Night of the Werewolf Read online

  “The more often a person is hypnotized,” Dr. Fizzoli went on, “the easier it comes to control him. Yet, when he’s snapped out of his trance, he may not even remember being given any orders.”

  “Would he recall carrying them out?” Frank asked.

  “Not if he’d been programmed to forget them.”

  Joe said, “But how would he know when to carry out the order?”

  “Usually, the programming involves some sort of signal,” replied the doctor. “For instance, the hypnotist may say, ‘When you see me scratch my ear, you will do so and so.’ And later on, after the patient’s been brought out of his trance, the hypnotist scratches his ear and the patient does exactly what he was told to do.”

  With a smile, Dr. Fizzoli added, “If you ask him why he did such a thing, he’ll make up all sorts of reasons. It never seems to occur to him that he may be carrying out a post-hypnotic suggestion.”

  Suddenly Frank remembered how John had been called to the phone during the barbecue party. A little later, when he came out of the house again, he had acted like a zombie.

  “How about a signal over the phone?” he inquired. “Would that work?”

  “Perfectly,” said Dr. Fizzoli. “In fact, the phone voice, if it is a voice, could be used to reinforce or strengthen the original command. But the signal could just as easily be a buzzer or a handclap or a certain bit of music, whatever.”

  “What if the person didn’t want to carry out the command?”

  “Once he’s been hypnotized, he has no choice.”

  Chet had been listening with a skeptical expression. “Hm, maybe some people are like that,” he scoffed, “but I’d like to see somebody make me do something I didn’t want to do!”

  Dr. Fizzoli smiled. “Shall we try?”

  “Go ahead,” Chet challenged him.

  The doctor held up a shiny coin on the end of a chain. He asked the chubby youth to gaze at it as it swung to and fro. Then, in a monotonous voice, he began to suggest that Chet was feeling relaxed and drowsy, that his limbs were growing heavier and losing all feeling, and finally that Chet would do whatever he was told.

  Chet carried out several simple commands, such as shivering as if he were cold, barking like a dog, and dancing around the room. But later, after the doctor snapped his fingers to bring him out of his trance, Chet insisted he had never even been in a trance.

  “I was wide awake all along. I knew what was going on. When you asked me to do something, I cooperated, but I didn’t have to do it.”

  The doctor shrugged and smiled. “Perhaps so. Many subjects feel that way. The fact remains that you did what I told you to.”

  The Hardys grinned and thanked Dr. Fizzoli for his information and demonstration. Before leaving the office, Frank asked the receptionist if he might use her phone.

  “Of course,” she said. “Let me get you an outside line first, then just dial the number.”

  Frank had Jack Wayne paged at LaGuardia Airport. When the pilot answered, the young detective told him to start warming up Skyhappy Sal. The boys would be ready for takeoff as soon as they taxied to the airfield.

  “Maybe not as soon as you think ” Jack replied. He said that an urgent message had been relayed from Bayport.

  “From whom?” Frank asked.

  “Some guy employed by Chelsea Builders, named Neal Xavier. He phoned your home, your aunt broadcast his message, and I picked it up on the radio.”

  “What does he want?”

  “To see you and Joe as soon as possible. He says it’s very important, but the meeting must be kept secret. You’re to come to his apartment on Central Park West instead of the company office.”

  The boys were soon on their way by taxi to Xavier’s address.

  “Who is this guy?” Chet asked en route.

  “Karel Tabor’s executive assistant,” Joe told him.

  When they arrived at his apartment, the trio were surprised to find themselves facing a big, powerful, snarling Doberman guard dog held on a tight leash by Neal Xavier, who seemed tense and frightened.

  “I rented him from a trainer last night for protection,” Xavier told the boys. “Sit down, please, and I’ll explain.”

  Pacing nervously back and forth while his dog sat watchfully eyeing the three visitors, Xavier began, “I’ve made a very unpleasant discovery. Much as I hate to say so, I now believe that the real criminal behind the firm’s troubles is none other than my boss—Karel Tabor!”

  The Bayporters were shocked by the news.

  “What makes you think so?” Joe asked keenly.

