The House on the Cliff (5 page)

“I'm quite sure they wouldn't,” his father averred. “If they're asleep, I'm afraid we'll have to wake them.”

He pulled up in front of the kitchen entrance. Frank was out of the car in an instant, the others followed. He rapped on the door. There was no answer.

“Let's try the front door,” Joe suggested. “Maybe that has a knocker on it.”

The boys walked around to the ocean side of the house. Although they banged loudly with the brass door knocker, there was still no response.

“The Kanes must have gone out,” said Joe.

“But what about Jones? Surely he's here.”

“And too weak to come to the door,” Frank surmised. “But he
could
call out. I can't understand it.”

The brothers returned to the back door and reported to their father. Then, as Joe rapped several more times without response, a sinking feeling came over the brothers.

“I guess Jones recovered fast and has gone,” Joe said dejectedly. “We've goofed.”

“Try the knob. The door may not be locked,” Mr. Hardy ordered. From his tone the boys knew that he shared their fears.

Frank turned the knob and the door swung open. Mr. Hardy felt around for a light switch on the wall.

“We'll go in,” he murmured. “If Jones is here we'll talk to him.”

By this time the detective had found the switch. As the kitchen became flooded with light, the boys gasped, thunderstruck. On their previous visit they had been impressed by the neatness of the room. Now the place looked as though an earthquake had shaken it.

Pots and pans were scattered about the floor. The table was overturned. A chair lay upside down in a corner. Shattered bits of cups and saucers were strewn on the floor.

“What happened?” Frank exclaimed in bewilderment.

“There's been a fight—or a struggle of some kind,” said Mr. Hardy. “Let's see what the rest of the house looks like.”

The boys opened the door to the adjoining living room. Frank snapped on the wall switch. There a horrifying sight met the Hardys' eyes.

Swiftly Frank, Joe, and their father rushed over to Mr. and Mrs. Kane. They had been tied with strong ropes and so well gagged that the couple had been unable to utter a sound. In a minute the Hardys had loosened the bonds and removed the gags.

“Thank goodness!” Mrs. Kane exclaimed with a sigh of relief, stretching her arms.

Her husband, spluttering with rage, rose from his chair and hurled the ropes to one side. “Those scoundrels!” he cried out.

Frank hastily introduced his father, then asked, “What happened?”

For several moments Mr. and Mrs. Kane were too upset to tell their story. But finally the farmer staggered over to the window and pointed down the shore road.

“They went that way!” he roared. “Follow them!”

“Who?”

“Those thugs who tied us up! They took Jones!”

“How long ago did those kidnapers leave?” Frank asked the Kanes quickly.

“About ten minutes,” replied the farmer. “Maybe you can catch them if you hurry!”

“Come on, Dad!” Frank cried. “Let's go after them!”

Mr. Hardy needed no further urging. He and his sons ran out of the house and jumped into the car.

“That's rough stuff,” Joe said to his father as they turned onto the shore road, “barging into a house, tying up the owners, and kidnaping a guy!”

“Yes,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “It looks as though your friend Jones is mixed up in some kind of racket. Those men must have been pretty desperate to risk breaking into an occupied house.”

The boys' father was able to follow the tracks of the car from the tread marks in the dusty road. But soon there were signs that another car had turned onto the shore road from a side lane and the trail became confused.

The Hardys passed the lane that led into the Pollitt place and continued on until they came to a hilltop. Here they could get a clear view of the road winding along the coast for several miles. There was no sign of a car.

“We've lost them, I guess,” said Frank in disappointment, as Mr. Hardy brought the sedan to a stop.

“They had too much of a head start,” Joe remarked. “If only we'd gotten to the farm sooner. Well, we may as well go back.”

Mr. Hardy agreed, turned the car around, and once more the Hardys headed for the farm. On the way they discussed the mysterious kidnaping, and speculated on the identity of those responsible.

“I'll bet those men in the other motorboat saw us rescue Jones, or else they heard somehow that he'd been taken to the farmhouse,” Joe surmised.

“If they are the kidnapers, I wonder what will happen to Jones now,” Frank said gravely. “They tried to kill him once.”

“Maybe they'll just hold him prisoner,” Mr. Hardy stated thoughtfully. “They were probably afraid he'd tell all he knew, and couldn't afford to leave him at the farmhouse.”

When they got back to the Kanes', they found the farmer and his wife somewhat recovered from their harrowing experience. Mrs. Kane was busy straightening up the kitchen.

“We couldn't catch them,” Frank reported sadly.

“Well, those hoodlums had a high-powered car and they weren't wastin' any time. I could see 'em from the window as they went down the lane,” the farmer remarked, frowning angrily at the recollection.

“Please tell us exactly what happened, Mr. Kane,” Joe urged.

“Well, Mabel and I were here in the kitchen,” the man began. “Mabel was washin' the supper dishes when this fellow came to the door. He was a tall chap with a long, thin face.”

“He asked us if we were looking after the man that was almost drowned earlier,” the farmer's wife took up the tale. “When we said we were, the fellow told us that Mr. Jones was his brother and he had come to take him away.”

“I got suspicious,” Mr. Kane broke in. “He didn't look nothin' like Jones. I asked him where he lived.”

