A Will to Survive by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

wood shavings, and lemon. He looked around the big room. To his right was a long maple workbench. The tool rack on the wall behind it held an assortment of hammers, chisels, and screwdrivers, arranged neatly by size. A table saw, drill press, router, and wood lathe completed the woodworking area. The other side of the room was devoted to metalworking and was just as well equipped and well maintained.
    â€œThere’s the phone,” Frank said. He went over to an old office desk piled high with papers. “Joe, look at this.”
    Joe joined Frank and peered at the telephone. “Those smudges on the handset were made by a rubber glove,” he said. “And look, you can sort of make out the pattern there. I’d bet they’re the same as the impression we found on the display case the other day.”
    Frank had opened the top drawer of the desk. “So would I,” he said. He pulled a pair of yellowrubber gloves from the drawer and showed Joe the fingertip of one.
    â€œSomeone may have planted them there,” Joe pointed out. “Why would Carl try to keep his fingerprints off his own phone? It’s only normal for them to be there. Besides, maybe he happened to be wearing rubber gloves when the phone rang and he just didn’t take them off.”
    â€œIt’s possible,” Frank said. “Though I might be more convinced if we were talking about gardeners’ gloves. These are kitchen gloves.”
    â€œSo what’s your take?” Joe asked.
    Frank rubbed his chin. “What if you’re not an experienced criminal?” he said slowly. “You’ve read books and watched TV. You know when you do something wrong, you should be careful not to leave fingerprints. You’re about to make a phone call that may send a couple of snoops off a cliff. So out come the rubber gloves.”
    Joe was troubled by Frank’s argument. True, his first meeting with Carl had left him with a sore neck. Still, he couldn’t help sort of like someone who would set up a workshop like this one and keep it up so well. He took another admiring glance around. Then he stiffened.
    On the far wall was a rack of gardening tools. Every rake, hoe, and shovel was spotless. Like any really careful craftperson, Carl spent a lot of effort keeping his tools in good order. Recent sharpenings had given their working edges a faint gleam. Thewooden handles were oiled and polished. There was one exception, Joe noticed.
    â€œFrank,” Joe said, walking over to the wall. “Look at this.”
    â€œThis” was a short-handled spade with a blade that curved to a point. The edge was dull. Little clumps of sand clung to the blade. Joe took a few grains and rubbed them between his thumb and fingertip. They were still slightly damp.
    â€œUsed recently,” Frank said. “Since this afternoon, when we talked to Carl about Walter Parent and mentioned diamonds.”
    â€œHe could have gone over to Pater’s Bluff right away and laid that trap,” Joe said. “Then, as soon as he finished, he could have come back here and made the call to Tanya’s office.”
    Behind them, someone kicked the door open. Joe and Frank spun around. Carl was standing in the doorway, carrying a stack of big reddish clay flowerpots. He stared as if he believed the Hardys were ghosts. Maybe he did, Joe thought. If their suspicions were right, Carl had just tried to kill them.
    Carl’s gaze shifted. He apparently noticed the yellow rubber gloves in Frank’s hand. Panic flared in his eyes.
    The powerful muscles in his shoulders bunched up. He lifted the stack of flowerpots high over his head. With a loud grunt of exertion and rage, he heaved the heavy clay pots at Joe and Frank.

12 Taking Care of the Caretaker
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    The stack of flowerpots hurtled across the room. Frank threw himself to the floor behind the desk. The heavy pots smashed into the wall and shattered. Fragments flew everywhere.