The Clue of the Broken Blade by Franklin W. Dixon

trail!” he said.
    When they came back to the motel, they found a note under their door, requesting them to come to the office. Frank went.
    The clerk said, “There was a phone call for either Frank or Joe Hardy. The man didn’t tell me who he was, but he’ll call back at eleven o’clock.”
    â€œHow did anyone know we were here?” Frank wondered aloud, mystified.
    â€œI don’t know. He just asked if either of you were registered, and when I told him ‘Yes,’ he gave me the message.”
    â€œThanks,” Frank said and returned to the cabin.
    When he relayed to the others what he had just heard, Joe said thoughtfully, “The man must have called all the motels in the neighborhood, asking if we were registered, until he hit pay dirt. Maybe we’d better move and check in somewhere else under false names.”
    â€œThat’s a good idea,” Frank said. He looked at his watch. “It’s five to eleven. So let’s wait for the call before we leave.”
    The man phoned promptly a few minutes later, Frank answered, but held the receiver so that the others could hear, too.
    A low, obviously disguised male voice said, “Is this one of the Hardy brothers?”
    â€œYes, this is Frank.”
    â€œIf you value your lives, you’ll get out of California before it’s too late!”
    There was a click as the man hung up.
    Joe said ruefully, “Too bad we didn’t have a recorder with us to tape the voice.”
    â€œWe ought to pick up a portable job in case anything like this happens again,” Frank suggested.
    â€œAre any stores open on Sunday?” Chet wanted to know.
    â€œThere’s a big shopping plaza a couple of blocks from the car rental office, and the parking lot was crowded when we went by,” Joe said.
    â€œIt won’t hurt to inquire,” Frank said.
    The boys checked into another motel a few blocks away. They let Chet register under his name, figuring that if the mysterious threatener called motels again, he would ask for the Hardys as he had before, not for Chet Morton.
    Then they left for the shopping plaza. After they bought a pocket-sized tape recorder, they had lunch in a nearby restaurant. Chet suggested that since they were not due at the Steeles’ house until that evening, they had time to check out the third wine storage building.
    Frank grinned. “You’re right on the ball, Chet! I was going to suggest that.”
    They drove across the various bridges to the island once owned by Giovanni Russo, and to the mountainous area at its north end.
    They had no trouble finding Burns Mountain Road. It wound along about a mile before they came to a narrow gravel road leading off to the right. Chet pointed to a wooden sign that read: Carson’s Ski Lodge, 300 Yards.
    Frank parked in front of the building and they all got out. The lodge was at the base of a long slope, which obviously served as a ski run during the winter months. Their eyes followed the cable up the hill, where the lift ended at a low stone building.
    â€œThat must be the wine storage place,” Joe said.
    Frank nodded. “There’s no other building in sight. But why would anyone store wine at the top of a hill?”

    â€œHey, guys!” Chet called out. “Look at this!”
    â€œVineyards might have covered all the slopes at one time,” Chet reasoned. “But what a climb!”
    â€œToo bad the lift isn’t operating now,” Joe said.
    Chet noticed a sign posted on the porch of the lodge and went over to look at it.
    â€œHey, guys! Are we ever in luck!” he called out. “Look at this!”
    Frank and Joe hastened over to read the notice. It said that the lift would be in service the following week. For a dollar people could ride up the mountaintop and enjoy the view.
    â€œBring the whole family on a picnic. Upper lodge will be open!” the sign invited.
    â€œNow there’s