The Ghost at Skeleton Rock

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER I - A Puzzling Message

  CHAPTER II - The Suspicious Trailer

  CHAPTER III - The Hijacked Dummy

  CHAPTER IV - A Double Burglary

  CHAPTER V - A Startling Discovery

  CHAPTER VI - Musical Password

  CHAPTER VII - Twin Clues

  CHAPTER VIII - Spanish Code

  CHAPTER IX - The Ticking Suitcase

  CHAPTER X - Cross Fire

  CHAPTER XI - Warehouse Marauders

  CHAPTER XII - The Tattooed Prisoner

  CHAPTER XIII - Pursuit at El Morro

  CHAPTER XIV - The Unseen Enemy

  CHAPTER XV - Atomic Cargo

  CHAPTER XVI - Island of Danger

  CHAPTER XVII - Voodoo Vengeance

  CHAPTER XVIII - A Weird Vision

  CHAPTER XIX - Skeleton Rock

  CHAPTER XX - The Ghost’s Secret

  THE GHOST AT SKELETON ROCK

  A cryptic message from their famous detective father and a note secreted in a ventriloquist’s dummy lead Frank and Joe Hardy on a dangerous search to the tropical islands in the Caribbean.

  There the teen-age detectives are constantly beset by vicious henchmen of a criminal mastermind. Danger stalks the boys’ every move, once in an isolated sugar mill, another time in a shark-infested sea. To add to their hazards, one of the young henchmen closely resembles Joe and fiendishly makes use of this strange coincidence. Through their resourcefulness and deductive reasoning, the brother sleuths ingeniously fit together the pieces of the baffling puzzle.

  The climax of this exciting mystery, when Frank and Joe come face to face with the ghost at Skeleton Rock, will be as much of a surprise to the reader as it was to the young detectives themselves.

  The boys’ last ounce of strength was ebbing fast

  Copyright © 1994, 1966, 1957 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 : 978-1-101-07651-4

  2008 Printing

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  CHAPTER I

  A Puzzling Message

  “LET’S see if you can get us down in one piece, Frank!” Blond, seventeen-year-old Joe Hardy leaned forward in the airplane as his brother circled in for a landing at the Bayport airfield.

  “Don’t worry, Joe. If we crack up the first time, I’ll try again,” the dark-haired boy quipped. Frank, who was a year older than Joe, grinned as he eased the craft downward in a graceful turn.

  A third occupant of the plane, the regular pilot, smiled and said, “You’re doing fine, Frank.” Jack Wayne, lean-faced and tanned, was Mr. Hardy’s pilot on all his chartered flights. Today Jack was teaching the boys how to fly the six-place, single-engine plane which their father had purchased recently.

  “There’s a gusty wind, so come in at a slightly higher airspeed,” Jack reminded his pupil.

  Frank’s pulse quickened as he lined up on the runway and reduced power. The beautiful blue-and-white craft descended in a normal glide.

  The landing strip and parked planes below seemed to rush up at them, the details growing larger as Frank headed toward the ground.

  “Watch out for those telephone lines!” Joe cried out.

  The wires loomed squarely in front of the plane’s nose. If Frank had judged his glide angle correctly, the wires should be dropping below his field of vision. Instead, they seemed to be coming straight at the plane!

  Frank gulped with panic. Would they crash? Trying hard to keep cool, he eased back on the wheel. With barely a split second to go, the ship nosed upward and cleared the wires!

  Moments later, the plane’s wheels touched down in a perfect landing and the craft rolled to a stop. Frank climbed out after the others, feeling a bit weak.

  “Quick thinking, boy!” Joe slapped his brother on the back. “Only next time, please don’t shave it so close!”

  Frank heaved a sigh. “I didn’t think—I just acted! How come you didn’t take over, Jack?”

  “I figured you’d do the right thing”—the pilot chuckled—“and you did!” Suddenly his face clouded and he snapped his fingers. “I clean forgot to tell you!”

  “What?” the boys chorused.