“At that,” Mrs. Kane said, “he walked in the house with another fellow right at his heels. They grabbed my husband. Henry put up an awful good fight but he was outnumbered. When I tried to help, a third man appeared from nowhere and held me back.”

“They dragged us into the livin' room, tied us to those chairs, and put the gags in our mouths,” the farmer continued. “Then we heard 'em goin' into Jones's room. Pretty soon they carried him out to a car where a fourth fellow was sittin' at the wheel.”

“Did Jones put up a fight when they took him away?” Frank asked.

“He tried to. He hollered for help, but of course I couldn't do anythin' and he was too weak to struggle much.”

“This whole affair is very peculiar,” Mr. Hardy observed. “Perhaps Jones is mixed up in the smuggling going on around here. But who were those four men, I wonder?”

Mrs. Kane shook her head. “All I know is, we're sure glad you and your sons came out tonight. There's no telling how long we'd have been tied up before somebody found us!”

“We're glad, too, that we got here,” Frank replied.

“You folks say your name's Hardy?” said the farmer. “Any relation to Fenton Hardy?”

“Right here.” The detective smiled.

“Pleasure to know you!” exclaimed Kane heartily, putting out his hand. “If anyone can get to the bottom of this business, you can.”

“I'll certainly try,” the boys' father promised.

The Hardys bade the farmer and his wife good-by. They promised to call again at the Kane farm as soon as they had any further information, and Mr. Kane, in turn, said he would notify them if he found any trace of Jones or his kidnapers.

When they returned home the boys followed their father into his study.

“What do you make of all this, Dad?” Joe asked.

Mr. Hardy sat down at his desk. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair a few moments without speaking.

“I have only one theory,” he said at last. “The kidnapers probably are Snattman's friends. That means you boys may have uncovered the fact that there is a whole gang of smugglers around here.”

The brothers were pleased with their progress. “What do we do next, Dad?” Joe asked eagerly.

“I want to evaluate this case from every angle,” their father replied. “I'll think about it and talk to you later.” With this the boys had to be content for the rest of the week end.

When the brothers came downstairs Monday morning, Mrs. Hardy was putting their breakfast on the table.

In answer to the boys' inquiries, she replied, “Your father went out early this morning in his car. He didn't say when he would return. But your dad didn't take a bag with him, so he'll probably be back today.” Mrs. Hardy was accustomed to her husband's comings and goings at odd hours in connection with his profession and she had learned not to ask questions.

Frank and Joe were disappointed. They had looked forward to resuming a discussion of the case with their father.

“I guess we're left on our own again to try finding out something about those smugglers,” Frank remarked, and Joe agreed.

Later, when they reached Bayport High School, the brothers saw Iola Morton standing on the front steps. With pretty, dark-haired Iola was her best friend Callie Shaw. Callie, a blond, vivacious, brown-eyed girl, was Frank's favorite among all the girls in his class.

“How are the ghost hunters this morning?” she asked with a mischievous smile. “Iola told me about your adventures on Saturday.”

“Chet was really scared,” Iola chimed in. “I think somebody played a good joke on all of you.”

“Well, whoever it was had better return the telescope eyepieces and our motorcycle tools,” Joe said defiantly.

But as the day wore on and none of their class-mates teased them or brought up the subject, the Hardys became convinced that the “ghost” had been serious and not just playing pranks.

“It was no joke,” Joe said to Frank on the way home. “If any of the fellows at school had done it, they'd have been kidding us plenty by now.”

“Right,” Frank agreed. “Joe, do you think the smugglers had anything to do with what happened at the Pollitt place?”

“That's a thought!” exclaimed Joe. “That house on the cliff would be a great hide-out. If the smugglers could make the house appear to be haunted, everyone would stay away.”

“I wish Dad would get home, so we could take up this idea with him,” Frank said thoughtfully.

But Mr. Hardy did not come home that day. He had often been away for varying lengths of time without sending word, but on this occasion, since he had not taken a bag, the boys felt uneasy.

“Let's not worry Mother about this,” Frank said. “But if Dad's not back by Wednesday—at the latest—I think we should do some inquiring. Maybe Pretzel Pete will be able to help us.”

Joe agreed. Wednesday was the start of their summer vacation and they could give full time to trying to locate their father.

On Tuesday afternoon the mystery of Mr. Hardy's absence took a strange turn. Frank and Joe came home from school to find their mother seated in the living room, carefully examining a note that she evidently just had received.

“Come here, boys,” Mrs. Hardy said in an apprehensive tone. “Look at this and tell me what you think.” She handed the note to Frank.

“What is it?” he asked quickly. “Word from Dad?”

“It's supposed to be.”

The boys read the note. It was typed on a torn sheet of paper and the signature looked like Fenton Hardy's. It read:

That was all. There was nothing to indicate where the detective was; nothing to show when the note had been written.

“When did you get this, Mother?” asked Frank.

“It came in the afternoon mail. It was addressed to me, and the envelope had a Bayport postmark.”

“Why are you worried?” Joe asked. “At least we've heard from Dad.”

“But I'm not sure he sent the note.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your father and I have an agreement. Whenever he writes me, he puts a secret sign beneath his signature. Fenton was always afraid that someone would forge his name to a letter or note, and perhaps get papers or information that he shouldn't have.”

Frank picked up the note again. “There's no sign here. Just Dad's signature.”