The Pentagon Spy Read online

  He adjusted his deerstalker hat in a mirror on the wall. “Are you willing to face the hex?” he asked.

  Frank and Joe grinned. “I think so,” Frank replied.

  “Good. I’ll be hearing from you then,” Hammerley concluded and walked out the door.

  Frank and Joe returned to the living room. “Well, brother, what do you think about this hex business?” Joe asked, flopping into an overstuffed chair.

  “Let’s read up on it,” Frank suggested and went into his father’s study. He returned with a large, leather-bound tome on mystical lore and found a chapter on the hex. He flattened the book on the coffee table and began to turn the pages, while Joe peered over his shoulder.

  They learned that the hex originated in Germany. People believed that hex signs could ward off danger from those who used them. Or, the signs could be applied to focus uncanny forces on victims. German immigrants brought these ideas to America in colonial days, and they have survived to this day in the Pennsylvania Dutch country.

  “The owl is the bird of the hex,” Frank read, “and talking owls are frequently the pets of witches.”

  “Talking owls!” Joe marveled. “I wonder what they say.”

  “To-whitt, to-whoo, the old woodoo,” Frank joked. He turned more pages of the book until he reached a plate showing hex signs. Many were geometrical forms in various colors, squares surrounded by a series of triangles, sunbursts inside concentric circles, and so on. The chief hex sign, they learned, was the pentagram, a star pattern of five points that can be drawn without lifting a pencil from a piece of paper.

  “We learned how to do that at school and called it a star,” Joe said. “But they never told us it was a hex sign.”

  “Well, it isn’t always a hex sign,” Frank pointed out. “But when it is, it’s a good luck charm, like a rabbit’s foot.”

  “Unless it’s being used against you,” Joe stated. “That’s what the book says. When two people are using the hex, I suppose the winner is the one who’s got the toughest witch for a friend.”

  “Like those weather vane thieves,” Frank grumbled and closed the book.

  “Hey, what if they steal ours?” Joe said.

  “You mean the tin arrow atop our lab over the garage?” Frank grinned. “The one Aunt Gertrude picked up at a tag sale? I’ll let you have it for three bucks.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  Just then the phone rang. “Maybe that’s Dad!” Frank exclaimed, jumping to his feet and lifting the instrument from its cradle.

  “Is this one of the great Hardys?” a familiar voice inquired.

  Frank smiled. “The greatest. What’s up, Chet?”

  “Arrows!” their friend announced. “I’m getting so good at it I shot ten straight bull‘s-eyes in a row earlier this morning!”

  “You should. After all, you’ve practiced archery long enough!”

  “You really know how to put a guy down,” Chet complained. “Even an expert archer doesn’t get ten bull‘s-eyes in a row every day!”

  “Okay, okay. Congratulations. Want us to bring you a medal?”

  “No, but you could bring yourselves. How about it, Frank? We’ve got a contest going on here.”

  Frank conferred briefly with his brother, then promised their pal to be over in fifteen minutes.

  Chet Morton, their best friend, was a roly-poly youth who preferred eating to danger. But the Hardys knew he would never let them down if they were in a tight corner. Chet had proved that when he helped them on a number of dangerous investigations.

  “Maybe Chet will come up with an idea on those weather vane thefts,” Joe said as the brothers drove across Bayport to the farm where their friend lived with his family.

  Frank laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding! All he’s interested in is food and his hobbies.”

  They turned into the driveway to the Morton home and saw a large target with a number of arrows in it on the front lawn near the house. Several of their friends were standing near the gate, watching Chet go through excited motions with his arms and hands.

  Frank stopped the car and the boys got out.

  “The Hardys have arrived!” Chet announced as the brothers walked toward the group. “Now we can proceed!” He was dressed in dungarees and a corduroy shirt, two buttons of which remained open because his expansive waistline would not permit them to be closed. A quiver was slung across his left shoulder from which protruded the feathered ends of a dozen arrows, and a baseball cap perched jauntily on his head.

  Chet obviously relished the role of director of the archery contest. “Go ahead, Phil,” he said to the boy next to him. “Let’s see what you can do.”

