The Hidden Harbor Mystery (9 page)

“Who could it be?” Frank asked Grover.

“I don't know, sir,” was the answer. “Nobody knows this place except the family and the servants.”

“Joe, you and I will follow that man!” Frank decided quickly. “Chet, stay out in the passage by this room. Just make sure the fellow doesn't slip back and escape.”

Cautiously Frank pulled back the door, and the three slipped into the dark passageway. Ahead, the footsteps sounded on the brick floor with a regular, hollow ring.

“Knows his way,” Joe murmured as the brothers crept along in pursuit.

Abruptly the sharp heel taps ceased. A moment later came a steady scraping sound.

“He's climbing stairs,” whispered Frank.

Hurrying forward, the young sleuths found that the passage branched into two corridors. One led to a narrow brick stairway.

“Must go to the second story,” Frank deduced. “The other branch probably leads to the kitchen of the house.”

Afraid to turn on their flashes lest they be detected, the boys mounted the steps. A narrow slit of light indicated a door slightly ajar above them. After listening carefully a moment, Frank pushed it lightly, and he and Joe stepped into an empty closet.

At the front of the closet was another door, opened a crack. Warily, the brothers stepped into a lamplit room.

As the young detectives looked curiously around them, a sudden sound on their right caused them to whirl sharply.

The hall door to the room they had entered was just closing. The Hardys heard the metallic click of a key turning, and a lock bar sliding into place.

Fearing trouble, Joe raced to the tunnel entrance. It was locked.

“LOCKED in!” exclaimed Joe, rattling the door handle. “What's the idea?” He and Frank heard the booted footsteps retreating along the hall and down a stairway.

The boys surveyed their little prison. A narrow bed and broad writing table were the extent of the furniture, except for well-stocked bookshelves that covered two walls from floor to ceiling.

“This must be Professor Rand's study,” Frank whispered. He examined the volumes briefly. “They're all on ancient Indian civilizations,” he noted. “And look! Here are some written by Professor Rand.”

“Very interesting,” Joe said wryly. “Right now I'm more interested in getting out of here.”

“Let's try the window,” proposed Frank.

He pulled open two narrow french doors. A gust of cold wind from the sea struck the boys as they stepped onto a railed balcony.

“No ground supports,” Joe noted, leaning out over the rail. “We're too high to jump.”

The brothers looked around from their perch, located on the front face of the mansion. The huge trees were out of reach, as was the roof above them.

Suddenly, below them, the Hardys distinctly heard the sound of a door closing.

“Over there!” Joe pointed toward a tall man's figure. The man paused to jerk a flashlight from his pocket. In the same motion, something white fluttered to the ground. Then the man, carrying a spade, slipped around the corner of the house..

“Must be Professor Rand!” Joe hissed excitedly. “I wish we could get hold of that paper he dropped.”

Frank nodded. “Wonder if he locked us in.”

Just then a swift gust of wind carried the white square upward. It wavered, and spiraled around directly toward the boys!

The Hardys clutched and pawed the air. Maddeningly the paper swooped high, sideslipped, and landed on another little balcony two window widths from their own.

“Too far to jump,” Frank judged. “See if we can bridge it. We must get that paper. I've a hunch it's important!” he declared grimly.

They stepped over the top rail together. As Frank wedged his toes under the bottom rail and grasped the lower sections of two of the sturdy spindles, Joe, facing outward, bent down and took hold of his brother's ankles.

“Ready!” he called.

Frank loosened his foothold but held fast to the spindles as Joe gave a mighty swing, carrying both boys into the air. Joe, finding he could reach the next balcony, hooked his knees over its railing, let go his grip on Frank, and pulled himself up. But just as he stepped to safety, a fresh gust of wind whirled the white paper upward and away.

The paper sailed farther and farther. Finally it disappeared around the corner of the house.

