The Witchmaster's Key by Franklin W. Dixon Read Free Book Online Page B

inspected the room. The only exit besides the door was the overhead window.
    â€œA bat couldn’t get through that,” Joe grumbled.
    â€œRight,” Frank said. “But I’ve got an idea!” Rapidly he explained his plan. “I hope it works,” he concluded.
    â€œMight as well give it a try, Frank.”
    They quietly slipped into two suits of armor. The metal felt cold, and the joints creaked as they pushed their hands down the arms into the gauntlets. Now they were completely covered, from the helmets on their heads down to the greaves on their legs and the iron shoes on their feet.
    Joe picked up a spiked ball of the type used in medieval battles.
    â€œReady, Frank?”
    â€œAll set!”
    Joe lobbed the ball up in the air and sent it through the window with a crash, showering broken glass and chips of splintered wood.
    They heard it bounce on the pavement outside. There was a sound of rushing feet and a loud buzz of voices.
    â€œMy basketball set shot,” Joe whispered.
    â€œQuiet!” Frank warned. “Someone’s coming.”
    A key turned in the lock. The door swung open and the locksmith lumbered into the room. The boys’ eyes followed him as he searched around. Paying no attention to the suits of armor, he halted a few feet from the Hardys.
    Frank held his breath. Joe wrinkled his nose and just managed to stifle a sneeze.
    The locksmith looked up at the shattered window, a stunned expression on his face. Thenhe rushed out and they heard the tinkle of the bell on the front door.
    â€œHe’s gone!” Frank exclaimed, “Come on! We’ve got to move fast!”
    Climbing out of his suit of armor, Frank headed for the door. Joe called urgently after him.
    â€œWait a minute! I’m stuck!” Joe could not get his foot past the greave on the left leg. Frank ran back and held it, while his brother struggled to work himself loose.
    â€œWiggle your toes,” Frank advised. “Hurry!”
    Joe finally eased his foot free. “Boy! Am I glad to be out of that iron overcoat!”
    They ran into the front room of the locksmith’s establishment and out the door. At the corner they peeked around to the rear of the building, where a crowd was gathered.
    People were milling about and pointing toward the smashed window. The owner stood holding the spiked ball in his hand and scratching his head in disbelief.
    â€œLet him try to figure it out,” Frank said.
    â€œMy guess is he never will.” Joe chuckled. “His suspects are two suits of armor. And they ain’t talking.”
    â€œWell, how about some refreshments? I’m starved.”
    â€œGood thinking.”
    They went into a teashop and ordered tea andcakes. When the last of the food had vanished, Joe said, “Any idea what our pal the locksmith really had in mind?”
    â€œHe may be in cahoots with Matthew Hopkins,” Frank theorized. “Hopkins may be the guy who’s wearing the black hat. He could have called ahead and ordered the locksmith to take care of–oh–for Pete’s sake!”
    â€œWhat’s the matter?”
    â€œI left the cast of the key!”
    â€œThere goes our clue!”
    â€œIf it was a clue, the locksmith will have smashed it by this time,” Frank said.
    Joe nodded. “No use to go back. We might as well concentrate on our next project. Let’s go see the Soho witch collection.”
    They paid their bill and walked down the block, mingling with the throngs who were out for the afternoon. A tout tried to sell the Hardys some black-market money, and quickly moved on when Frank said they were not interested. A sailor, who looked as if he had just jumped ship, followed them and stepped into a pub when he realized that they had noticed him.
    â€œIn Soho, there’s no telling who’s keeping you under surveillance,” Frank noted.
    â€œThat’s a good enough reason to hurry up and get