  Xavier explained that Tabor, despite his brilliant reputation, had long been at odds with Chelsea Builders’ board of directors. He had, therefore, deliberately arranged the three building disasters which Mr. Hardy was investigating, in order to force down the price of Chelsea Builders’ stock.

  Frank frowned. “Why would he want to do that?”

  “So he can buy it up cheaply and gain control of the company.”

  “How did he arrange the disasters?” Joe asked.

  “Through that crooked contractor I mentioned. All three were due to sabotage carried out by mobsters. He told me those tapes contained evidence linking the contractor with Upton Associates. But now I’m sure they implicated Tabor himself. He was keeping them as insurance, to make sure the contractor didn’t double-cross him.”

  “How did you find all this out?” Frank inquired.

  “Just a lucky break, if you can call it lucky.” Xavier explained that, by chance, he had overheard a phone conversation between Tabor and the contractor. “They were setting up a meeting at ten o‘clock tonight, at a house near Hawk River. If they get wise that I was listening in, my life won’t be worth a plugged nickel!”

  After learning the cabin’s location, the boys taxied to LaGuardia and flew back to the Adirondacks. Frank and Joe had left their car parked at the airfield near Hawk River. On landing, they drove to the cabin.

  Frank braked to a stop and said, “Well, here we are!”

  Chet immediately leaped out of the car, flapping his arms. “Look! I’m a chicken!” he cried, cackling loudly. “I can fly!”

  “Good for you!” said a girl’s voice. “May I watch you take off?”

  Chet whirled and saw Alena Tabor walking toward them!

  18

  Nine O‘Clock Shadow

  Chet’s face blushed fiery red with embarrassment when he suddenly realized what he was doing. The Hardys burst out laughing.

  “Good grief!” Chet moaned. “Whatever made me do such a goofy thing?”

  “A post-hypnotic suggestion, that’s what!” said Joe.

  “Huh?”

  “You were just doing what you were told to do,” Frank added.

  Chet stared at the Hardys, his cheeks still flaming. “What’re you guys talking about?”

  Frank explained that, while under hypnosis in the psychiatrist’s office, Dr. Fizzoli had ordered their chum to act like a flying chicken when they arrived at their cabin.

  “Cheer up, Chet.” Joe chuckled. “He only did it to convince you such things are possible. Frank signaled you when he said, ‘Well here we are!”’

  To save Chet further embarrassment, Frank turned to their visitor. “What’s up, Alena?”

  Her face fell after her momentary amusement. “Oh, I’m so worried about John!” she replied. “Sheriff Kennig’s been grilling him all afternoon. He’s even warned him not to leave Hawk River. Dad and I are afraid he may soon be arrested!”

  “Well, you can stop worrying,” Frank told her. “I think we’ve just found out what makes your brother take those midnight strolls.”

  “What do you mean?” Alena exclaimed, her eyes widening in surprise.

  Frank reported what they had learned from the psychiatrist about post-hypnotic suggestion, and went on, “I’m convinced something like that must have happened to John. Someone has hypnotized him deeply and ordered him to leave the house in the middle of the night. Do y
ou remember whether he got a late phone call just before bedtime on Wednesday night?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, he did. Why?”

  “Same thing happened the night of the barbecue. Those calls may be from the person who hypnotized him, to give him reinforcing suggestions. Later, a wolf howl outside, even if it’s a fake howl, is the signal that prompts him to leave the house.”

  “It would also explain why he acts like he’s in a trance,” said Joe. “Chet’s just demonstrated to you how the whole thing works.”

  The plump girl’s face broke into a happy smile. “Oh, that’s wonderful!” she gushed. “You’ve no idea how relieved Dad will be when I tell him! Thank you all so very much!”

  Before Chet realized what was happening, Alena flung her arms around his neck and kissed him a resounding smack on the cheek.

  The chubby Bayporter’s cheeks turned flaming pink again, but this time with bashful pleasure rather than embarrassment.

  Meanwhile, Frank and Joe exchanged hasty glances of amusement mixed with concern. Both were thinking the same thing, that they had better not tell Alena about Neal Xavier’s accusation against her father, and thus spoil her happiness of the moment. She drove off in her red miniwagon soon afterward, eager to tell her father the good news.