Now, trying the french windows on his own balcony, Joe found them locked securely. The boys groaned and Frank said, “This would have been a swell time to follow the fellow in the raincoat.”

“I'll bet he locked us in,” Joe reasoned. “He left the secret door through the closet open and the light on in the study, to trap us.”

Frank had another theory. “Maybe it
wasn't
Rand whose steps we heard. Someone
else
could've set the trap. The professor might've been here the whole time and never realized what was going on.”

Suddenly, between rushes of wind, a faint whistling came to the boys' ears from the grounds.

Who could that be? the Hardys wondered.

Again the whistling came. Then a white-shirted figure crept cautiously out in front of the house.

“Chet!” called Frank with relief.

“Here I am,” came the reply. “Got tired of waiting in that old passage. What are you two doing up there, anyhow?”

“We're locked out,” Joe told him. “See if you can get into the house and free us.”

The stout boy marched up to the front door, and tried it. “Locked,” he muttered. Almost automatically he stooped and looked under the mat. “Yes. Here we are—a key.”

Inserting it in the lock, Chet opened the heavy door and vanished inside. In two minutes he freed Joe, then Frank. “That was easy,” he said. “Where do we go now?”

“Back outside,” Frank answered. “We have a flying clue to bring down!”

After bolting the room door, the three raced downstairs, locked the front door, replaced the key, and ran around the house. By now the dusk had deepened.

“No flashlights,” said Frank. “We'll have a better chance to see the paper against a dark background.”

Frank turned his gaze upward. “There it is!” he announced.

High in the wisteria covering the wide chimney, fluttered the white square of paper.

“Oh-h,” moaned Chet. “Three of us standing on each other's shoulders couldn't reach that high.”

“No, but if the top man had a stick, he might,” Frank pointed out.

While Chet and Frank kept watch on the unpredictable paper, Joe found a fallen branch.

“You're elected anchor man, Chet,” Joe said, returning. Frank hauled himself up to stand on the stout boy's shoulders. Then Joe hoisted himself up onto his brother's. He clutched the wisteria vine for balance and began to fish upward with the stick.

“Can't ... reach it.” Joe grunted, extending to his utmost length.

“You're stepping on my ear,” warned Frank.

In desperation, Joe took aim and flung his branch upward. With a rustling of leaves, the paper came free. The human ladder collapsed, the Hardys breaking their fall by somersaulting. The trio dashed after the white square, which now sailed toward the back of the house.

Here the wind was not so strong. The paper lost altitude, and Joe, rushing up with a cry of triumph, made a neat two-handed catch.

While Chet held his flashlight, the Hardys examined their find. Two sheets of white paper were stapled together. The one on top appeared to be a carefully hand-drawn map.

“It's the Rand property,” said Frank. “Here's the house, with the pond and swamp behind. But what's this encircled area?” Squinting closer, he read the small printed words which covered the pond and part of the swamp:

“What's on the second page?” Joe asked.

“It's a letter to Professor Rand from State University,” Frank reported, after scanning the document briefly. “It says they have no funds for excavation of the site indicated, without more proof that something of archaeological value exists.”

“So that's
what Rand wants to find!” Joe exclaimed. “An ancient Indian village—not the buried family fortune!”

“Don't be too sure,” Frank cautioned. “He may be trying to kill two birds with one stone. Maybe he wants the money to finance the excavation.”

After tucking the two papers in his pocket, Frank led the way toward the pond. A light moved slowly among the big, moss-hung cypresses of the swamp.

As the boys crept nearer, they spotted the tall figure digging, and stooping to examine each spadeful.

“That must be Professor Rand!” Joe whispered. Impetuously he started forward, but Frank pulled his brother back.

“What's the matter? We've been trying to catch up with Rand for days!” Joe argued.

“It's not the right time,” Frank countered. “He's doing his best to hide his activities, besides dodging us! Do you think we'd learn anything from him at this point?”

“Well, I guess he wouldn't be very friendly,” Joe admitted.

