Night of the Werewolf Read online

  Afterward, the old man said to them, “The woods are full of mystery, my friends. Most people have lost touch with nature. Who can say whether or not men may become like animals? Still, I think the trouble you speak of comes not from any wolf. I see you in the fire, hunting down evil persons!”

  Somewhat mystified but impressed, the Hardys thanked the medicine man and went out to look for Chet. They found him showing off his skill at archery, taking turns with some of the village teenagers, shooting arrows at a makeshift target. The Indian youths clapped when he managed to hit the bull‘s-eye every time.

  But none of the Bayporters could match the Mohawks when it came to hurling a hickory lance at a rolling ring. Later they played the deer-button game. The buttons, made of polished horn, were each charred on one side. The players shook the buttons in one hand like dice, then threw them on a blanket, trying to make six or more buttons land with the same side turned up.

  Much to his delight, Chet won more games than anyone else. He and the Hardys were invited by the villagers to stay for supper. It was a feast of corn soup, fried trout, venison, succotash, squash, cornbread and blueberry pie.

  Before the visitors left, some of the village girls presented Chet with a beaded headband they had sewed, as a prize for his marksmanship with bow and arrow.

  “Ohna-ghee-wahee!” the Mohawks called, waving good-by.

  Chet was so proud of the trophy he wanted to show it off to Alena. He asked the Hardys to stop by the Tabors’ house when they returned to Hawk River. However, when it came to ringing the bell, he seemed a bit nervous.

  “What’s the matter?” Frank asked. “Feeling shy?”

  “That goofy housekeeper doesn’t like me,” Chet confessed sheepishly as he got out of the car. “What if she answers the door?”

  Dusk had fallen and the boys saw Alena pass in front of a lighted window. Then the light went out.

  Chet had a sudden inspiration. He wrote a note to Alena, tied it to an arrow, and strode halfway up the drive while Frank and Joe waited in the car. He aimed at Alena’s still open window and let the arrow fly.

  Unfortunately, his nervousness must have spoiled his aim. There was a loud tinkle of glass, and Chet froze in horror. His arrow had crashed into the wrong window!

  Next moment the front door burst open and Pocahontas charged out, bellowing and brandishing a broom!

  16

  Tomahawk Reward

  “Clear outa here, you no-good!” the huge housekeeper roared, shaking her broomstick weapon. “I’ll teach you to come breaking windows in this house!”

  Chet pounded down the drive in panic as fast as his chubby legs could carry him. “Gun the engine!” he shouted while still ten yards from the car.

  “How come?” teased Joe, who was at the wheel. “Don’t you want to stick around till Alena reads your note?”

  “Never mind the wisecracks, just get going!” Chet leaped aboard, bug-eyed and puffing. “Think I want that giantess to brain me with her war club?”

  Once back in the safety of their cottage, the stout youth began stoking up on cocoa and doughnuts. “Having someone like Pocahontas chase after him is hard on a guy’s nerves,” he said plaintively. “I have to recharge my batteries!”

  “Good idea,” said Frank. “We may need your full power tonight.”

  “What for?” Chet blurted, eyeing the Hardy boy suspiciously.

  “All three of us are going to stake out the Tabors’ house. If any of those guys who were out there last night show up again, we’ll nab them!”

  Around nine-thirty, just as the boys were about to leave the cabin, the phone rang. Joe answered. The caller was Hank Eagle.

  “I just got home from New York,” the Mohawk high-steeler said. “My uncle told me you were here at the village this afternoon. Sorry I missed you.”

  “Same here,” Joe said. “But we sure enjoyed the visit. Your uncle’s a fine man, Hank.”

  “He thinks you Hardys are pretty special, too. When he ‘made medicine’ over the fire, he says Ga-oh told him you could be trusted, so he advised me to tell you the truth.”

  “About what?”

  “About that sneaky dude you met in the restaurant, the one who called himself Mr. Nest. His real name is Marburg.”

