Read Online The Secret of Skull Mountain by Franklin W. Dixon - Free Book Online Page B

was leaving, Mr. Matson said, “Watch your step, Joe. Old Kimball’s a tiger when he’s mad!”
    It was a short drive to the construction firm. When Joe was admitted to the handsomely furnished office of the president, the gray-haired, ruddy-cheeked man rose from his chair, walked around his large desk, and extended his hand to the youth.
    â€œMy receptionist tells me you’re Joe Hardy,” Mr. Kimball said. “Aren’t you Fenton Hardy’s son?”
    â€œYes, I am.”
    The man’s manner was friendly, but Joe thought he looked uneasy as he asked, “Fenton Hardy, the detective?”
    Joe nodded. Mr. Kimball motioned him to take a seat, and again sat down behind his imposing desk. “What brings you to see me, young man?” he asked after a moment. His hands began to fidget with a letter opener.
    â€œMr. Kimball, I found a motorcycle in Bayport registered in your name. I have a hunch it was stolen.” Joe thought it best to reveal his suspicions little by little, taking his cues from the company president’s reactions.
    Mr. Kimball looked straight at Joe as he spoke. “I own a motorcycle,” he admitted. “It’s used by the company to carry messages from this office to field engineers. Now what makes you think it’s been stolen?”
    â€œI don’t know for sure that it’s been stolen. But the man I saw riding the motorcycle was familiar to me,” Joe replied. “I had seen him before in rather suspicious circumstances.”
    Mr. Kimball stared at his hands, which still fumbled with the letter opener. “What does he look like?” he asked softly.
    â€œA dark-haired young man, tall and thin,” Joe told him. “He was wearing a tan jacket.”
    The paper knife fell from the man’s fingers and his mouth twitched. “I’ll see if there’s a messenger in our employ who answers that description,” he said, picking up the telephone.
    When Mr. Kimball began to speak, he turned away from Joe and shielded his lips with his hand. The young detective strained to hear what the company president was saying, but he could understand only a few words. As Mr. Kimball put down the telephone, Joe noted that he was gripping it so tightly his knuckles were white. But when the man swung around, his face was bland.
    â€œHe’s trying to cover up,” Joe thought.
    â€œThere is such a man working for us,” Mr. Kimball said pleasantly. “But you’re mistaken about the motorcycle being stolen. The young man was sent to Bayport on an errand by my plant foreman.”
    Mr. Kimball gave a little laugh. “You must have confused him with someone else. My foreman tells me he has a fine record.”
    â€œI see,” said Joe. Then he asked, “Would you mind telling me the man’s name?”
    Mr. Kimball shook his head firmly. “I don’t think that would be proper.” He glanced at a small clock on his desk, then rose. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment.”
    Joe stood up also. He turned as if to leave, then asked suddenly, “Mr. Kimball, may I see a picture of your son?”
    The gray-haired man stared at him. “What for?” he asked angrily.
    â€œI have reason to believe he is the man I saw on the motorcycle,” Joe told him quietly.
    Mr. Kimball’s face reddened and he took a step toward the boy. “Get out of here!” he ordered, his voice shaking. “I had an idea your father sent you to question me. Now I’m sure of it! What my son does is nobody’s business but his and mine!” He raised his fist threateningly. “Get out!”
    Joe returned to the car. He was sorry for Mr. Kimball, and sympathized with the man’s loyalty to his son.
    â€œBut all the same,” Joe said to himself, “I’ll bet Timothy Kimball Jr. is the thug called Sweeper!”
    Back in Bayport, Joe was surprised to