The Hidden Harbor Mystery Page 2

  The remainder of that day, and the next, they sped along the smooth concrete under a warm sun and blue sky. About noon on the last day of the boys’ journey, a cluster of police cars, with red lights winking, warned of an accident ahead. Passing by slowly, the brothers and Chet saw a yellow convertible, the same model as the Hardys‘, turned upside down on the center grass strip.

  “Gives me the creeps!” Chet shuddered. “It might have been us!”

  When Frank reached the next service area, he pulled in to have lunch at the counter. The boys had just finished eating when two state troopers came in and took seats nearby.

  “A bad smashup,” said the first officer. “The driver and passenger thrown clear, lucky for them. It was deliberate, too. A blue sedan forced them right off the road. The driver of the car behind them saw the whole thing, but didn’t catch a glimpse of the license number.”

  “Can’t our boys stop the sedan farther along?” asked the other trooper.

  “No. It must have turned off at the next exit. The witness caught a glimpse of the driver, though. Big, flat-faced fellow. Had a blond-haired man with him.”

  Frank, Joe, and Chet paid their check and filed out quietly. They climbed into the convertible with serious faces.

  “That ‘accident’ was meant for us!” declared Joe as they started once again. “The driver sounds like our suspicious friend with the wheezy breathing.”

  Constantly alert, the young detectives continued their journey. Joe, now at the wheel, turned off the highway and continued south on the secondary road, to throw off pursuit.

  Late that afternoon they rolled into Larchmont, an old town built around a main square containing the courthouse and a Civil War monument. Stores lined the edges of the square, and the boys soon spotted the building which housed the Record’s offices, which were on the second floor. While Frank and Chet waited in the car, Joe ran inside and came back with a smiling Bart Worth.

  “Glad to see you!” said the young editor. He was, introduced to Chet and shook hands with him. “Joe says you all want to camp. I’ll take you out now and show you the best spot.”

  He directed Frank to follow the same road by which the boys had entered town. About a mile out of town, he said, “Turn right on this lane. It leads to the beach about a mile away. Only fishermen use the lane.”

  Bart Worth explained that half a mile farther along the main road was the entrance to the Blackstone home. “It’s about halfway between the shore and the public road. Professor Rand has his own driveway some distance from Blackstone’s.”

  The lane made its way among scrubby pine trees. Finally the car came to the beach where the fishermen’s road, barely discernible, turned left.

  “Boy, that ocean smells good!” Chet declared.

  Presently Bart Worth said, “This road ends at the dunes ahead. They spread along the shore and I figured it would be an ideal spot for you all to camp out. Nobody will know you’re around.”

  The boys selected a secluded spot between two high dunes, then quickly pitched their camp. Leaving Chet to unpack provisions, Frank and Joe drove the editor back to town.

  A tall, pale man with blond hair, wearing a linen suit and straw hat, stopped them as they entered the newspaper office.

  “Hello there, Mr. Worth,” he said. “I see you have company.”

  “Yes, a couple of visitors from up North,” Worth responded. “Boys, this is Mr. Henry Cutter—a Yankee like yourselves. Mr. Cutter and his partner, Mr. Stewart, are in the antique business. They’re down here looking over business opportunities.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Cutter, appraising the Hardys with hard blue eyes. “Once in a while we put an ad in the Record for people interested in helping us start a profitable business. We make trips into the countryside around Larchmont.”

  After shaking hands, the Hardys followed Worth into his private office. Here they discussed the Blackstone case and how the young sleuths would first tackle it.

  “We’ll take a little tour of the grounds tonight,” Frank decided.

  “Okay,” Bart said. “Keep me posted.”

  When the brothers were driving back on the lane, Joe asked, “What did you think of Mr. Cutter?”

  “Seemed to me we got a good once-over from Cutter for just a casual meeting,” Frank commented.

  Back at camp, Chet and the Hardys took a swim. Then, using their camp stove, they prepared a tasty meal of hash and brown bread. After eating, and burying the debris, the three sat and talked in low tones until dusk came on. The continually moving sea had darkened, as the sunset’s afterglow gave way to stars. The air grew close and murky.

