The Clue of the Screeching Owl Page 3

  Frank and Joe, who had just emerged from the trees, sat down on a rock to catch their breath.

  “There’s one witch that doesn’t need a broomstick,” observed Joe, shaking his head ruefully.

  Frank had removed his binoculars from the leather case hanging in front of him. He trained them on the rim of the valley where the strange figure had vanished.

  Meanwhile, Chet had reached the side of the hollow. After a toiling climb the panting boy hove into view. “Whew! I thought I’d never catch up with you fellows. But old Chet wasn’t going to stay down in those woods by himself. Say,” he asked, looking around at the rocks apprehensively, “where’s the—the guy with the face?”

  “Escaped,” Joe replied.

  Frank, unable to spot the figure with his binoculars, moved up higher on the rock. He began to examine the entire perimeter of the little valley systematically. By means of the glasses every fissure, every possible hiding place in the rock rim could be studied. Nothing suspicious appeared beneath Frank’s scrutiny. Finally he turned the glasses upon the floor of Black Hollow.

  “See anything?” Joe called.

  “Lots of trees, that’s all.”

  As Frank continued to sweep the binoculars through a slow arc toward the end of the hollow, he was surprised to see a small clearing.

  “Hold on—here’s something!” he called down. Joe and Chet started upward.

  “Well, what do you know about that!” declared Frank in an astonished voice, as Chet and Joe clambered up beside him. Silently he handed the glasses to his brother and pointed the direction with his finger. At first Joe saw only the little clearing at the edge of the trees.

  “Look at the base of the rock wall,” Frank said. “Look very closely at the pile of tree trunks and rocks you see there.”

  Wondering, Joe did so. Suddenly it occurred to him that the rocks and logs had been put together in a careful, regular manner.

  “Why,” he burst out, “that’s not a pile at all. It’s a little building! There aren’t any windows, but I’d say it was a very cleverly camouflaged cabin.”

  “You’re right, fellows,” Chet agreed, when it came his turn to look. “Who would want to live in a place like that, anyway? Say, do you suppose it’s the queer guy with the creepy face?”

  “Could be,” Joe answered. “Anyway, whoever lives there may be able to tell us where Captain Maguire is. Let’s go and find out—right now.”

  “Aw, way down there to the end of the hollow? Have a heart, fellows. What about lunch?”

  But Chet’s protests fell on deaf ears. As the hungry boy knew from past experience, when the Hardy boys were following up a promising clue, ordinary things like lunches did not count!

  Leaving the bright sunshine of the exposed rocks, the trio descended once more into the gloomy hollow. Frank and Joe quickly reached the forest floor.

  As they waited for Chet, they heard a crashing sound from above and a familiar voice booming, “Help! Gangway!” As they jumped to one side, Chet came sliding down the steep hillside. He tumbled in a heap on the moss below.

  “Jumpin’ toads!” Joe exclaimed. “I thought the whole rock face was caving in on us!”

  “Can I help it if I’m not made for these pesky mountains?” demanded Chet in an injured tone.

  While Joe helped Chet get up, Frank scouted ahead to find the path once more. In a few minutes he located it.

  “It isn’t much of a trail any more,” Frank reported. “But it’s going in the direction we want.”

  Half an hour’s walk brought them to the edge of the little clearing where Frank, raising his hand, signaled a halt. Even from there the mysterious little house was difficult to see, though it was not more than a dozen yards away.

  Warily the boys scrutinized the clearing, as well as the odd house built of rocks and logs. It had a dark-brown door. Seeing no one, the boys stepped into the open, crossed the intervening space, and knocked boldly on the wooden door.

  “Nobody home,” muttered Joe as Frank knocked again and again. “I’m sure I heard something, though.”

  Chet, meanwhile, had poked his head around one corner of the log cabin. “Wonder what’s fenced in over there?” He walked to the high palings of a strange, three-sided enclosure.

  “What do you see?” called Joe, as the stout boy peered through the fence.

  “Baa!”

  “There’s your answer. Sheep!” Chet grinned. “Guess I scared ’em.”

  “Well, nobody’s inside the house, that’s certain,” Frank concluded. “Let’s take a look at the rest of the outside.”

  Accordingly, the three proceeded around the other side of the mysterious structure. Abruptly they found themselves face to face with the rock wall of the hollow. The strange little house had no fourth man-made side!

  “Do you suppose whoever built this house was just lazy?” Joe wondered. “And used the rock for his wall? Or could there be some other reason?”

  “The house certainly blends in with the rock,” Frank reminded him. “You couldn’t distinguish it from a distance without field glasses.”

  “We might as well head back,” said Joe. “There isn’t anything doing here. Personally, I’d like to find out who owns this house. In fact, it would be interesting to know who owns Black Hollow.”