  “We already found that out,” Joe said. “But if you’ve got something more to tell us, wait till I get Frank on the line, so he can hear it, too!”

  The Hardys were fascinated as they listened to the story Hank Eagle related. After the Revolutionary War, his ancestor, Dark Eagle, had sailed on a British troop-ship, carrying redcoats home to England. In London, King George had presented his fierce Indian ally with a silver tomahawk in reward for his services to the Crown. Made by a famous English silversmith, the tomahawk was decorated with a gold design and embossed with several diamonds.

  “Wow! What happened to it?” Joe exclaimed.

  “Nobody knows,” Hank replied. “Remember, that was two hundred years ago. Somehow, the tomahawk got lost or disappeared from sight during those two centuries. But when you told me what Marburg said in the restaurant, I knew right away that’s what he was after.”

  Frank said, “How would he know about the tomahawk?”

  “From history books. It’s no secret. Anyone who’s interested in antiques could have heard about it.”

  Hank went on to tell that his family possessed an old journal or diary kept by Dark Eagle. “Many pages are too faded and moldy to read, but from various legible remarks, I’m sure the tomahawk is hidden somewhere at Eagle’s Nest.”

  “Would Marburg know about that diary, too?” Joe asked.

  “Probably. We’ve tried our best to keep it secret; in fact, it’s stored in a safe deposit box. But several historians know Dark Eagle kept such a diary, so the news may easily have leaked out to Marburg.”

  Hank said he became more and more convinced of this when Marburg came to see him and tried to work his way into the Mohawk’s confidence. “Then when he saw you guys talking to me and recognized you from news pictures as the sons of Fenton Hardy, he probably figured you were after the same prize he was.”

  Frank told the high-steeler about the chat he and Joe had had with Mr. Crawford, and added, “Probably Marburg figured if you didn’t have the diary, it might just turn up when the old mansion is restored.”

  “Quite likely,” Hank agreed, “and he’s hoping if he can lay hands on it that the diary will clue him in to what happened to the tomahawk.”

  The Hardys thanked the construction worker for telling them his family’s secret. They also promised to let him know if they gleaned any clues to the whereabouts of the tomahawk. Then they set off with Chet for the Tabor estate.

  Parking their car out of sight, the boys chose a different tree from the one Chet had used for his lookout post. All three found places to perch themselves in its sturdy branches. In the moonlight, they could see the house clearly.

  Less than half an hour later, Joe hissed a soft warning and pointed to the left. A stealthy figure had just emerged from among the trees and was moving closer to the house.

  “You stay here, Chet,” Frank whispered, “and keep your eyes peeled for any other intruders. Joe and I’ll go get this guy, okay?”

  “Check!” their stout chum agreed.

  Letting themselves down from the tree, the Hardys closed in fast and silently on their quarry. He had taken up a position in a clump of shrubbery, which gave him a view of both the patio and the front of the house.

  But he was unprepared for an assault from behind. Before he realized what was happening, Frank hooked an arm around his windpipe and clamped a hand over his mouth. Joe grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted it painfully behind him.

  Between them, they marched him well out of earshot of the house. He was the mustached man whom they had seen leaving Dr. Benton’s office at the Pine Manor Rest Home!

  “Suppose you tell us what you’re doing here, spying on the Tabors,” Frank said.

  “Why should
I tell you anything?” the prisoner retorted.

  “Because if you don’t we’ll call Sheriff Kennig and you can try explaining to him!” Joe warned.

  The mustached man scowled and hesitated, then shrugged. “Okay, you win. My name’s Elmo Yancey. I’m a private eye.”

  “Prove it,” snapped Frank.

  The man pulled a billfold from his inside coat pocket. He opened it and presented them with his private investigator’s license for the State of New York. The Hardys inspected it, and Frank nodded. “Good enough.”

  Yancey said he had been hired by a client to investigate and report on the Tabor family, especially the son. After coming to Hawk River, he heard about the werewolf who was said to be haunting the area. Then he read the news story hinting that John Tabor might be the culprit due to a family taint. Next day an unsigned note came to his motel in the mail, informing him that the young architect had been a mental patient at the Pine Manor Rest Home. So he went there to try to interview John’s doctor.