  “A message your father gave me just before I took off from San Juan.” Early that morning Jack had returned after flying Mr. Hardy to Puerto Rico the previous day on a top-secret case. “Sorry. Giving flying lessons must make me absent-minded.” He handed the boys a piece of paper.

  “‘Find Hugo purple turban,’ ” Frank and Joe read aloud. They stared at the paper, completely baffled by the cryptic message.

  Jack went on to explain that Mr. Hardy had quickly jotted down the strange words, then handed the paper to him. “He did say,” Jack added, “that he couldn’t give any more details right then. He’d spotted a man he wanted to shadow.”

  The boys racked their brains for a moment in silence. Neither could think of anyone in Bayport named Hugo.

  “Oh, well,” Frank said, smiling, “we’ll try to figure it out later. Thanks for the flying lesson, Jack.”

  After arranging for their next flight, the boys went to the parking lot, where they had left their convertible.

  “I’ll drive,” said Frank. In a few minutes the boys were headed toward their pleasant, tree-shaded home at Elm and High streets.

  The dazzling June sun shone down on them as they talked over the odd message Jack had relayed.

  “We’ll have to twirl our brains for this one,” Joe commented as they pulled into the Hardys’ gravel driveway. “I wonder who Hugo is. Someone in Bayport, maybe?”

  “Let’s try the phone book,” Frank suggested. “Hugo could be someone’s last name.”

  As the boys strode in through the kitchen door, their mother was trimming the crust on an apple pie. Each son gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then Frank said, “We’re trying to figure out a code message from Dad. Have you any idea who ‘Hugo purple turban’ might be?”

  Mrs. Hardy, slim and pretty, shook her head as she slid the pie into the oven. “Not the faintest, but it sounds like the start of another interesting case.”

  Her husband, Fenton Hardy, had been a crack detective for years in the New York City Police Department. Later, when he retired and moved to the coastal town of Bayport, Mr. Hardy had become internationally famous as a private investigator. His two sons had skillfully assisted him on many of his cases.

  Frank, intrigued by his father’s newest assignment, hurried to the telephone book, Joe at his heels, and leafed through the pages of names beginning with H.

  “Let’s see now.” Frank moistened his finger. “Hugo ... Hugo ... Here we are! Just three of them,” he added after a moment. “It should be simple to find the right man.”

  Joe dialed the first number. The quavering, high-pitched voice of an elderly woman answered the phone. In reply to Joe’s question, she snapped suspiciously, “A purple turban? What on earth are you talking about?”

  Joe tried to explain. But the woman’s reaction was unfriendly, as if she suspected some kind of a hoax.

  “Young man, I can’t make head nor tail of what you’re saying. Sounds to me as if you’re trying to be funny—or else you’ve got the wrong number!”

  With a loud sniff, she hung up.

  “Whew! Guess I didn’t do too well on that one,” Joe told his brother. “Next time remind me not to sound like such a crackpot!”

  Joe dialed another number. The listing on this one was “Hugo’s Meat Market.”

  “Yah, I’m Hugo,” said a voice in a heavy German accent.

  Joe explained that he was doing some private detective work and was trying to locate a person named Hugo who had some connection with a purple turban—or maybe someone known as “Hugo Purple Turban.”

  “Ach, no, I never hear of anyone like that,” the butcher replied. “But if you like some good knackwurst, just drop around any time!”

  Frank chuckled as Joe hung up the phone. “We’re getting nowhere fast. Let me try.”

  The third Hugo listed was a Wilfred K., a jeweler and watch-repair expert.

  “‘Hugo purple turban?’ Hmm,” the man responded thoughtfully. “Sounds to me as if it might refer to that fortuneteller.”

  “Fortuneteller?”

  “The Great Hugo, he calls himself—at least that’s the name painted on his trailer. He has a tent pitched beside the road, on Route 10, just north of town.”

  “Thanks a lot, sir!” Frank exclaimed, with a surge of excitement. “Sounds like a swell lead!”

  As he cradled the phone, a peppery feminine voice spoke up from behind the boys. “Before you get too deep in another mystery, take my advice and—”

  “Oh, hi, Aunt Gertrude!” Joe smiled and turned around.