  “Let’s not forget Captain Maguire,” Frank reminded them gravely. “This house and the person who was spying on us may or may not have something to do with his disappearance. Of one thing we are sure—something happened to the captain here in the hollow. The sooner we get to town and report it to the sheriff, the better!”

  An hour’s vigorous hiking brought them back to Captain Maguire’s cabin on the opposite rim of the hollow. While Chet grabbed a box of crackers and three apples, Frank penciled a brief note.

  “For Captain Maguire—in case he comes back,” Frank put at the top.

  Joe and Chet said nothing. The three boys climbed into the yellow convertible and headed for the sheriff’s office at Forestburg. All were convinced that the captain had met with trouble.

  CHAPTER V

  A Reluctant Sheriff

  EXPERTLY Frank piloted the yellow convertible down steep, winding Rim Road. As it passed the Thompsons’ unpainted house at the foot, the boys caught sight of little Bobby on the front porch, his chin in his hands.

  “Poor kid,” said Chet. “Reminds me, we haven’t found any trace of his dog.”

  “Maybe the pup has come home,” Joe suggested.

  But Chet shook his head doubtfully. “Bobby wouldn’t look as if he’d lost his best friend, and Skippy would be with him.”

  “You’re probably right, Chet,” Joe admitted. “Mrs. Thompson said many other dogs have disappeared around here. I’ll bet it’s the work of an animal thief.”

  “But who would want to steal people’s pets, and why?” demanded Chet, bewildered.

  At this, Frank chuckled. “Mrs. Thompson says the witch does it,” he answered jokingly.

  To Frank’s surprise, his brother received his suggestion seriously. “I’m convinced there’s a tie-in between the witch and these lost dogs,” Joe stated. “Don’t forget, Captain Maguire connected them in his calendar notations. It all fits the witch legend.”

  “Cut it out, Joe!” Chet protested nervously. “You don’t believe that story?”

  “No,” Joe replied. “But I’ll bet plenty of other people around here do. The Pennsylvania Dutch settled in many areas, even over here. They weren’t really Dutch, but Germans, who came to our country between two and three hundred years ago for religious freedom. Anyhow, the old-timers brought some queer beliefs with them, such as the power of witches, charms, and spells. I’ve read that some of their descendants still hold on to these superstitions.”

  “Mrs. Thompson does,” Chet put in.

  But Frank had already guessed what his brother was driving at. “Joe, do you think someone is deliberately trying to revive the witch legend by stealing dogs?”

  “Ye
s. But don’t ask me why.”

  The drive to Forestburg, through sparsely inhabited country and over narrow, twisting roads, took nearly two hours. Joe, a keen student of history, used the time to comment on the customs of people in Pennsylvania Dutch country. “After all,” he reminded his companions, “a belief in witches wasn’t uncommon. The Puritans in New England believed in them too, you know.”

  The car emerged from the hills onto the main street of Forestburg. On one side, the cross streets climbed steeply upward; on the other, behind substantial frame houses, ran a swift mountain river. An old stone mill stood by the water.

  “That’s where people brought their grain for grinding in the old days,” Joe pointed out.

  Another building, with the name GILLER’S GENERAL STORE on the window, attracted Chet’s attention. Outside were bright wash tubs, coils of rope, shiny new tools, and sacks of feed.

  “I’ll get out here,” the stout boy announced. “Somebody has to keep us in provisions while you two are busy with detective work!”

  Frank parked, and Chet went into the general store. The Hardys proceeded down the street to the county courthouse, a trim, white wooden building, with round pillars supporting a wide porch in front.

  The door to the county clerk’s office pushed open under the pressure of Frank’s knock. Inside, the boys could see a big, old-fashioned roll-top desk. Its many pigeonholes were stuffed with papers. The top of the desk, too, was littered; the various papers held down by four heavy metal paperweights.

  “Hello?” Frank called. “Anyone in?”

  In a moment a door at the back of the office opened. A friendly, middle-aged woman wearing glasses entered.

  “Yes, boys? Mr. Fry, the clerk, has gone out. May I help you?”

  “We’d like to do some camping down in Black Hollow,” Frank answered. “We want to find out the owner’s name and ask his permission.”

  The woman, a native of the district, was able to answer the question without looking at the records.

  “My goodness, that whole valley always belonged to the Donner family. But they’ve pretty much disappeared from around here. I don’t know if there’s any of ’em left now. The sheriff could tell you. He’s across the hall.”

  Frank made a brief note of the name Donner. Then he and Joe thanked her and went out. Joe tapped on the glass of a door marked SHERIFF.

  “Come in!” called a deep voice.

  A short, heavy-set man, with a thick iron-gray mustache, was just replacing the receiver of his telephone. He seemed extremely busy. His vest hung open, revealing colorful suspenders, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up on his strong forearms. The sheriff turned in his swivel chair to face the Hardys, who quickly introduced themselves. They learned the official’s name was Ecker.