  Phil Cohen, dark-haired and slender, enjoyed reading as much as sports, even though he was famous for his quickness and agility. He released his arrow with a determined motion. It flew through the air and hit the target in the third ring surrounding the bull‘s-eye. “Aw, that’s not good enough,” he grumbled disgustedly.

  “Don’t worry, you’re getting better!” Tony Prito said cheerfully. “A few minutes ago you didn’t even hit the target!”

  “Thanks, pal,” Phil replied, looking at Tony darkly. “Do you have to advertise my mistake? I explained to you that it was only a momentary lack of concentration.”

  Tony grinned. “Some mistake! You almost killed Biff!”

  “He was in my way,” Phil said.

  Biff Hooper, a husky football player for Bayport High, winced. “I think you did it on purpose, because I ate your sandwich.”

  Chet interrupted the friendly banter and raised his hand for silence. “We’re not here to gab but to learn the skills of archery!” he announced. “Joe, how about trying a shot?”

  Joe glanced quickly at Chet’s pretty sister Iola, who sat in the grass watching the boys. The vivacious, dark-haired girl was often his date, and he did not want to appear anything less than perfect in front of her.

  “Come on, Joe,” Tony kidded. “Show Iola what a terrific shot you are!”

  Joe shrugged and hefted the bow. He fitted the feathered end of an arrow into the bowstring, took aim, and let loose. He struck the bull‘s-eye, although not in dead center.

  The boys cheered. “Good shot, Joe!”

  “Best yet,” Tony said.

  “The best is yet to come,” Chet told him. “The best is me!”

  He took his place in the circle occupied by each contestant in turn. Casually, he pushed his cap back on his head, flexed his fingers, and peered across the lawn at the target.

  “Ready, Robin Hood?” Frank joshed him.

  “Let’s see you split Joe’s arrow,” Iola teased him. “That’s what Robin Hood did.”

  “Don’t rush me,” Chet said. “This sport needs plenty of concentration.” Tightening the bowstring, Chet snapped it until it twanged like the string of a guitar. Then he whipped an arrow over his shoulder from the quiver, with the gesture of an expert showing the amateurs how to do it. Raising the bow, he took aim.

  His friends waited expectantly, their eyes glued to the target. Seconds ticked away, but nothing happened.

  Then Chet lowered the bow. “Something is wrong with this arrow,” he declared.

  “Oh, no!” Biff groaned.

  “Getting nervous?” Tony teased.

  “I’ll ignore the boos from the gallery,” Chet said nonchalantly and picked another arrow from his quiver. Again he took aim as his friends watched in expectant silence.

  Chet took his time and shifted his feet to get better balance. Suddenly he hit a slick spot in the ground. He skidded and went over backward, losing his grip on the bow!

  Twang-g-g! The string snapped and the arrow lofted high over the Morton house. Chet’s yell of dismay was answered by a scream in the backyard.

  “The arrow hit somebody!” Joe cried out in alarm. “Come on!” He raced around the house, followed by the others.

  3

  Trapped in a Tent

  There was no one in the backyard but the Mortons’
farmhand, Mr. Osborn, who stood at the edge of a pumpkin field. He had his hands on his hips and looked very angry.

  When the boys came closer, Mr. Osborn pointed to a big pumpkin neatly pierced by an arrow. “Who did this?” he thundered. “And what’s the idea of ruining my vegetables?”

  “I—slipped and missed my target,” Chet stammered. “But I d-didn’t do it on purpose, Mr. Osborn.”

  The man shook his head in disbelief. “What target? I was weeding around my garden when the arrow flew over here. It could have hit me!”

  Chet was crestfallen. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Osborn.”

  “Tell you what, Chet,” Phil suggested diplomatically. “Why don’t you finish weeding for Mr. Osborn, and maybe he’ll forgive you.”

  Mr. Osborn seemed more pleased with that idea than Chet. “Well, now, that would be real nice. My back’s hurting me anyway. If you do my weeding, I’ll take this pumpkin in to Mrs. Osborn and ask her to make a pie. Later you’re all invited to have a piece.”

