Free The Short-Wave Mystery by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

poultry.”
    â€œNever mind buttering me up,” she said. “You boys had a phone call, by the way.”
    â€œFrom whom, Aunty?” Frank inquired.
    â€œThat lawyer, J. Sylvester Crowell. Said he’d be in this office till six, and if he didn’t hear from you, he might call back this evening.”
    Joe snapped his fingers eagerly. “Maybe he’s been in touch with Mrs. Batter!”
    â€œThere’s still time to reach him,” Frank said, glancing at the clock. “Let’s try.”
    The boys hurried to the telephone and Frank dialed the attorney. Crowell himself answered.
    â€œI called in regard to your request to visit the Batter house,” he told Frank.
    â€œYou’ve spoken to Mrs. Batter about it?”
    â€œYes. She thinks it very unlikely that you can gain any dues from the remaining stuffed animals. However, she’s willing to have you take a look at them—on condition that you don’t disturb anything else in the house.”
    â€œOf course not,” Frank promised. “When could we go over?”
    â€œIt would have to be tonight, I’m afraid. Mrs. Batter is only back in town for one day, and she’s leaving again in the morning to visit her sister.” Crowell added that the boys would have to pick up the key at Mrs. Batter’s apartment, and gave her address.
    â€œRight, sir,” Frank said, jotting it down. “We’ll stop there about a quarter to eight.”
    Mrs. Batter received the boys with a cold, beady-eyed stare. “Just what is it you expect to find?” she demanded.
    Frank smiled and shrugged. “Maybe nothing. But if there’s anything special about the stuffed animals your husband made, the ones still at the house may give us a clue.”
    â€œWhat do you mean by ‘anything special’?”
    â€œIf we knew the answer to that,” said Joe, “we’d probably have this case solved.”
    â€œYou certainly don’t seem to be making much progress,” the widow snapped. “However, if you think it’ll do any good, go ahead and look. The electricity is still on. But I shall expect to have the key back tonight. Is that clear?”
    â€œYes, Mrs. Batter,” Frank said.
    As the boys drove away, Joe grumbled, “You’d think she was doing us a favor!”
    Frank chuckled. “Maybe she is, if this trip helps us turn up any clue to Jimmy’s treasure.”
    The temperature had dropped sharply since sunset, and the boys drove with their convertible top raised and the heater on. Joe noticed his brother watching the rear-view mirror. “What’s the matter? Someone on our tail?”
    â€œI thought so for a while,” Frank said. “Guess I was mistaken, though.”
    On Hill Road they turned up the gravel driveway to the Batter house and climbed out of their car. The boys mounted the porch and Frank inserted the key in the front-door lock. The door creaked open. Both Hardys switched on flashlights and probed the darkness until Joe located a wall switch. The blaze of light revealed a huge, drafty hallway with a winding staircase at the far end.
    â€œLet’s take a look upstairs first,” Frank suggested.
    â€œOkay.” The boys could see their breath in the chilly atmosphere. The wind outside echoed through the house and rattled the shutters.
    On the second floor the young sleuths moved from room to room, playing their flashlight beams into each one. All seemed bare and empty except for worn carpeting and a few items of old furniture.
    â€œIt would sure take more than one evening to tap for hollow walls and check the flooring in a house this size,” Joe murmured.
    Frank nodded gloomily. “We’ll just have to keep our eyes open for anything unusual.”
    One room with a workbench and a musty odor appeared to have been Batter’s taxidermy shop. A scarred desk stood in one corner. Joe pulled open the drawers.