  “I think it’s time to inspect the Blackstone property,” Frank proposed. “It’s dark enough now.”

  “You two go,” Chet suggested quickly. “I’ll stay and guard camp.”

  A few minutes later the brothers set off on foot among the dunes toward the Blackstone house. It was difficult walking through the high grass and loose sand. Here and there a lone scraggly pine endeavored to exist.

  Presently the earth became less sandy. The scraggly pines gave way to thick vegetation, more and more tangled.

  “According to Bart’s directions, we ought to come to the pond soon,” muttered Joe, beaming his flashlight ahead.

  The thick, forbidding tangle made hard going, even with flashlights. At last the brothers struck a path through clumps of swamp grass, matted vines, and huge rotting trees. Then an open space appeared ahead. Their lights shone on an expanse of still, brackish-looking water.

  “Blackstone’s place should be to the right,” said Frank, plunging forward in a northerly direction.

  Some distance beyond, the brothers discerned house lights ahead. There was a narrow path which they followed through swampy ground. An ominous growling reached their ears, and they skirted a pen containing two big, fierce-looking dogs.

  “Look, Joe!” Frank exclaimed, pointing to the large, imposing white-pillared mansion before them.

  The boys stopped and stared at a brightly lighted, partially open window. Through it they saw three men. One, facing them, was large and portly. The other was tall, dark, and gangling. A Negro servant, wearing a white butler’s coat, stood near the door.

  As the Hardys approached stealthily, the men’s voices reached them.

  “Rand, you’ll get it over my dead body!” shouted the heavy-set man.

  “The big one’s Blackstone, no doubt,” Joe whispered. “Wonder what Rand is after.”

  The tall man, obviously furious, said something indistinguishable. Suddenly Blackstone, his face livid, seized a heavy china vase from a desk and smashed it against the professor’s head!

  Instantly the light went out. Frank and Joe dashed up the steps and pounded on the door. Within twenty-five seconds it was opened.

  “Yes?”

  The Negro servant who had been in the room stood looking at the boys calmly from the hallway.

  “We’d like to see Mr. Blackstone—right away!” Frank cried.

  Without a word, the servant ushered the brothers into the bay-windowed room. There, comfortably seated in an easy chair and reading a book, was the large man. To the Hardys’ profound astonishment, they found no trace of Professor Rand.

  Even more astonishing was the fact that the china vase which had been smashed against his head stood whole upon the desk!

  CHAPTER III

  Water Monster

  FOR A moment Frank and Joe remained too astonished to speak. The heavy-set man put down his book and stood up.

  “You want to see me?” he asked gruffly.

  “Yes. You are Mr. Blackstone?” Frank spoke up.

  “I am. What do you want?”

  “We ... we heard a cry, and thought maybe there had been an accident!”

  “Accident?” The man gave the brothers a steely look of suspicion. “No, there’s been no accident that I know of. I’ve been spending a quiet evening reading. You’re the first visitors I’ve had tonight. By th
e way, what are you doing on my property?”

  “We’re visiting the area,” Joe answered promptly. “We’ve just been exploring the beach and came up here.”

  “Treacherous swamp around here,” Mr. Blackstone commented. “Incidentally, my dogs are usually let loose at night, so I wouldn’t advise your getting lost in this direction again. Minnie! Show these young men to the door.”

  A young Negro maid entered the room. The Hardys were surprised. They had expected to see the somewhat elderly man who had answered their knock. They looked around for him on the way out. But he, too, was gone.

  “If we hadn’t both seen that fight I’d think I was crazy,” Joe muttered, as he and Frank left.

  “Oh—oh,” Frank whispered. “Mr. Blackstone has another caller.” A linen-suited figure was approaching on foot up the drive.

  “Mr. Cutter!” Joe exclaimed.

  A moment later tall Henry Cutter mounted the steps. He glanced at the boys sharply, but merely nodded as he went past them into the house.

  “Wonder what he’s here for,” Frank mused.

