The Hidden Harbor Mystery Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER I - The Libel Suit

  CHAPTER II - A Vanishing Victim

  CHAPTER III - Water Monster

  CHAPTER IV - Skin-Diving Sleuths

  CHAPTER V - Marooned!

  CHAPTER VI - Signal Fire

  CHAPTER VII - Amusement Park Trouble

  CHAPTER VIII - Campfire Eavesdropper

  CHAPTER IX - Fishing Boat Clue

  CHAPTER X - Hidden Passageway

  CHAPTER XI - Acrobatic Detectives

  CHAPTER XII - Alligator!

  CHAPTER XIII - Hurricane

  CHAPTER XIV - A Revealing Argument

  CHAPTER XV - Sea City Hoax

  CHAPTER XVI - Enemy Tactics

  CHAPTER XVII - Underwater Prison

  CHAPTER XVIII - Dangerous Cargo

  CHAPTER XIX - Sinister Absence

  CHAPTER XX - Feud’s End

  Joe gave a mighty swing, carrying both boys into the air

  Copyright © 1990, 1962, 1935 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights

  reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam &

  Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

  THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-07628-6

  2008 Printing

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  CHAPTER I

  The Libel Suit

  “Wow! That fellow sure was in a hurry to get past us!” exclaimed Joe Hardy, who had been pushed against the railing of the cruise ship’s gangplank.

  “Practically knocked us overboard!” agreed his brother Frank.

  The two boys, descending the gangplank from the brightly lighted deck, looked curiously after the young man who had shoved them aside.

  Joe, fair-haired and seventeen, and dark-haired Frank, a year older, heard the stranger cry out to a deck attendant:

  “I tell you, I must come aboard!”

  “Sorry, sir,” was the firm answer. “It’s past midnight. We sail at dawn. No more visitors.”

  The Hardys continued down to the pier. Suddenly they stopped and whirled. The visitor was saying excitedly, “I must see Mr. Hardy before he sails!”

  “Maybe it’s about a mystery,” Frank remarked.

  The brothers had just said good-by to their parents, the well-known detective, Fenton Hardy, and his wife Laura, who were leaving from New York City on a Caribbean cruise. Mr. Hardy was making a combination business and pleasure trip, since he planned to see a client in Jamaica.

  While Frank and Joe listened intently to the conversation on deck, a powerfully built man came from behind a stack of baggage and sauntered to the foot of the gangway. The Hardys’ attention was attracted by the man’s heavy, wheezy breathing and his flat face turned upward to the deck.

  “All right, all right. I give up,” came the dejected voice of the stranger above. As he came down the gangplank, the rough-looking man gave him a swift glance, then shuffled off quickly.

  By now the young man had reached the pier. He was slim in build, with reddish-brown hair. Nervously he kept slapping his palm with a rolled-up newspaper, as if in utter frustration.

  “Excuse me,” said Frank, stepping in front of him. “We heard you mention Fenton Hardy. We’re his sons, Frank and Joe.”

  “You are?” The man’s eyes brightened. He had a soft, slow way of speaking that marked him as a Southerner.

  “I just about knocked myself out, trying to speak to your father,” he continued. “I have a case he must handle!”

  “He won’t be back for ten days,” said Frank.

  “I know.” The young fellow sighed. “I called your home in Bayport. A Miss Hardy there told me about the cruise but begged me not to pester your father!”

  “That’s Aunt Gertrude.” Joe chuckled.

  “I rushed here to New York, thinking I might at least talk to him for an hour,” the man went on. “You see, I’ve read in the newspapers of Mr. Hardy’s great successes—”

  The stranger paused, apparently suddenly recalling something.

  “I’ve also read,” he continued, “that his sons often help him out, and that they have solved some tough cases on their own. How about it? Would you all be willing to help me?”

  “We’d like to. But,” Joe replied doubtfully, “we’ve promised to go camping soon with a buddy.”

  “Let’s hear your case, anyway,” Frank suggested eagerly. “Maybe we can take it, Mr.—”

  “I’m Bart Worth,” the man said, his face showing relief. He looked about him.

