The Missing Chums by Franklin W. Dixon

hurried downstairs. As the gentle knocking began again, Frank switched on the porch light. Joe swung open the front door. Before them stood a tall, thin, worried-looking man.
    â€œMr. French!” cried Joe in surprise.
    The costume dealer’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. “You—you’re not—you’re here!” he stammered incoherently.
    â€œYes, of course, we are,” Frank responded. “Why are you so surprised to see us?”
    â€œWhy—ah—I’m terribly sorry, boys!” Mr. French looked nervously over his shoulder. “I—I see I’ve come to the wrong street—looking for High Avenue, and this must be High Street. So sorry! Good night!”
    The tall man hurried down the steps to a car at the curb and drove away.
    Joe turned to his brother. “There isn’t any High Avenue in Bayport. Mr. French must know that. He’s been in business here for years.”
    As Frank closed the door, they heard footsteps at the top of the stairs and their mother’s voice asked softly, “What is it, Gertrude?”
    â€œBurglars!” hissed their aunt. “I heard them talking.” She called down in a loud but shaky voice, “The police are coming! Go or I’ll call my nephews! Frank! Joe!”
    â€œWe’re down here, Auntie!” Frank informed her, stifling a laugh. “There are no burglars.”
    After a second’s pause there came a weak “Well!” followed by “Humph! I might have known!”
    â€œWhat’s the matter, boys?” Mrs. Hardy asked.
    â€œSomeone here who said he had the wrong street,” Joe told her, and switched off the porch light.
    The next morning the boys ate an early breakfast. Afterward, Frank suggested, “Let’s try all the appliance stores to see if Sutton did buy the Super-X radio. We can see Mr. French later.”
    Joe agreed and they set off. They went from shop to shop, but the story was always the same: The merchants did not stock the Yokohama Super-X radio—it was too costly to sell many sets. At last, however, a young clerk in a hi-fi equipment store said, “Yes, we have them. I’ll be glad to show you one.”
    â€œWe’re not here to buy,” Frank said. “We just want to know if you’ve sold any recently.”
    â€œNo,” the disappointed clerk admitted. “We don’t sell many. We thought we would—despite the high price—because the Super-X transistor has so many extra features—FM, short wave—name it!”
    â€œWhere do you get them?” Joe asked.
    â€œWe import directly from the Yokohama Radio Company’s distributors in Japan. The radios come in by ship and are unloaded on the Bayport docks.”
    â€œHave you missed any from your stock lately?” Frank queried.
    The clerk looked surprised, but answered readily, “No, but we were short one crate on the last shipment. My boss wrote to the distributor in Japan about it, but there hasn’t been time for a reply yet.”
    The boys thanked the youth and returned to the street. They wondered about the clerk’s remarks concerning the foreign-made radios.
    â€œIf Sutton bought the radio, he didn’t buy it in Bayport,” Joe declared.
    Frank said, “He may have stolen the whole crate that was supposed to go to the hi-fi store. Let’s cycle out to Shantytown. Maybe we can learn more about Sutton.”
    The brothers hurried home and put on their beachcomber clothes. Then they hopped onto their motorcycles and sped along Shore Road. They hid their cycles in a grove of short, scrubby pines near the squatter colony.
    â€œWe’d better walk the rest of the way,” Joe said, “and act as casual as possible.”
    Frank and Joe entered the camp cautiously. It was noontime and pale smoke rose from a few cooking fires near the water. The village was nearly deserted and the boys judged that Sutton’s