  For a few minutes the brothers lingered under a huge spreading cypress near the house. They saw Blackstone draw the curtains across the bay window, but still his gruff voice could be heard clearly.

  “Those boys? Just a couple of nosy Northerners. I got rid of them. Look here, Cutter, it’s no use coming around. I won’t sell.”

  The men apparently moved away from the window, for the young detectives could hear no more. As quickly as possible they retraced their steps to the pond, and toward camp.

  “What happened to Professor Rand?” asked Joe. “I thought he got a knockout wallop. And how did Blackstone mend that broken vase so fast?”

  “I couldn’t even see a crack in it,” Frank added.

  “I wonder what Cutter wants to buy from Blackstone,” Joe said. “Something for his antique business?”

  “Wish I had an answer,” his brother replied wryly. “Let’s try our luck at Rand’s home tomorrow.”

  As they ate an early breakfast, Chet pointed out a dilapidated fishing smack some distance off shore. “Wonder what’s running,” he murmured.

  Frank and Joe did not reply. They set off for the pond. Reaching it, they turned left.

  “We’ll get Rand’s story about last night,” Frank declared.

  Huge live oaks, hung with Spanish moss, partly hid a stately white Southern mansion in need of paint. Wisteria blossoms hung bell-like from vines climbing the walls. The Hardys mounted the steps of the still stately portico, supported by high, once-white round columns.

  Frank knocked repeatedly on the door. There was no response. As they circled the neglected structure, they rapped on windows, called out, pounded on side and back doors, with no results.

  “The professor’s not here—or he just doesn’t want visitors,” Joe concluded. “All right, then—back to Blackstone‘s!”

  Samuel Blackstone’s estate, with its carefully tended flower beds and pruned shrubbery made a sharp contrast with his cousin’s run-down property. When Frank spotted a young gardener pushing a power mower, he strolled over to him.

  “Lookin’ for somebody?” The pleasant-faced young man squinted at them in the bright sunshine.

  “Yes—the elderly butler who works for Mr. Blackstone,” Joe answered. “We can’t find him.”

  “Grover?” the gardener drawled. “Well, now, he’s gone on vacation—just this morning, I hear. First one in thirty-five years. Don’t it beat all?”

  “Sure does.” Joe laughed. But the minute he and Frank were alone, Frank noted, “Mighty sudden vacation, if you ask me.”

  “Very,” Joe agreed tersely as he followed the drive, which looped around the house before leading to the road. The route took them past the dog pen. The police dogs leaped and whined as though eager to attack the boys.

  “I’d sure hate to have them at my throat!” Joe remarked, grinning.

  Meanwhile, Frank had been thinking out the boys’ next step. “We’d better head for Larchmont,” he advised, “and look up Jenny Shringle. She overheard Rand and Blackstone quarreling before, and according to Bart, she also told him the rumor that the Blackstone money originally came from smuggling.”

  “Why did she tell Worth all this?” Joe wondered, as he and Frank hurried toward their camp.

  “Revenge,” Frank reasoned. “She’d been a seamstress in the family for years, and just lately Blackstone fired her. She probably wanted to get square with him.”

  The brothers brought Chet up to date on the news, then set off in the convertible for Larchmont. Frank consulted a slip of paper, then watched the street signs until he found the one he wanted. He turned onto an unpaved road that ended in a steep railway embankment. The houses along the road were small and dingy.

  “Here we are,” Frank announced, pointing to a boxlike cottage overgrown by scraggly bushes. The Hardys went to the door and knocked.

  “Meow!” A black-and-white cat came around the corner and rubbed herself against the boys’ legs. Once more Frank rapped urgently.

  “Meow,” was the only answer.

  “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!” sang a voice nearby.

  Turning, the Hardys saw a heavy, middle-aged woman calling from the porch of the house next door. In her hands she held a saucer of milk.

  “Miss Shringle?” Frank inquired.

  “No. And I don’t know where Jenny is,” replied the woman, who appeared willing and even eager to talk. “But it’s right strange about her going. She left here without providing for her cat.”