  “Is there a place near here where we can eat and talk?” he asked. “I was in such a hurry to catch your dad before he sailed I didn’t have time for my supper.”

  “Sure. We’ll listen while you eat,” Joe said.

  The Hardys led Mr. Worth up a side street. They stopped at a wide, steamy window bearing the lettering:CHARLIE’S CLAM HOUSE

  “I hear the food’s good,” Joe remarked, and the trio entered the restaurant.

  It was a typical waterfront eating place, with sawdust on the floor. The place was crowded with diners, despite the late hour. In one corner sat a group of well-dressed people who, like the Hardys, had just left a farewell party on board the liner. But most of the customers were rough-looking men of the waterfront district. The noise of lively conversations and the odor of frying fish filled the air.

  Frank, Joe, and Bart Worth seated themselves at a plain wooden table in the middle of the room. As soon as the waiter had taken a dinner order for Mr. Worth and sandwiches for the Hardys, the Southerner began his story.

  “I’m owner, publisher, and editor of the Larchmont Record. You all probably never heard of us, but it’s the only newspaper in the town of Larchmont, Georgia, on the Atlantic coast. Pretty soon there won’t be any Record, though, if a certain man named Samuel Blackstone has his way!”

  “How so?” Joe queried, as he and Frank leaned forward, deeply interested.

  “Mr. Blackstone’s suing me for libel,” Worth answered. “He”s about the wealthiest businessman in Larchmont—the leading citizen.“

  “So his influence is considerable?” Frank prompted.

  “You might say he about runs the town,” admitted Bart Worth. “Besides, he’s trying to ruin me and my newspaper.”

  “Why? Does Mr. Blackstone have a grudge against you?” Joe asked.

  “I’ll tell you more about Blackstone first,” said the editor. “He lives on a large estate which is only half the original Blackstone property. Professor Ruel Rand, another Blackstone descendant, lives on the other half in the old family mansion. Clement Blackstone, the great-grandfather of both men, started the whole trouble. In his will, he divided the plantation between his son Benjamin and his daughter Blanche, who married a Rand. The difficulty began with the boundary line he set up.”

  Using a paper napkin, Bart Worth made a quick sketch.

  “The only landmark mentioned in the will to indicate the property line was ‘the great oak beside the big pond,’ ” the newspaperman pointed out. “Unfortunately there were two great oaks—one on either side of the pond.”

  “So both heirs claimed the pond!” Joe deduced.

  “You’ve hit it exactly. The heirs bickered and feuded and went to court for years, but nothing was ever settled. Finally, in the time of Samuel Blackstone’s grandfather, they gave up the dispute. Nobody in the family was interested in the pond any more. The Blackstones went into business and made money, and the Rands—well, they’ve been going downhill financially ever since.
The old plantation house is pretty run-down now, although I guess Professor Rand doesn’t mind it, being a bachelor.”

  “What about the libel suit, Mr. Worth?” Frank asked, intrigued.

  “Well, a few weeks ago, I heard a rumor that Professor Rand had become interested in the disputed property all of a sudden, and that the old feud was on again!”

  “You couldn’t print a rumor, of course,” Frank observed.

  “No,” the editor agreed, “but I went to the courthouse, where I learned that Rand had come in to examine old Clement’s will. Then Jenny Shringle came to see me. Jenny’s a seamstress, who worked many years for the Blackstones. Samuel’s wife, who had been very fond of her, died about two years ago. Recently Jenny was discharged. Just before that, she told me she had personally overheard a quarrel between Blackstone and Professor Rand over the pond. Well, I acted very cautiously. I simply wrote a story that there was a rumor circulating—nothing more. That was a true fact, you see.”

  “And it’s not libelous,” Frank commented. “So you shouldn’t have any problem there.”

  “That’s not all,” said the editor with increasing agitation. “When the story appeared in the Record it mentioned another rumor—a rumor that the Blackstone family fortune had been built on smuggling, and receiving stolen goods from pirates!”

