The Wailing Siren Mystery (4 page)

Joe went for the boys' car and drove to Callie's house. From there he walked over the route, now dark, which he thought Frank would have taken, but reached home without finding his brother.

“I'll get a flashlight and look again,” Joe said to himself as he unlocked the front door.

Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude were startled to see Joe and immediately shared his worries.

“We'll all look,” said Mrs. Hardy.

Aunt Gertrude grabbed a hickory cane from the hall closet. “I'll beat the daylights out of anyone who has laid a hand on Frank!” she vowed.

The three hurried from the house and walked slowly along the street to Callie's. Joe led the way, flashing his light from side to side. When they reached the wooded section, Joe bent down. Signs of a struggle were apparent to his trained eyes. Then he saw something that sent a spasm of fear to the pit of his stomach.

There was no doubt now that somebody had ambushed Frank.

Two lines that looked as though they had been made by dragging shoe heels led to the curb. The flashlight revealed oil stains in the street indicating that a car had stood in the lonely spot for some time before being driven off.

Mrs. Hardy began to tremble. “Oh, my boy, my boy!” she said. “How can we find him?”

Aunt Gertrude kept her emotions under control. “We'll go home and get the police busy at once. Joe, you run ahead and phone them.”

The boy reached the Hardy house just as a tall, distinguished-looking man was striding up the front walk. In one hand he carried a traveling bag, in the other a bulging briefcase.

“Dad!”

Mr. Hardy turned to greet his son. His keen dark eyes caught the look of alarm in Joe's face.

“Dad, we're afraid Frank's been kidnapped!”

“Easy, son. Come inside and give me all the facts.”

Joe was telling his father of the recent mysterious happenings when his mother and aunt came hurrying into the living room. Greetings were brief and Mrs. Hardy became calmer now that her husband was home. Joe continued his story. The detective paced the floor as he listened, while Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude sat by, their faces reflecting their anxiety.

As Joe finished, there was a rap on the door. In rushed Chet and Iola.

“Where's Frank?” Iola cried. “I just couldn't watch the game any longer. We phoned Callie. I ... ”

The telephone rang. Mr. Hardy picked it up.

“Hello. Fenton Hardy speaking.”

“This is Rainy Night. We have your son, Hardy,” a man's steely voice came over the wire. “Send us ten thousand dollars in fifty-dollar bills if you want him back alive.”

Though alarmed, the detective's jaw tensed with anger. His voice was razor-sharp as he answered, “Whoever you are, I want to remind you that there's a law against kidnapping.”

“Keep the police out of this,” came the cool reply.

“Release that boy immediately,” Mr. Hardy said as everybody in the room stood electrified.

“Not till you pay!”

Mr. Hardy, though exasperated, was worried. His bluff had not worked. “Where shall we pay you the money?”

“You'll know in the morning. Have the cash ready by eight-thirty.” The receiver clicked.

Then Mr. Hardy told his wife and son that the man on the wire had demanded a ransom for the delivery of Frank.

“Don't any of you mention this until I give the word,” Mr. Hardy warned. ”It may mean Frank's life if we're not careful.”

In trembling anxiety Chet and Iola went home, pledged to keep the secret. Then Joe telephoned to Callie, telling her not to worry, and saying he would pick up his car in the morning.

Sleep came fitfully to all in the Hardy household. In the morning they showed the strain of a night of anguish.

While they were listlessly eating breakfast, the doorbell rang. It was exactly eight o'clock. Joe rushed to answer. An expressman stood on the porch, holding a cage partially wrapped in burlap and containing two pigeons.

“Who sent these?” Joe asked in surprise.

The man glanced at the label. “Gemini Bird's his name.”

“What a phony!” Joe exclaimed. “That means twin bird!”

Joe signed for the birds and carried the cage into the living room. The other Hardys rushed from the dining room.

“What in creation!” Aunt Gertrude exclaimed.

Mrs. Hardy looked at her husband for an explanation. “So this is the way the ransom money is to be delivered,” the detective said.

Joe looked at the pigeons' legs. “They're not banded,” he remarked. “Homing pigeons are usually numbered, aren't they, Dad?”

“Yes. A very clever person is behind this move,” Mr. Hardy said grimly. “These pigeons will fly straight to the culprits who kidnapped Frank, and we'll never find out who they are. But,” the detective added with set jaw, “I'll find a way to trap them!”

 

 

 

CONSCIOUSNESS rushed back into Frank's brain. He was aware of a distant bell tolling eight o'clock. Was it morning or evening? He could see nothing because of the blindfold fastened tightly around his head.

The boy's ankles were tied, his wrists bound behind him, and the gag still was in his mouth. Now memory returned. After he had been attacked and thrown into the car, a gruff voice had said:

“Easy now. This kid's worth ten grand.” A long ride had followed. The car had stopped and the boy had been carried into a house.

The last words he had heard were, “That should hold him over!” A needle had punctured his arm. Then he had blacked out.

How long he had lain in the darkness Frank did not know. His whole body ached from the tight cords with which his wrists and ankles were bound. What day was it? he wondered.

With every ounce of effort, Frank rolled over and over on the earthen floor until he hit a wall. Rubbing his head against it, he was able to slip off the blindfold. By the daylight coming through a dirty window high above him, Frank realized he was in a cellar.

On the floor near him lay a piece of broken pipe. Frank wriggled across the dirty cellar floor. After a great deal of painful maneuvering he was able to bring his wrist bonds in contact with the jagged edge of the broken drainpipe.