  After placing the saucer on the ground, the neighbor continued, “Now this is why it’s funny. She left the house yesterday morning just after dawn. That’s not a time for law-abidin’ folks to be about. Jenny had no suitcase, and not even a pocketbook. Just slipped out in her best dress—really a little old shabby black one—and an old flowered hat.”

  “Do you know where she went?” Joe asked.

  The woman shrugged. “I reckon she walked out to the main road. Maybe somebody sent for her. Maybe not. But why be so sneaky about it?”

  The Hardys were noncommittal in order not to arouse the woman’s suspicions. Soon the brothers said good-by and returned to camp for lunch.

  After eating, and telling Chet about the strange disappearance, the chums rested under some pines near the tent.

  “Three people involved in this case have disappeared,” Joe summed up in exasperation.

  “And no leads as to where they might have gone!” Frank added.

  Chet yawned. “Maybe we should report these disappearances to Mr. Worth or the police.”

  “Let’s wait one more day,” Frank urged. “I want to explore the pond tonight. After all, it’s the central issue in this whole case. If we don’t turn up anything, we’ll call in the authorities.”

  “Well, I’ll hold the fort here,” Chet offered cheerfully. “Fishing’s great.”

  That evening, the hazy light of dusk found the two detectives advancing quietly among the sand dunes and the tall grass. Because of the insects, they had smeared their arms and faces with repellent. Also, as a precaution against an onslaught by Blackstone’s dogs, Joe carried a stout club.

  In the dim light the dead trees and hummocks of swamp grass assumed fantastic shapes. Frogs croaked, and now and then one would slip with a gurgle into a brown, stagnant pool. At last the boys reached the pond between the two properties.

  “This way,” whispered Frank, turning left. “Let’s try Rand’s side first.”

  He and Joe pushed through the dense growth around the pond’s edge. It was totally dark when they emerged at a flat, open space. Before them rose the branchless trunk of an ancient oak tree, nearly twenty feet high. It was silhouetted against a moonlit but partly clouded sky.

  Carefully the boys examined the remains of the old tree. “This must be one of the trees mentioned in the will,” Frank said, as the boys made their way back along the pond until they came to the Blackstone side
of the water. Here the oak stump was shorter.

  Disappointed, Frank and Joe switched off their lights and looked around. Overhead, moonlight glowed silver around the fringe of a cloud. Suddenly Joe grasped Frank’s arm and whispered, “Over there!” The yellow beam of a flashlight could be plainly seen on the far rim of the pond.

  The light moved around the oak stump like some giant firefly. Once, when the moon sailed free of clouds, the boys caught a glimpse of a tall, dark figure, pacing back and forth.

  “He’s looking for something!” Frank whispered.

  “Suppose it’s Rand?”

  The light began moving around the edge of the pond toward them. Nearer and nearer it came. The boys waited breathlessly. But before they could make a move, heavy, crashing steps retreated through the underbrush and died away.

  “We should’ve nabbed him!” Joe said in disgust.

  “At this distance?” Frank said. Then he pointed in amazement toward the middle of the pond.

  The white moon, thinly veiled by a few mackerel clouds, showed up a sudden roiling disturbance on the glassy surface. Large circles of rippling water were expanding outward. At their center a gleaming row of finlike humps slid into view. A fantastic, monstrous head rose briefly, dripping, into the moonlight. Then it sank beneath the dark waters!

  CHAPTER IV

  Skin-Diving Sleuths

  THE Hardy boys could almost believe they had beheld a prehistoric creature with its jagged fin and enormous head. Frank and Joe peered in fascination at the swamp-bordered pond.

  “There it is again!” Joe whispered in awe.

  The grotesque shape had again surfaced, and now cut through the water to the rear bank. Here it wriggled up and disappeared.

  “Come on!” Joe cried, switching on his flashlight. “Let’s go after that thing!”

  They found the swamp at the rear of the pond almost impassable. Stumbling over roots, dodging under hanging moss, sinking in the rank mire, the two boys doggedly made their way along.

  “That monster must have come out near here!” Frank panted, shining his light around.