  “You didn’t put that in?” Frank asked quickly.

  “I certainly didn‘t!” Bart Worth exclaimed. “I wrote the original story myself. Everyone on my staff denies changing it. This pirate rumor has been common talk around Larchmont for years. Now that it’s been printed in my paper, though, Blackstone is suing. He’s touchy and proud—vain of his family’s position. My only chance is to prove that the pirate rumor is true, which I honestly believe it is. If you fellows can’t help me do that, I’ll lose my newspaper!”

  “Why not just apologize?” Frank asked. “Can’t you explain things to Mr. Blackstone?”

  The editor shook his head. “No. I’ve opposed his views and policies in the past in my paper, which has infuriated him. Now he has a motive for destroying it. Besides”—here the young man looked up with fire in his eyes—“Samuel Blackstone has called me a liar. I don’t take that from anyone without a fight! And if he succeeds in ruining the Record, he’ll have Larchmont completely bullied.”

  Just then the waiter arrived with the food. While the editor went to wash his hands, Joe sounded his brother out:

  “What do you think? Shall we take the case?”

  “I don’t like it,” Frank answered thoughtfully. “After all, this apparent libel was printed in Worth’s paper. His claim that he doesn’t know how it got there seems pretty weak. An editor should know what comes off his press.”

  “You don’t trust him?”

  “I think we should know more about this business before we commit ourselves, that’s all,” Frank declared.

  Suddenly a huge hand and burly forearm stretched across the Hardys’ table. “How about the ketchup?” demanded a rasping voice from the next table just behind Joe.

  For the second time that night the boys heard heavy, wheezing breathing. They looked up and saw that the hand belonged to the husky man they had noticed near the gangplank.

  “Sure. Help yourself,” Joe said.

  The stranger grunted and took the bottle.

  A few moments later the young editor returned, and the three began to eat. Later, as they left the restaurant, Worth asked, “Well, will you take my case?”

  He and the boys stood together on the sidewalk in front of the lighted window. A few customers, including the powerfully built man, came out the door and then disappeared down the dark street.

  “Someone in there is hurt!” Frank exclaimed

  “We’ll have to think about it, Mr. Worth,” Frank answered, “and let you know.”

  Immediately the Southerner’s face registered his disappointment. “I’m sorry,” he said a little stiffly. “I had hoped at least that Mr. Hardy would give me some advice. Since I couldn’t reach him, I thought you’d help me. However, here is my New York address.” He wrote it on a piece of paper from a pocket notebook.

  Then he said good night and walked away briskly. The Hardys started off in the opposite direction.

  Huge warehouses lined the street on both sides. A single street light burned dimly on a distant corner. Suddenly, as the brothers came abreast of a dark doorway, a hoarse groan from inside reached their ears.

  “Someone in there is hurt!” Frank exclaimed.

  The boys stepped cautiously into the building. No sooner had they entered than the door slammed abruptly behind them. Four strong arms seized the Hardys, and rough palms were clapped over their mouths. The boys heard heavy, wheezy breathing.

  “I’ll teach you to mind your own business!” a threatening voice rasped.

  Then came two quick, hard blows. Frank and Joe had been struck on the head. They slumped, unconscious, to the floor!

  CHAPTER II

  A Vanishing Victim

  JoE was first to revive in the pitch-black warehouse. He listened tensely for the wheezy breathing of one of their attackers. Hearing nothing, Joe groped for his brother and shook him slightly.

  “Joe ... you all right?” Frank stammered, still groggy.

  “Sure. We were decoyed in here by that groan and then knocked out. Remember?”

  “Of all the greenhorns!” Frank murmured in disgust. “Caught by a trick like that!”

  Joe rubbed his head gingerly. “At least it didn’t leave a lump,” he reported. “The fellows were experts. And did you hear that rasping breathing? Sounded like the tough guy we saw at the pier and in the clam house. He must have overheard Bart Worth talking to us, and tried to scare us off the case. But why?”

  “Don’t know. He picked the best way there is to encourage us,” Frank retorted grimly. “We’ll make that gorilla and his pal sorry they ever tangled with the Hardy brothers!”

