Free The Ghost at Skeleton Rock by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

“Maybe we can nail the men when they come out the other end of the tunnel.”
    He led the way eagerly toward the door. The others hurried after him, and tried to push it open.
    â€œLocked!” he cried.
    The boys hurried to a door leading to the office and let themselves outside. Back of a bench an elderly man was groggily getting to his feet.
    â€œYou the watchman here?” Frank asked.
    â€œSí. I—I think—someone—knock me out.”
    â€œYou’re right. Two thieves who’ve just robbed this place. We’re after them now. Where’s the exit to the tunnel?”
    The dazed watchman led the boys to the marauders’ point of exit, an open manhole with its cover overturned. The discovery brought fresh groans.
    â€œOf all the rotten breaks!” Joe grumbled.
    Just then Frank heard the sound of a car starting up in the distance. “There they go!” he shouted, as twin headlights swept a path through the darkness.
    Joe glanced around frantically for some way to take up the chase. He spotted a small motorcycle. “Whose is that?”
    â€œIt is mine, señor,” the bewildered watchman admitted.
    â€œMay I borrow it?”
    â€œSí, si! But be careful— por favor!”
    Joe dashed toward the motorcycle, leaped into the saddle, and kicked the starter. The engine sputtered to life. With a blast of exhaust, he took off after the fleeing car.
    The noise of the motorcycle gave warning to the thieves that they were being followed. At top speed they careened through the darkened residential district of Santurce, then into the old town of San Juan.
    Most of the way, Joe managed to keep the car clearly in view. But after passing San Crist6bal fortress on the right, he emerged into the Plaza Colón to find that the burglars’ automobile was no longer in sight.
    In the center of the square on a tall pillar, a bronze statue of Christopher Columbus loomed against the night sky.
    â€œOh, brother! If you could only talk!” Joe muttered helplessly.
    Obviously the thieves had disappeared down one of the narrow, cobblestoned streets leading off the square. But which one?
    Wheeling over to a parked taxi, Joe questioned the driver about a speeding car. “Ah, sí, señor. It went that way!” replied the driver, pointing down one of the streets.
    â€œThanks! Muchas gracias!” Joe exclaimed.
    So that the warehouse thieves wouldn’t hear him approaching, he parked the motorcycle near the entrance to the narrow street and then continued on foot. He had gone scarcely a hundred yards when he gasped jubilantly. Ahead in the moonlight stood the thief who resembled Joe!
    He was putting something into a basket which had been lowered by rope from a balcony. Joe had seen the same method being used earlier that evening when people purchased fruit or vegetables from street vendors.
    Sprinting forward, Joe tried to take the man by surprise. Unfortunately, the fellow spotted him and darted into a narrow, twisting street.
    Quickly Joe reached up and managed to grab the basket. But the man on the balcony gave it a hard yank, jerking it free. The basket shot up out of Joe’s grasp.
    The young sleuth tried to find an entrance to the building, but apparently there was none facing the street. He retraced his steps part way to the square and found an alley which led back to the houses. Cautiously he made his way through the shadowy, musty passageway.
    Counting the buildings, Joe found the one from which the basket had been lowered. It was a three-story building of pink stucco, with shuttered windows and a wrought-iron balcony on each of the two upper stories. An outside flight of steps led up to its gloomy-looking interior.
    Joe started up the steps on tiptoe. But he did not get far. Suddenly he was struck on the head. Joe slumped to the ground, unconscious.

CHAPTER XII
    The Tattooed Prisoner
    BACK at the warehouse, Frank, Chet, and Tony waited anxiously