“Don't forget Frank, any driver you get your picture taken with, I want my picture taken with him too!” Blond, seventeen year-old Joe Hardy grinned. He was dressed head to toe in the colors of his favorite NASCAR driver as he and his older brother were going to watch the stock car drivers race at Watkins Glen International, just a few hours away from their home in Bayport.
Their father, former New York City detective Fenton Hardy, owned a vacation home on Lake Seneca, a few miles from the track and whenever the loud, colorful racecars were in town the boys never missed an opportunity to go watch.
“I'll be happy to take whatever picture you want, Joe. But I want us both to get our picture taken with Danica.” He was similarly attired, wearing a bright green ballcap with a large number 10 on the front.
They had just made the turn onto the highway that leads into the small town of Watkins Glen when a black dually pickup truck with a white trailer came into view. It looked like the truck was moving at a high rate of speed, and the driver was swerving back and forth between lanes. As the truck approached, it crossed the double yellow line and headed straight for the Hardys' car!
“Frank, watch out!”
Joe reached over from the passenger seat and grabbed the wheel, turning it sharply to the right, sending their car into the ditch on the side of the road with a loud thud.
They looked behind them and saw the tail of the white trailer disappear around a bend in the road. The driver, whoever it was, was obviously in a hurry and was not at all concerned about the condition of the Hardy boys.
“Let's go after him,” Frank said, not realizing their car was stuck in the soft ground in the ditch.
“I'm afraid that's not possible. The car's sunk up to its axles in mud. We're going to need someone to help us out of here if we're going to get to the lake house before tomorrow.”
Joe took out his cellphone. He dialed up Chet Morton, the boys' best friend. Chet was also on his way to the lake house for the weekend, but was about ten minutes behind. Chet, a rotund boy who played center for Bayport's football team, would be just what was needed to give them a push out of their predicament.
“Chet, when you turn onto the highway into town you'll see us on the side of the road. We'll need some help out of the ditch. We had a little incident with an out of control pickup truck,” Joe said. Chet responded he would be there as soon as he could, and Joe returned his phone to his pocket.
“I wish we knew why that guy was in such a hurry,” Frank said. “It's almost as if he purposely tried to force us off the road.”
Within minutes, Chet arrived in his old yellow jalopy.
“I don't know how you can still drive that old thing,” Frank laughed as his rotund friend walked over to their distressed car. The boys loved Chet, and had been best friends with him since the second grade, but never missed an opportunity to tease him.
“Keep laughing and you'll be walking to the lake house,” Chet said. “I have some great steaks in the trunk and I am hungry enough to eat all of them without you!”
Joe climbed into the car to steer while Frank and Chet pushed the stricken car back onto the road. Once out of the ditch, Frank climbed back in and the boys all drove in tandem to the Hardy family's lake house without any further incident.
Once there, they grilled Chet's steaks and enjoyed some time on the dock fishing. Just as Joe reeled in a smallmouth bass, the boys heard a car traveling down their driveway at a high rate of speed.
“Now what?” Frank wondered.
They heard a car door shut and moments later a portly man stumbled down the stone steps from the house down to the lake. He was breathing heavily, obviously out of breath.
“Can we help you?” Joe asked.
“Please tell me you are the world famous Hardy boys,” the man said, trying to catch his breath. “I have been to about ten houses on the lake and going up and down these stairways is killing me.”
Frank laughed. “Well stranger, you finally found us. But that only leaves us wondering why you're looking for us!”
“I need you for a detecting job. Let's go sit down so I can catch my breath and I will be glad to fill you in,” the man said.
After a couple of minutes at the dock, the man had recovered enough to walk back up to the house. It was about 200 yards, but very steeply uphill. Once back to the house, the boys offered the man a drink and brought him onto the porch to discuss what brought him to their lake house.
“My name is John Cohen. I am from New York. I was going through Bayport on the way up here when one of my associates called me and told me my racecar entered in this weekend's race had been stolen. I immediately went to the Bayport police to see what I could do. Chief Collig told me the best thing I could do was get Fenton Hardy on the case, but he is out of the country on a case. He said the next best thing would be to get in touch with Mr. Hardy's two sons, who have solved many mysteries on their own. He told me you two were both racing fans and would be up here for the weekend. I must have misplaced the address he gave me so it took me a while to track you down.”
Fenton Hardy was a crack detective on the New York City Police Force was now an internationally famous private investigator. His sons, star athletes at Bayport High School, often helped him on his cases and also solved many cases on their own.
Their first case was The Tower Treasure, and only recently they had many hair-raising adventures in the Showdown at Widow Creek. Now they were excited at the prospect of a new mystery.
They listened intently as Mr. Cohen explained the details of the case. They both felt tingles run down their spines when he said the missing racecar was taken from a hotel parking lot as it sat in a white trailer parked behind a black dually pickup.
“Good night!” Joe exclaimed. “We were run off the road earlier today by a black dually pickup towing a white trailer! The driver was driving like a maniac. I bet you that was the man who stole your racecar! It also explains why he purposely ran us off the road and into the ditch!”
“Boys, it's critical we get that racecar back as soon as possible,” Mr. Cohen said. “The race is coming up this weekend and without that car, my team will have to go out of business.”
Just as Mr. Cohen was finishing his sentence, the room was filled with the deafening roar of an engine! It sounded just like a racing engine!
“It came from up at the top of the driveway!” Frank yelled to Joe. They both leapt to their feet and sprinted out the front door of the lake house and towards the street.
That's what I call dedication to the sport! Nice job ( so far ).
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