  This was no empty threat. Since solving their first mystery, The Tower Treasure, the brothers had built up a solid reputation as detectives by their shrewd sleuthing and resourcefulness in the face of danger. A recent case, The Mark on the Door, was their thirteenth successful adventure.

  The boys picked themselves up, and made their way from the warehouse into the street. Luckily, an all-night cruising taxicab came by in a few minutes, and took them to their hotel.

  Ten o‘clock the next morning found Frank at the room telephone. “We’ve decided to accept your case, Mr. Worth,” he told the editor. “We’ll start by car for Larchmont early tomorrow, and probably arrive in two days.”

  “Fine! And thanks. I’m flying back tomorrow. Come to my office when you get there.”

  Next, Frank called the telegraph office and dictated a cable to Fenton Hardy in Jamaica:STARTING NEW CASE TOMORROW FOR MR. BART WORTH, LARCHMONT, GEORGIA

  Joe now took over the phone and dialed the Bayport number of their plump, good-natured friend, Chet Morton. His cheerful voice answered. “Ready to go camping, now that your mother and dad have left?” he asked.

  “Sure thing, Chet,” Joe replied heartily. “Only, instead of Maine, we’re going to the coast of Georgia. How’s that sound?”

  Several seconds of silence followed. Then came a suspicious query, “How come the switch?”

  “A little business matter turned up.”

  “Business matter!” exploded Chet. “You don’t fool me. Another mystery is what you mean. Another crazy, dangerous wild-goose chase that you’re trying to drag poor ole Chet into!”

  Chet Morton always insisted he hated danger, though he had shared most of the Hardy boys’ hair-raising adventures.

  “Then we can count you out?” asked Joe with a smile.

  “Well ...” came the grudging answer. “I’ve never been to Georgia. I could lie on the beach and leave you two to your narrow escapes.”

  “We’ll pick you up at dawn tomorrow.”

  After a late breakfast in the hotel cafeteria, Frank and Joe,
eager to start their sleuthing, took a train to Bayport. As soon as they reached home, the boys kissed their tall, angular aunt, then told her the plans. Aunt Gertrude, at times sharp-tongued and peppery despite her pride in her nephews, gave her opinion of the whole expedition.

  “Foolishness,” she declared. “It’ll end in trouble, you mark me. And then Fenton will have to rush away from the Caribbean to help you. My poor brother!”

  “Oh, Auntie! You know Dad wouldn’t want us to turn down a challenging case!” Joe said.

  “Humph! I guess not. Well, you’d better have a good meal, anyway. And maybe you’d like to invite Chet.”

  This was done, and it was decided that Chet and his gear would spend the night at the Hardys’ because of the early start. Then Frank backed the boys’ powerful yellow convertible into the driveway. He and Joe packed sleeping bags, tents, cooking equipment, spare clothing, and the Hardys’ skin-diving equipment into it.

  Aunt Gertrude prepared one of her delicious dinners. Chet, as usual, had second helpings of everything.

  “You’d better know,” Miss Hardy told them later, “that there was a big, tough-looking man hanging around here this afternoon before you boys returned. He even came up our driveway. I called out to see what he wanted. Apparently that scared him away.”

  “For good, I hope,” Frank said. The same thought occurred to him and Joe. Had their hoarse-voiced attacker preceded them to Bayport? The boys changed the subject, however, not wanting to worry Aunt Gertrude unnecessarily.

  Just at dawn the next morning, after breakfast and good-bys to Miss Hardy, the yellow convertible, with Frank, Chet, and Joe in the front seat, purred through the quiet Bayport streets. Soon it entered the superhighway heading north.

  “Now,” said Frank, who was driving, “if anybody’s watching us, he’ll think we’re still going to Maine!”

  “I wish we were,” declared Chet. The brothers had given him the details of their new case.

  About ten miles farther, however, Frank sent the car down an exit ramp, passed underneath the thruway, and entered the highway on the other side. Now they were bound for Georgia!