â€œA car was stolen all right, but not the one driven by Slagel.”
    â€œCrumb!” Joe muttered. “It looks as if we’ll have to stick with the Route 7 turnoff. Still, do you think Slagel is connected with the theft in some way?”
    Frank shrugged. “What gets me is the stolen car. The thief may have used Pembroke Road, but it’s also possible we missed him in chasing Slagel.”
    The three boys rode back to the turnoff for their gear before dropping Chet at home and returning to their own house. They spent a quiet Sunday, their only detective work being to call headquarters, but there was no news about the Dodds or the car thieves.
    After breakfast Monday morning the Hardys phoned Chet and promised to meet him and the girls later in the day for a swim off the Sleuth, the Hardys’ sleek motorboat.
    Then they rode into town, parked, and posted themselves in sight of the Excelsior Hotel. They did not have long to wait. Slagel, dressed in Army surplus trousers, boots, and a summer jacket emerged. He was carrying a cane in his left hand.
    â€œHe doesn’t limp,” Frank remarked. “Wonder why he carries a cane.”
    Slagel jumped into the black sedan and pulled out. The Hardys followed on their motorcycles, and saw him come to a halt two blocks away before a paint store. He entered and soon emerged with cans of paint in either hand. After several trips, he had loaded some twenty gallons into the trunk. He had just slammed the trunk shut when he glanced back at the watching boys.
    A chill went down Joe’s back. “Think he knows we’ve been tailing him?”
    â€œHe sure doesn’t act like it,” said Frank.
    Slagel went to a telephone booth on the curb, dialed, and spoke briefly. Presently he returned to his car and moved into the Bayport traffic.
    â€œIt looks like Shore Road again,” Frank noted, as Slagel rounded Barmet Bay a little later.
    Farther north, where the road curved inland and had pastureland on both sides, the traffic thinned. Slagel increased speed, but the Hardys kept him in sight. Suddenly a moving mass of brown and white appeared just ahead of them.
    â€œCattle!” Frank exclaimed.
    He and Joe were forced to slow down as the cows were driven across the road toward a wide meadow on their left.
    â€œWe’re really blocked,” Joe shouted.
    Fortunately, no fence separated the highway from the meadow, and the boys were able to steer off the road. But by the time the cattle had crossed, Slagel’s car had disappeared around a curve.
    Then Frank saw the farmer who had driven the cattle across the road. He was the same short, white-haired man who had caused their spill a week before with his stalled truck.
    Parking their vehicles, the Hardys approached him, but he spoke first. “What do you kids think yer doin’? If yer gonna ride wild, jest keep off my land—you mighta killed one o’ my