The pipe rolled away, and the boy had to wedge it between the floor and the wall before he could saw the rope back and forth across the rusty edge of the pipe. The effort was painful and exhausting. But at last the rope parted and his hands were free. Quickly he loosened his gag and untied the rope that bound his ankles. He rose and walked around to stretch his cramped muscles.

The house was silent. Were the thugs upstairs, ready to deal with him further?

There was no door leading to the outside, so Frank noiselessly lifted the window, fastening it with a rusty hook. He sprang upward, at the same time thrusting his head out the window and putting his weight on his elbows. Nobody was in sight.

Digging his toes against the side of the cellar wall, Frank cautiously wormed his way through the low window. Weather-beaten shutters hung grotesquely from what obviously was a farmhouse, and the front door stood open on a broken hinge. The place seemed to be deserted.

Frank looked around and tried to get his bearings. To the north was a wooded mountain with a dip in the peak. Recognizing the mountaintop formation, he decided that the farm must be located on the same road off which they had found Chet's abandoned truck—only farther from town.

“Those birds must know this territory well,” he thought.

Remembering another farmhouse a mile or so in the direction of Black Horse Pike, Frank set off. He was faint from hunger and the drug, but he kept on. As he plodded up the lane, the farmer's wife saw him coming and opened the door. She surveyed the disheveled boy skeptically.

“May I use your telephone?” he asked. “I'm Frank Hardy, and I want to call Bayport.”

On hearing the name Hardy, the woman readily consented. Frank put his call through. As he waited, he noticed that the hands on a mantel clock stood at eight twenty-five.

Mr. Hardy answered. “Frank? ... Is this you? ... Hold the wire a second.” His voice boomed into the distance, “Don't let that pigeon go!”

Frank was perplexed. He could hear sounds of the detective returning to the telephone.

“Are you all right, Frank?” Mr. Hardy asked.

“I'm fine, Dad,” Frank replied. “I got away. Will you pick me up on Black Horse Pike? I'll walk there. I'm calling from a farm on the North Woods road.”

Joe was listening, too. “We'll burn up the tires!” he shouted.

Frank hung up, thanked the woman, and paid her for the call. She insisted that he sit down in the kitchen and have some rolls and milk, which he accepted gratefully. His feeling of weakness and dizziness was rapidly disappearing.

“Is that old farmhouse down the road deserted?” he asked, pointing in the direction where he had spent the night.

“Yes, 'tis,” she replied. “The old folks passed away and nobody wants the place.”

“Anybody been using it since they left?” Frank asked casually.

The woman laughed. “That tumble-down place? Who'd want to stay there?”

“Tramps might—or somebody looking for a hideout.”

The farm woman bristled. “Young man, we don't tolerate no folks like that in this peace-abiding neighborhood!”

Frank could have pointed out the error in her contention, but he said nothing. Thanking her for her hospitality, he departed. He walked down the dirt road to Black Horse Pike, where he sat down and waited to be picked up.

When Mr. Hardy and Joe arrived in the detective's car, there was an enthusiastic exchange of greetings, then a quick ride back to the Hardy home. On the way, Frank was told about the ransom demand and the crate of pigeons that had arrived that morning.

“I was just going to release one of the pigeons when you phoned,” Mr. Hardy said.

The boys' mother and Aunt Gertrude were overjoyed to see Frank safely home once more. They listened spellbound as he related all that had happened.

“I wonder why they left you unguarded,” Joe said.

“They probably thought the hypo would make me sleep longer than I did.”

“Those men may return again,” Mr. Hardy remarked. “We'll notify the police to post a guard at the old farmhouse.” He reached for the telephone.

“And a guard for this house, too,” Aunt Gertrude demanded.

It was midday when they received a return call from the police saying that the deserted house had been watched constantly but that nobody had come there yet.

“Dad,” said Frank, “what would you think of our releasing one of the pigeons and following it to the kidnappers' hideout?”

“You must have been reading my mind, son. Call the airport and charter a plane. Joe, you get our binoculars.”

The detective and his sons set off for the airport with one of the pigeons in the cage. They were greeted at the Ace Air Service by a young pilot named Jack Wayne.

“Where would you like me to take you?” he asked genially.

“That depends upon this pigeon,” Mr. Hardy answered, and quickly explained their plan.

“I've chased the enemy many a time.” The pilot laughed. “But this is my first time chasing a bird!”

“We'll let the pigeon out at a thousand feet,” Mr. Hardy said.

When they reached that altitude, Joe released the bird. It flew away from the plane and began circling to orient itself.

The pilot kept right behind the bird, flying the craft round and round in ever-widening circles.

Joe kept his binoculars trained on the pigeon. Finally the bird got its beam and flew straight toward the south.

After an hour of steady flying, the pilot turned to Mr. Hardy. “How far do you want to follow it, sir?”

“Until your fuel's low.”

The detective and his sons conferred on the situation. There was no telling how far the pigeon would fly. The fuel supply of the plane might be exhausted long before the bird alighted.

“One thing is certain,” Frank said. “The thugs who kidnapped me have pals in some other part of the country.”

Twenty minutes later the pilot said he would have to return to the airport because someone else had chartered a flight.

After they had returned to Bayport and paid the pilot, the Hardys drove home, disappointed that their mission had been fruitless.

“Dad, what is this new case you are working on in Washington?” Joe asked presently. “Can you let us in on it?”