  “What about last night? And don’t hand us any baloney,” Frank added. “You were under surveillance.”

  “Then why ask?”

  “We want to hear your version. It’s one way to find out if you’re leveling with us.”

  Yancey said he had decided to keep watch on the Tabor house to see if John slipped out after dark and had anything to do with the werewolf attacks. “He showed, all right, and he was acting pretty odd.”

  “How do you mean?” Joe said.

  “He was moving like a sleepwalker, almost as if he were in a trance. I followed him for a while. He headed up a hillside, a little way north of here. I lost sight of him for a moment or two, but then I saw a gleam of light appear up near the top of the hill.”

  Frank frowned on hearing this. Chet had made no mention of any light. However, Frank reflected that it might not have been visible from their chum’s position farther down the hillside.

  “Right after that,” Yancey went on, “I heard a scuffle break out somewhere below me. John Tabor must’ve heard it too, because the light went out, and then I caught sight of him again.”

  Yancey said that the young architect had headed homeward by a different route. The investigator himself had followed in order to make sure of where John was going. Afterward, Yancey had returned to the hillside to check on the scene of the scuffle, but found no one there. He had then discovered the hut near the top of the hill, from where the light had come.

  “You looked inside?” Frank inquired.

  “Naturally. It wasn’t locked.”

  “Did you see a wolf skin in there?”

  The private eye seemed startled by the question, but shook his head. “Nope, just books and architectural drawing gear. It looked as if John had used the place as a private studio where he could go off to study or work on plans.”

  “You’re sure there was no fur pelt lying around?” Joe persisted.

  “Positive. If there’d been anything like that, you can bet I’d have spotted it.”

  The Hardys exchanged glances. If Yancey’s testimony was true, then the wolf skin must have been planted in the hut later, maybe by the same person who had tipped off the sheriff!

  “How come you’re back tonight?” Frank inquired.

  Yancey shrugged. “I didn’t really learn anything last evening. I figured tonight I might be luckier. But it sure didn’t turn out that way,” he added ruefully.

  “Who is your client?” the older Hardy asked abruptly, hoping he might catch the detective off guard.

  “You don’t expect me to answer that, do you? No ethical private investigator reveals his client’s identity without permission.”

  “We understand.” Frank grinned and introduced himself and Joe.

  Elmo Yancey’s attitude changed immediately on learning that they were the sons of Fenton Hardy. He promised to tell them his client’s name if and when he was allowed to do so. Meanwhile, he stayed with the Hardys and Chet, keeping watch on the Tabor’s house. But when nothing happened by midnight, he abandoned his vigil.

  The Bayport trio maintained their stakeout an hour longer. Then they, too, gave up for the night.

  Next morning, Frank and Joe were relieved to get a radio call from their father. They filled him in on all that had happened, both in New York and in Hawk River.

  Fenton Hardy, in turn, revealed that Bubbles Upton, the son of the burly architect, was now working on the side of the law, trying to make up for the crime that had led to his jail sentence and thus redeem himself in the eyes of the authorities.

  “Is he helping you on this case, Dad?” Joe inquired.

  “Yes, he’s checking out the possibility that a crooked contractor may be mixed up in those building disasters.”

  “Same angle Neal Xavier mentioned to us?”

  “Right. But now I want you fellows to check out a brand-new lead for me in New York City. It may be urgent, so I’m sending Jack Wayne to fly you there.”

  The detective gave his sons careful instructions and on Chet’s request, agreed that their stout chum could go with them.

  “One other thing, Dad,” put in Frank. “Could you give us the name of a psychiatrist in New York that we could talk to while we’re there? I’d like to get another opinion on John Tabor’s behavior.”

  “Good idea,” said Fenton Hardy. He named a reliable expert whom he himself had consulted in connection with various criminal cases.

