CHAPTER I

Exciting Invitation

"Wait up, fellows!" a red-nosed Chet Morton whined, barely keeping up with his best friends, the agile Hardy Boys. The lads turned onto High Street toting their booksacks. "I t-thought we were all headed to Piper's Snack Shop to celebrate the start of Winter Session?!"

"Sorry, chum," a grinning Joe Hardy, seventeen, replied, briskly walking ahead of his plump friend. "You know Piper's shut down for the season. But good try."

A gust of wind prompted a disappointed Chet to rub his mittens together. Winter had most assuredly descended upon Bayport, a town of about 50,000 three miles from the Atlantic Ocean.

Joe's older brother, eighteen-year-old, dark-haired Frank, pulled the flaps of his cap down farther as he watched his breath emit into the freezing air. His boots crunched on fresh sidewalk snow.

"Remind me," Frank bemoaned, "Never again to pass up a ride when Callie Shaw offers. Especially in a souped-up Corvette!" Callie, a pretty co-ed in Frank's class, was also his favorite date.

"I did remind you," Joe teased, his eyes glimmering. "Sometimes, brother, your head is too far into the clouds."

"I just haven't been able to think about anything other than what I'm supposed to be getting in the mail," Frank reasoned.

A high school senior, Frank was receiving numerous acceptance letters from colleges. With some of the highest marks in his class, the early acceptance letters were a testament to Frank's work ethic and talent.

As the Hardys and a panting Chet reached the Hardy house on the corner of High and Elm streets, Frank dashed to the mailbox and retrieved a stack of letters and periodicals.

"This is for you," Frank said to Joe, handing him the latest copy of National Geographic. The cover depicted a smiling shepherd overseeing his flock of sheep.

Both of the boys stood by the mailbox, Joe flipping through the rag and Frank quickly filing through the letters.

"Might we do this inside, fellows?" Chet decried, his teeth chattering.

Laughing, Joe rolled up the yellow magazine and slapped Chet playfully on the shoulder. The trio proceeded inside the spacious, three-story, clapboard house.

"Now we're talking," Chet smiled, tossing off the mittens as he warmed up by the parlor fireplace.

Frank and Joe each greeted their mother, Laura Hardy, with a peck on her cheek. She was in the kitchen preparing a roast for supper, joined by her sister-in-law, the angular Gertrude Hardy, whose tough demeanor belied much affection for her nephews.

"What is that masterpiece you're laboring over, Aunt Gertrude?" Frank baited, leaning over her shoulder.

"Why, if you must know, Frank Hardy, this is an apple fritter pie. And if you keep bringing snow and slush into this house you won't have any! That goes for you too, Joe Hardy!" She waved a wooden spoon in his direction.

"Yes, ma'am!" the boys replied in unison.

After the boys dutifully removed their coats and set the table along with Chet's help, who had invited himself to dinner, the three boys and two women sat down at the table.

"When should we expect Dad?" Joe asked after the group said grace.

"He's due to arrive into the airport at ten o'clock," Laura answered. "Now that you are on break, perhaps you two could pick him up?"

"You bet!" Frank responded, scooping a dollop of mashed potatoes onto his plate.

"Maybe we can pick Mr. Hardy up in a Corvette?" Chet deadpanned in between bites of roast and carrots. Frank shot his stout friend a look. Chet winked.

Fenton Hardy, the renowned private detective, had been on an investigation in the exotic Bahamas, at the request of his longtime associate, Admiral Rodgers. Mr. Hardy, Admiral Rodgers, and members of the United States CIA were looking into the exploits of an underworld figure called Largo. He had offered no further information to his sons.

Frank and Joe had developed a knack for solving mysteries themselves. They first struck pay dirt in The Tower Treasure and most recently wound up in Kentucky thwarting a gang of saboteurs in The Mystery of the Spiral Bridge.

"Anything to report in those stack of letters you brought in, Frank?" Aunt Gertrude asked, her eyes narrowed.

"Oh, nothing of importance. Just a few more letters from colleges," Frank answered.

"Well, from where?" Joe asked excitedly.

Frank shrugged. "Just Princeton, Boston College, Columbia, MIT. Maybe Harvard."

"Rejections?" Chet asked with sympathy.

"No, I got in," Frank replied simply, taking a bite off his fork.

Laura let out a surprise gasp as cheers and congratulations abounded from around the table.

"Your father would sure be proud," Aunt Gertrude beamed. The others agreed.

At that moment, the doorbell dinged. Chet, the individual closest to the door, rose to answer it, his napkin tucked inside his polo neck collar, but Joe was already exiting the room.

"Greetings." A Western Union dispatcher stood on the doorstep. He handed an envelope over to Joe.

Joe fished through the tiny pocket of his Levis and handed a couple of dollars over to the man. The dispatcher tipped his cap and disappeared into the darkening December air.

Something about the man struck Joe as odd.

Joe returned to the dining room turning over the 11x17 white envelope in his hands.

"Well?" Aunt Gertrude asked expectantly.

"It's addressed to F. Hardy," Joe said slowly, referencing the typewritten address information on the center of the envelope. "Not sure if that's Dad or you, Frank."

"Where's it from?" Frank asked.

Joe scanned the corner of the envelope. "It's stamped Marshall College," he answered.

"Must be a recruitment letter," Frank said, setting the envelope aside and resuming his dinner.

"Perhaps you should open it now, son," Frank's mother gently suggested. The tone in her voice told Frank he should comply without any questioning.

Frank thumbed open the seal. He removed a page from the envelope, quickly scanning the content.

"What is it?" Chet asked. He had the sense this was the beginning of a new adventure. He wasn't sure yet if he wanted to be a part of it.

"It's a note to Dad!" Frank announced. "'Dear Fenton: Excavation at monastery confirmed. Proceed with appointment. Signed'…" Frank trailed off, stuttering.

"Go on," demanded Aunt Gertrude.

Frank and Joe exchanged the longest of glances before Frank looked back down at the note.

"Who's it from, Frank?" Joe asked breathlessly.

Finally, Frank read the signature aloud. "Dr. Henry W. Jones, Jr. Dean, Marshall College."