  Later, as the boys were finishing supper, they heard a knock. Frank got up to answer the door. Their visitor proved to be Elmo Yancey.

  “Come on in!” Frank said. “You’re just in time for a cup of coffee.”

  “Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.” The private eye joined them at the table and proceeded to tell the news that had brought him to their cabin. “I just got a cablegram over the phone from my client. It’s in reply to one I sent him this morning, and it gives me permission to use my judgment about telling you his name. But the information must be kept in strict confidence, of course.”

  “We understand,” Frank assured him. “You can count on us to keep our lips zipped.”

  “Who is he?” Joe asked eagerly.

  “A wealthy European businessman who lives in Paris. His name is Gustav Tabor.”

  “Tabor?” Joe echoed, and shot a glance at Frank. “That must be the distant cousin Mr. Tabor mentioned to us, the one who escaped to the West just before Czechoslovakia went Communist.”

  “Right,” Frank agreed, and turned to Elmo Yancey. “How come he hired you to report on the American branch of the family?”

  “Because he’s old and rich and looking for an heir. He has no children of his own, so he’s decided to leave his fortune to the youngest male Tabor over here. But first he wants a character check on both John and his father, Karel Tabor, to see if John is worthy of inheriting.”

  Chet whistled and murmured, “Well, what do you know!”

  The Hardys thanked Yancey for the information. Later, after he had gone, Joe said to his brother, “You realize this may explain the whole werewolf business?”

  Frank nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll say I do! It could mean someone’s deliberately trying to smear John and ruin his chances of inheriting Gustav Tabor’s fortune.”

  “Right! But who?” Joe mused.

  “You want a suggestion?”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “How about the Frenchman who called on Desmond Quorn for information about the Tabor family werewolves?”

  “Hey! You’re right!” Joe exclaimed, socking his fist into his palm. “Then he steals the file and mails it, along with a copy of the magazine article, to the editor of the local newspaper, just to make sure everyone gets the message that John’s slightly nutty and gets wolfman delusions every full moon!”

  “Which wouldn’t help John’s chances of becoming Gustav Tabor’s heir,” Frank agreed.

  “And to put him even deeper into the soup,” Joe went on, “the Frenchman gets hold of a wolf skin and plants it in John’s studio hut.”

  “Just two things wrong with your theory,” Frank mused.

  “What?” spoke up Chet, who was munching doughnuts and listening to the Hardys’ conversation with great interest.

  “One, it doesn’t explain the glowing wolf-creature.”

  Joe cocked a quizzical eyebrow. “And two?”

  “Even if we’re right,” said Frank, “why is the culprit doing it, and how do we find him? We don’t know a thing about him.”

  “Wrong,” said Chet, between mouthfuls of pastry. “You know at least one thing about him.”

  “Name it,” Frank said.

  “He said his name was Julien Sorel.”

  “So what?”Joe shrugged. “It’s not likely he’d use his real name.”

  Frank puckered his forehead. “Probably not. But Chet may have a point there. That name might just mean something to a member of the Tabor family.”

  “Hm, could be. Let’s give it a whirl.” Picking up the telephone, Joe called the Tabors’ number. Alena answered. After telling her who he was, Joe said, “Does the name ‘Juiien Sorel’ mean anything to you, Alena?”

  “Of course!”

  “Who is he?”

  “The hero of a famous French novel by Stendhal, called The Red and the Black.”

  Joe groaned. “Thanks anyhow, Alena, but forget I asked.”

  Shortly before nine o‘clock, the Hardys set out by car for the house where Karel Tabor was to meet the crooked contractor. Xavier had told the boys its exact location, which he had overheard while eavesdropping on the plotters’ telephone conversation. The Hardys hoped to arrive in time to stake out the place before the meeting took place. Meanwhile, they left Chet to hold the fort and keep watch on the Tabors’ house.

  Frank was at the wheel as they tooled along the forest-fringed highway in the moonlight. “Don’t look now, Joe,” he murmured, “but I think we’re being tailed.”