  “Thanks, Dad, and watch yourself. Remember the warning note Bubbles sent to us in Central Park.”

  “Right, son, and you do the same. This assignment could be dangerous.”

  Jack Wayne often flew Mr. Hardy’s private plane, Skyhappy Sal. An hour after the detective’s call, the small craft landed at an airfield near Hawk River. The boys greeted the friendly pilot, then all set off for LaGuardia Airport in New York.

  From there they taxied to the address Fenton Hardy had given them in a slummy area of the Bronx. It was a narrow-fronted, two-story brownstone house, squeezed between half-ruined tenement buildings. The boys scouted the scene first, then rang the bell. No one answered.

  “Door’s open,” Joe noted. “Let’s go in.”

  Frank led the way cautiously, through a dirty, tiled vestibule into the first-floor living room. All three gasped at the sight of a motionless figure lying bound and gagged on the floor.

  “It’s Bubbles Upton!” Joe exclaimed.

  Chet blurted in dismay, “He’s dead!”

  17

  The Flying Chicken

  Frank rushed across the room, with his two companions close behind, and they examined the man on the floor. It was apparent from his bruised face and torn, red-stained clothes that young Upton had been badly beaten. But he was still breathing, and Frank was able to detect a fairly strong pulse.

  “He’ll be okay, if we get him to a doctor,” the older Hardy boy declared. “Help me untie him.”

  He took off Bubbles’ gag while Joe and Chet removed the rope from the young man’s wrists and ankles. Then they lifted him onto a sofa.

  Joe hurried into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water. A few swallows were forced between the victim’s lips as Frank chafed his wrists. Soon young Upton opened his eyes.

  “H—how did you guys get here?” he asked weakly.

  “My father sent us,” Frank informed him.

  “Thank goodness. Then he—he must have clued in to my code signal.” Bubbles explained that he had paid a ham radio operator to broadcast a call when he could not reach Fenton Hardy by phone.

  Joe said, “Feel strong enough to tell us what happened?”

  “I’ll t—try,” Bubbles responded. He said he had been hired by mobsters to crack the Chelsea Builders safe. “And I’m sure those same crooks who hired me are in cahoots with the contractor your father’s investigating!”

  “What did they want out of the safe?” Frank asked.

  “Some sound tapes.”

  A look flashed between the Hardys. Once again Neal Xavier
’s charges seemed to be confirmed by outside testimony!

  “Do you know what was on them?” Frank pursued.

  Bubbles shook his head painfully. “No. I tried to play them to find out, but the mobsters caught me and beat me up. They planned to dump me in the river after dark.”

  Both Hardys wondered if young Upton realized the tapes might incriminate his own father. But they decided not to risk upsetting him while he was in such condition.

  “We’ll call an ambulance and get you to a hospital pronto!” Frank promised, looking around for a telephone.

  But Bubbles insisted that it would be safer all around if the Hardys stayed out of the picture completely, so that no one could connect him with them or their father. “Besides, I’m not in bad enough shape to need an ambulance,” he gasped hoarsely. “A taxi will do.”

  He protested so anxiously that the Hardys gave in. Joe hurried to the nearby corner and flagged a cruising cab. Bubbles Upton was helped into it, and the driver instructed to take him to the closest hospital.

  The three Bayporters then proceeded by subway to the office of the psychiatrist that Fenton Hardy had recommended. The receptionist told them that the detective had already phoned for an emergency appointment, and after a short wait, they were waved into the doctor’s consulting room.

  Dr. Fizzoli, a bespectacled man with thick, dark hair fringing his bald head, asked the boys how he could help them.

  Frank described John Tabor’s weird behavior. “Is there any way a person could be influenced to do such things?” he went on, “and then not even remember what happened?”

  “Of course,” the doctor nodded. “Almost anyone could be made to behave that way, by post-hypnotic suggestion.”

  To accomplish this, he explained the person would first be hypnotized, then given an order to carry out after he woke up from his trance, perhaps quite a while afterward.