“He'll be more on his guard than ever,” Frank went on. “It would be better to let him think we've given up. But we'll spy on him, starting right now.”

“Still, we can't wait too long,” Joe insisted. “The trial against Bart Worth is getting closer, and we haven't turned up the evidence he needs.”

All this time the boys had been moving forward and presently were in an advantageous position to watch the digger. To their disappointment the man stopped his work almost immediately, swung the shovel over his shoulder, and started back in the direction from which he had come.

“I guess he's through for tonight, and we didn't learn a thing,” Chet complained, sloshing in and out of the mucky swamp.

The digger, familiar with the area, outdistanced them. When the boys reached the Rand house, it was in darkness.

“Let's get back to camp,” Chet begged. “I've had it. Besides, there's food back there.”

The Hardys, feeling they could learn nothing more at the moment, agreed. Next morning found them driving to Larchmont on a new angle.

“Guess Joe and I will have a history lesson at the library,” Frank told Chet, “while you stock up on food.”

They stopped at the town's public library and the Hardys went inside. Chet continued on to shop for food. Soon Frank and Joe were engrossed in a thickly bound stack of yellowed newspapers dating back before the Civil War.

“Plenty of piracy and smuggling going on along this coast just before the war,” Frank observed.

“Yes,” Joe corroborated. “Officials couldn't tell where all the stolen goods and contraband were coming from.”

“The name Blackstone seems to have become more and more prominent in business, social, and civic events,” Frank went on. “Anything else interesting?”

“This paper reports a tremendous hurricane just after the Civil War ended. Nothing to do with our case, I suppose.”

The boys finished their research and left the library. Chet was waiting outside in the convertible.

“Saw Mr. Cutter hanging around the supermarket,” he reported. “Think he saw me but didn't let on.”

“He's so busy keeping tabs on us he doesn't have time for his own business,” Joe stated.

“Why don't
we
trail
him?”

Frank had another idea. “I think now we ought to look for Hidden Harbor—from the air, where we'll have a better view. The Blackstones could have done all the smuggling mentioned in the newspapers by means of such a secret harbor. That would explain their sudden prosperity, and also why Rand and Blackstone, despite their differences, are so hush-hush over everything.”

“You fellows go on,” Chet said. “I'll take this stuff back to camp. What'll you do for a plane?”

“Engage Al West,” Joe answered. “I'll check with the airport.”

The boy made his call from a booth in a store. He learned that the young pilot would be glad to take them up. “Come right over,” Al said.

When Joe left, he spotted Mr. Stewart seated in the adjoining booth! “Did he overhear me?” Joe wondered.

Chet drove the convertible back to camp with the supplies, while Frank and Joe hailed the rather antiquated yellow-and-black town taxi. Soon they were heading along the main road to the airport. Frank watched carefully, but nobody seemed to be following them.

At the airport Al greeted the Hardys affably and invited them to lunch in the airport cafeteria. Afterward, the three boarded Al's trim amphibian. Frank sat beside the pilot, Joe behind him in a comfortable leather seat. After getting clearance from the tower, Al gunned the plane down the runway, eased back on the wheel, and they were air-borne. For some minutes the ship gained altitude. Then, without warning, it lurched violently to portside and nosed down.

Frank was thrown against the pilot, who slammed sideways against the cockpit window.

“What's wrong?” Joe shouted.

“Don't know,” Frank replied, then suddenly he said, “Al's out coldl We'll crash!”

WITH engines roaring, the amphibian was heading toward the ground at a steep angle.

“Good night!” Joe yelled.

Frank sprang into action. He pushed Al back into the seat with his left arm, seized the wheel with his right hand, and pulled back. No response !

Joe reached forward, grasped Al's shoulders, and straightened the limp pilot in his seat. Frank, with both hands on the wheel now, strained to level the faltering plane. Sweat stood out on his forehead as the wooded swamp beneath them seemed to rush upward.