  Chet’s eyes lit up. “It’s a deal!” Then he turned to his friends. “You’ll help me, won’t you?”

  To tease Chet, the boys pretended to run away, but then everyone pitched in. While working in Mr. Osborn’s garden, the Hardys told the others about Mr. Hammerley and the missing weather vanes. They also mentioned the farmer’s antique called the Flashing Arrow.

  “Sounds like an exciting case!” Chet spoke up. “I’d like to be in on it.”

  “You should be,” Biff said dryly. “You’re the expert on arrows!”

  “Aw, stop picking on me!” Chet complained.

  Frank chuckled. “Don’t let it bother you. And if we need help, we’ll certainly let you know!”

  After breakfast the next morning, the Hardy boys turned on a scrambling device that made it impossible for anyone to listen in on a conversation by tapping their telephone. Joe stood next to his brother so that both could speak to their father, then Frank dialed the number Mr. Hardy had given them. The detective answered at once.

  “Oh, I’m glad you called,” he said. “I’m on my way out.”

  “How are things progressing, Dad?” Frank asked.

  “So far all right. I’m following a clue that will take me out of town for a while.”

  “Will you need our help?”

  “Not at the moment. Tell me about your meeting with John Hammerley. What did he want?”

  Frank described the mystery of the stolen weather vanes, then added, “He wants us to go to his farm tomorrow. If you won’t need us in the next few days, is it all right if we take his case?”

  “Go ahead,” Mr. Hardy said. “But be careful. The gang may be dangerous if so much money’s involved. Where can I get in touch with you if I have to?”

  Frank gave him Hammerley’s number, adding that the farm was close enough to Washington for them to get there in a hurry.

  “Fine,” Fenton Hardy said. “And good luck on your case.

  After their father had hung up, Joe called Mr. Hammerley to say he and Frank would be coming the following day. Hammerley was relieved by the news. “No one has tried to steal the Flashing Arrow yet,” he reported. “But I’ll be glad to have you and your brother on the case.”

  “Would you mind if we brought a friend along?” Joe asked. “He’s helped us on other assignments in the past.”

  “Of course not. The more the merrier,” John Hammerley said with a chuckle.

  The following morning, Frank, Joe, and Chet flew from Bayport to Lancaster, where they rented a car. Frank got behind the wheel, with Joe next to him, while Chet climbed in the back. He spread a road map out on his pudgy knees to monitor their way. Soon they were driving along Route 222 through a farming area.

  They passed a barn decorated with a green triangle inside a blue square, with straight lines extending out from each of the four corners.

  “That’s a hex sign,” Joe commented.

  Chet was suspicious. “What’s that mean?”

  The Hardys explained the occult geometrical forms used by the Pennsylvania Dutch to ward off evil spirits.

  “I don’t like it,” Chet grumbled. “It’s spooky.”

  “Better get used to it,” Frank advised him. “We’ll run into more hex signs as we go along.”

  Recognizing the two tall pine trees mentioned by Hammerley, Frank turned east on a narrow dirt road flanked by heavy vegetation on both sides. About a mile on, they noticed a cloud of dust approaching.

  “Great Scott! It looks like a tornado heading right toward us!” Chet cried out.

  “Calm down.” Joe grinned. “Tornadoes don’t stick to the road.”

  Frank pulled over into the underbrush. “Let’s see what this is all about,” he suggested.

  The cloud came closer. Finally the boys could make out a line of horses and carriages moving rapidly along in single file. Dust puffed up under the hooves of the animals, who were guided by bearded men dressed in plain farmer’s clothing. Beside each driver sat a woman in a long gray dress and an old-fashioned bonnet.

  “They’re Amish,” Frank concluded.

  When the caravan came abreast of the car, the men and women waved. The boys waved back. Twelve carriages passed in this manner and vanished down the road.

  “They’re pretty friendly people,” Chet commented. He had scarcely spoken when more sounds of galloping hooves could be heard up the road. A creaking wagon careened through the dust and pulled to a crunching halt next to the car.

  Its horse was flecked with foam and tossed its mane back and forth. The boys stared in astonishment at the driver, a wild-eyed woman whose hair was flying in the wind.