  Frank said mischievously, “Aunt Gertrude’s just jealous, Joe, because she doesn’t know all the facts!”

  “Nonsense!” retorted their aunt, a tall, angular woman, who was Mr. Hardy’s maiden sister.

  Although Aunt Gertrude would never admit it, Frank and Joe knew that she was just as deeply intrigued by the Hardys’ cases as the boys and their father.

 
Frank told her about Mr. Hardy’s puzzling communication “Hugo purple turban” and went on, “The man I just talked to on the phone seemed to think it might refer to some fortuneteller called The Great Hugo.”

  “The Great Hugo! Why, of course!” Aunt Gertrude’s eyes narrowed with a look of suspicion.

  “Do you know him?” Joe asked eagerly.

  “I’ve heard about him—and what I’ve heard isn’t good!” Miss Hardy explained that two women she knew had gone to have The Great Hugo tell their fortunes. After leaving his tent, they had discovered money missing from their handbags, which they had hung on the backs of their chairs.

  “You mean Hugo stole it?” Frank asked.

  “Who else? Naturally, the women couldn’t prove it,” Miss Hardy added, pursing her lips, “but there’s no doubt in their minds.”

  The two boys exchanged glances. “He could be the man we’re looking for,” Frank remarked.

  Joe nodded. “Let’s check with Chief Collig.”

  As head of the Bayport Police Department, Chief Collig had cooperated with the Hardys on many of their cases. When Frank telephoned him, the chief said that he was acquainted with The Great Hugo and had had complaints about him.

  “He’s as phony as a nine-dollar bill, but so far we haven’t enough evidence to take him in.”

  Frank thanked the chief, hung up, and passed the information to his brother.

  “Come on! Let’s go have a look at Hugo!” Joe urged.

  Frank backed the car out of the drive and headed for Route 10. North of town, they sighted a bright, orange-colored tent just off the road.

  “There it is,” Frank murmured, slowing down. The tent bore a sign reading:THE GREAT HUGO

  WORLD-FAMOUS MYSTIC

  Private Readings by Appointment

  Near the tent stood a house trailer of the same orange color. It was hitched to a battered but powerful-looking black hardtop coupé of an expensive make.

  Frank parked the convertible under a tree and the boys walked toward the tent. As they were about to enter, a man, at least six and a half feet tall, and with an extremely large head, loomed up in front of them, barring the way.

  His swarthy, hook-nosed face gave the man a menacing air. But what jolted both boys were his clothes. He wore baggy trousers, Oriental slippers with pointed, curled-up toes, and a purple turban!

  “What is it you wish?” he demanded in a deep, harsh voice.

  “We came to have our fortunes told,” Joe said evenly.

  “I do not tell fortunes—I am only Abdul, a helper,” the man grunted. ”You wait outside. I go see if The Great Hugo will receive you.”

  “What is it you wish?” he demanded, barring the way

  Abdul entered the tent, dropping the flap across the entrance. Tense with excitement, the young detectives waited, but not for long. A moment later Abdul reappeared.

  “I bring good news! The Great Hugo will see you at once!” he announced.

  He drew aside the tent flap, bowed low, and invited the boys to enter. Cautiously they stepped into the gloomy interior. The walls of the tent were hung with dark draperies. Only the pale glow of a shaded lamp suffused the gloom. Soft rugs lay underfoot.

  At a table covered with a silver-fringed black velvet cloth sat a slim, short man with a pointed brown beard. Before him on the table lay a crystal ball.

  “So—you have come to have your fortunes told,” he murmured. “Please be seated.”

  As the boys sank down onto two leather hassocks, Hugo’s queer yellowish eyes seemed to be sizing them up shrewdly.

  Stalling for time in order to observe the place carefully, Frank said, “Before you start, sir, perhaps you’d better tell us how much it’s going to cost.”

  The Great Hugo waved his hand carelessly. “My usual fee is five dollars. But since I am not busy today I will take you both for two dollars.”