  “Lights in the rearview mirror?”

  “No. Its headlights are out. That’s what worries me, but I can see the car fairly well as long as the moon doesn’t go behind a cloud. Whoever it is, he’s been keeping the same distance behind us for almost ten miles.”

  Joe proposed a plan which Frank thought might work although it had possible dangers. The older Hardy slowed his speed somewhat, keeping an eye peeled for any turnoffs.

  Presently he wheeled right onto a rutted lane which wound among a stand of oaks and evergreens, interspersed with clumps of underbrush. The growth was dense enough to screen the glow of their headlights from the highway.

  Soon Frank veered again, swinging the car off the lane and into the first narrow space among the trees that presented itself. Then he switched off their lights and the boys waited.

  In a few minutes the tail car came along the lane in cautious pursuit. Its driver had been forced to turn on his parking lights to see his way ahead.

  No sooner had the car gone by than Frank vroomed his engine and backed out of their parking space, blocking the lane. As he switched on his lights, they saw the tail car slow to a halt, almost, it seemed, with an audible groan of despair. Its driver obviously realized that he was trapped. To keep going would have meant the risk of getting lost or disabled in the back country wilderness at night, well off the main artery.

  It seemed simpler to give up the game as Joe and Frank gambled it would. There was a minute or two of silence. Then they saw the door of the tail car open. The driver got out in the glare of their headlights, with his hands up in a gesture of surrender. He was a young man in his twenties with wavy brown hair. His clothes seemed of foreign cut.

  The Hardys stayed in their seats, letting the stranger approach the front of their car. Then Frank switched on his high beams, dazzling the stranger still more. If he thought they had him covered with a gun, so much the better.

  “Don’t come any closer,” Frank growled. “Just toss us your identification and you won’t get hurt.”

  The stranger threw what looked like a thin, leather-bound booklet. Frank caught it. It was a French passport in the name of Paul Clermont. Then came a letter of introduction in English from a ban
k in Paris.

  “Oh, oh,” Joe muttered as the Hardys glanced over the letter. It mentioned that the bearer, Paul Clermont, was a brother-in-law of the well-known financier, Gustav Tabor.

  Frank turned down his high beams, and the boys got out to confront the Frenchman. Realizing the two young sleuths had him cornered, Clermont glumly admitted what they had already guessed. Namely, that he was attempting to spoil John’s chances of inheriting Gustav Tabor’s fortune by making the young architect seem like a dangerous lunatic.

  “But surely that is no great crime,” Clermont insisted. “The worst you can call it is a cruel prank.”

  “A prank to cheat John out of his rightful inheritance!” Frank retorted.

  “You also stole a folder from Desmond Quorn’s files,” Joe added, “and swindled Alec Virgil out of his stuffed wolf.”

  Clermont became frightened when he saw how much they knew. “I promise you I will make amends,” he pleaded, “if you don’t turn me in to the police.”

  It was clear that he was afraid of getting into trouble which might be reported to Gustav Tabor. He explained that he was the young brother of Tabor’s late wife, but Gustav had never liked him. Under the old man’s present will, he would inherit only a small part of the estate. He had plotted to ruin John’s chances as heir in hopes of getting a larger share of the fortune himself. Instead, he might be cut out of the will altogether if Gustav learned what he was up to.

  Knowing Gustav was hiring Elmo Yancey to investigate John, Clermont had flown to this country before Yancey took the case. He already was familiar with the Tabor family’s werewolf tradition, and when he learned of the werewolf scare at Hawk River, he decided this would be a good way to discredit John. He had found out from local gossip about John’s hospital stay and had sent an anonymous note about this to Yancey.

  Frank said coldly, “Are you sure you didn’t start the werewolf scare yourself?”

  “No! I swear it!” the Frenchman exclaimed. On Wednesday night, he said, he had sewn straps on the wolf skin and had come to plant it on the patio of the Tabor home. Then he saw John leave the house, with Yancey trailing him and Chet trailing both of them. So he, too, had followed. After getting into a scuffle with Chet and knocking him out, he had discovered John’s studio hut.