  “Are ye natives or outlanders?” she challenged them in a harsh voice.

  “Outlanders,” Frank replied. “We are from Bayport.”

  “Then go back,” she grated, “or the curse of the hex will get ye! Do nor forget Mad Maggie’s warning!”

  “Who’s Mad Maggie?” Chet asked.

  “That’s what people call me!” She uttered a screeching laugh, whipped up her horse, and dashed off down the road.

  “She must be a local character,” Frank guessed.

  “She’s got the right name,” Joe remarked. “She sure looks like Mad Maggie.”

  Chet mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “She’s putting the hex on us. Let’s go back to Bayport!”

  Frank started the car. “Chet, we promised Mr. Hammerley we wouldn’t let the hex scare us.”

  “You did,” Chet muttered. “I never promised any such thing!”

  Driving on, the boys came to an area where broad fields and meadows extended for miles on either side of the road. Smoke rose into the air from farmhouse chimneys, and farmers were plowing their fields or storing grain in silos next to barns marked by large, multicolored hex signs.

  A large tent stood in one field by the side of the road. Stout guy ropes attached to pegs along the sides held it in place, and the canvas roof sloped down from a central high pole that supported it on the inside. People were coming and going through the opening in the front.

  A sign over the door proclaimed in large letters:JOSHUA KORBO, AUCTIONEER

  Chet spotted a refreshment stand at the side of the tent. “I vote we invest in a hot dog and a bottle of soda!” he spoke up. “What do you say?”

  “Okay,” Joe agreed, and Frank added, “Sounds like a good idea.” He drove to a grassy knoll that served as a temporary parking lot. Leaving the car, the boys strolled over to the stand.

  “What’s going on?” Joe asked the youth in charge of selling the food.

  “Biggest auction of the year in these parts. Folks come from all over the county.”

  He flipped a hamburger on the grill and began serving another customer.

  “Let’s stay awhile and watch,” Frank suggested. Joe and Chet agreed, and after having their snack, the three walked into the tent. Collapsible chairs were arranged in two groups, about fifty to a group, separated by a narrow aisle. Halfway down the aisle was
the tall center pole that kept the tent up. People were milling around, chatting in low voices.

  Spotting three unoccupied chairs in the back row, the boys sat down. They had a clear view of the platform where the auctioneer was running his business. He was a medium-sized man, clean shaven, wearing steel-rimmed glasses pushed up on his forehead. A nameplate over his breast pocket identified him as Joshua Korbo.

  An assistant carried articles from the back of the tent to the platform, where Korbo offered them to the highest bidder in the audience. There were antiques, china, crystal, paintings, sculptures, and beautiful pieces of jewelry.

  “He seems to have enough stuff back there to stock the Bayport Department Store,” Chet commented.

  “Aunt Gertrude should be here,” Joe added. “She loves auctions.”

  Frank shook his head. “She’d empty her bank account. The price of some of this stuff is far out.”

  As he spoke, a Colonial silver service went for ten thousand dollars. Next, the assistant placed an antique lamp in front of Korbo, who banged his gavel and started the bidding. People raised their hands to indicate they were interested, and Korbo announced the increasing price as the bids came fast and furious.

  “Five hundred, six hundred, seven hundred,” the auctioneer called out. “Will anyone bid eight hundred for this valuable lamp? Do I hear eight hundred? Nobody bids eight hundred? Going, going ...

  Suddenly a fly buzzed past Chet’s ear. He swatted at it with his hand.

  “Gone!” Korbo boomed. “Sold to the young man in the back row for eight hundred dollars.” He pointed his gavel at Chet. “Come forward, sir.

  Chet turned pale under his freckles. He seemed mesmerized as Korbo gestured at him sternly with the gavel. Unsteadily Chet rose to his feet and moved up the aisle to the platform. The Hardys followed him.

  “Please write out a check for eight hundred dollars,” Korbo instructed Chet, “and the lamp is yours.

  Chet gulped. “But I didn’t bid for it!”

  “Of course you did,” said Korbo severely. “I saw you raise your hand.”