  The boys reached for their wallets and produced one dollar apiece. Hugo whisked the bills out of sight, then concentrated his gaze on the crystal ball. In a few moments he seemed to go into a trance.

  “I see an airplane—a trip over water,” the fortuneteller said in a droning voice. “The scene in the crystal ball is changing.... I see trouble! Danger!”

  Suddenly Frank felt a hand groping into his pocket. Gripping the thief’s wrist, he whirled around. It was Abdul!

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” Frank exclaimed, jumping up and forcing the man backward. But with lightning speed the brawny fellow stunned him with a blow on the chin. Frank staggered groggily.

  Joe leaped to his brother’s aid. But he was quickly grabbed by Abdul. As Joe struggled to get away from the giant, he knocked over the table and crystal ball.

  In one end of the tent Hugo the Mystic was shouting commands to Abdul, and edging toward a position behind the three. A moment later black hoods were thrown over the boys’ heads.

  “Let’s get rid of them, Abdul, and leave—quick!” Hugo growled.

  CHAPTER II

  The Suspicious Trailer

  THEIR heads covered, Frank and Joe were hurled to the ground. Resistance was futile. Quickly their hands and feet were bound. Then they were dragged out of the tent and into some bushes. Footsteps indicated their attackers had left.

  “Joe! Joe, can you hear me?” Frank shouted. The hood muffled his voice, but he was able to make out Joe’s response.

  “Right here, Frank.”

  From a short distance away came confused sounds as if the tent were being quickly taken down and stowed in the trailer. Soon the engine of a car roared to life and the vehicle went rumbling off down the highway.

  Meanwhile, the boys twisted and turned in a frantic effort to loosen their bonds. This was not the only time they had found themselves in a predicament like this one.

  Ever since their first big case, The Tower Treasure, the brothers had often been in tight spots. But always their quick, cool thinking had enabled them to outwit their adversaries. In their most recent mystery, they had survived underwater spear-gun attacks and other dangers to learn The Secret of Pirates’ Hill.

  By the time Frank got his hands free, his wrists were rubbed nearly raw. He jerked the black hood off his head and saw Joe still straining to free himself.

  “Here! I’ll do it!” Frank offered.

  Quickly he removed his brother’s hood. In a few moments both were free and on their feet.

  Joe peered at the tire tracks of the vanished car and trailer. “They made a neat getaway,” he said bitterly.

  “Which means The Great Hugo must have been the Hugo we want!” Frank said grimly.

  “Then what are we waiting for?” Joe sprinted toward the convertible. “Let’s go after him!”

  Before leaving, Frank insisted that they examine the tire treads of both the vanished car and the trailer. Then the boys ran to their convertible. Frank gunned the engine and they took off in a spurt of sand and gravel. Luckily, Route 10 ran straight north for almost twelve miles before intersecting another major highway.

  En route there were several dirt-road turnoffs. Frank and Joe stopped at each one and got out to inspect all tire marks on them. But they found no sign of the vehicles belonging to Hugo and Abdul.

  “Probably they’re heading out of the county,” Joe remarked.

  “Wait a minute. Let’s try this trailer court up ahead,” Frank suggested. It was located less than half a mile from the highway intersection.

  He braked the car and swung over onto the shoulder of the road. Again the boys climbed out.

  “It’s a hundred-to-one shot,” Frank admitted, “but Hugo might have turned in here to throw us off the trail.”

  “He’ll have a tough time hiding that orange trailer,” Joe said. “Say look!” He broke off with a gasp and grabbed Frank’s arm. “Over there!”

  Frank turned to face the direction in which his brother was staring. An orange trailer!

  Though partly hidden from view by other vehicles, the trailer looked like the one used by Hugo and Abdul. The boys approached it casually, trying not to attract any attention.

  Their hopes, however, were soon dashed. Frilly lace curtains showed in the windows of the trailer. In front of it a fat, baldheaded man in Bermuda shorts lounged in a deck chair. A moment later a woman came out, carrying a baby.

  Frank smiled to hide his disappointment. “Okay. So our long shot didn’t pay off.”