  “Well, what’s on your minds?” he demanded.

  Briefly, Frank and Joe related the facts of Captain Maguire’s disappearance and expressed their fears for his safety. The sheriff listened with a preoccupied frown on his face and seemed scarcely to heed their story.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked when they had finished.

  “We want someone to come and help us search Black Hollow, sir,” Frank replied promptly.

  Wearily the sheriff shook his head. “Too late to get any kind of party together today,” he said. “I’ll be mighty lucky if I can do anything about it tomorrow. All my men, regulars and special deputies, are tied up trying to catch that gang hijacking goods from interstate trucks.”

  Frank and Joe looked at each other, thinking, “Dad’s case?”

  “There’s no time to waste,” Joe pleaded urgently. “Captain Maguire’s life may be in danger!”

  “Now take it easy, boys,” the sheriff’s gruff manner softened. “Maybe your friend just went for a hike alone. He might even be back in his cabin right now, waiting for you fellows. I can’t pull my men off this other job without more evidence.”

  “But we found his flashlight!” Joe persisted. “And also the shotgun, bloodstained leaves, and pieces of cloth!”

  Sheriff Ecker sighed. “I just haven’t the men today. I’ll do my best to get a party together in the morning, but I won’t promise.”

  “There must be somebody around who could help us!” Joe insisted.

  Sheriff Ecker had already begun to study the report in front of him. Suddenly he looked up.

  “Now that I think of it, there’s Mr. Donner, who lives down in the hollow all by himself. He must know every stone and bush in the place. His family has owned it since way back, y’see. He’ll be very glad to help you boys, because that’s the kind of man he is—always very friendly and helpful.”

  At this news the Hardy brothers exchanged a quick, puzzled look. “Did you say he lives in the hollow?” Frank asked.

  “Yes. Don’t know just where his cabin is, myself—never been there. But I guess you can find it.”

  Frank and Joe left the courthouse and found Chet waiting for them in the car. On the back seat were three big bags filled with groceries. “Found a nice place where we can have lunch,” he announced cheerfully. “How’d you two make out?”

  “Terrible,” Joe replied flatly. “Sheriff’s too busy to help us. Looks as if we’re on our own. What do you think, Frank? Shall we call Dad? We can reach him through the New Jersey State Police headquarters.”

  “He might have some suggestions,” Frank agreed.

  “If you’re thinking of telephoning,” Chet put in importantly, “better listen to me first. I found out a few things about this town. Know who the biggest gossip in Forestburg is? Mrs. Giller, the wife of the owner of the general store. Know who the local telephone operator is? Mrs. Giller. Anything confidential you have to say to your father will be heard by Mrs. Giller.”

  “I get you,” Joe said. “There’s not much Dad could do right away, anyhow,” he added. “And at least we ought to give the sheriff a chance to come through with a search party. If that doesn’t work out, then we can see what Dad suggests.”

  “Right.” Frank nodded. “We’ll wait till morning. If no searchers arrive, we’ll hunt up this Mr. Donner.”

  “Do you suppose he lives in the queer little house?” Joe asked.

  “Could be,” Frank answered. “We didn’t see any other cabin through the field glasses.”

  Frank had started the car and he followed Chet’s directions to a diner. It proved to be an excellent eating place. Hot, juicy hamburgers and milk soon revived the boys’ energy. Frank spoke with optimism.

  “I’ve been thinking about the search,” he told the others. “I have an idea for going ahead on our own.”

  Eagerly Joe and Chet gave him their attention.

  “We’re going to an animal auction,” Frank announced.

  “An animal auction!” Joe echoed. “Where?”

  “On the outskirts of the next town. I saw the advertisement in the window of Giller’s store as we went by. The auction is being held today, and ought to be starting in half an hour.”

  “But what are we going to buy?” Chet wanted to know. “Not an animal!”

  “We sure are—a dog,” Frank answered. “A dog to bait a trap. We’ll take him back to Captain Maguire’s cabin. If somebody’s been stealing dogs, I just hope he tries to take ours, because we’re going to be ready for him!”

  “Great idea!” Joe said enthusiastically.

  “Well, okay,” agreed Chet doubtfully, “as long as we’re careful. I’d hate to see harm come to any dog.”

  “Don’t worry, Chet,” Frank assured him. “We’ll be on guard.”

  A few minutes later the boys started off once more. As they left the tiny village, the ride became increasingly bumpy.

  “Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “This sure is a washboard road. Must’ve been built in horse-and-buggy days.”

  Recent heavy rains had gullied the roadbed and left large exposed stones that pounded the tires unmercifully.

  “We’re going to crash through!” Chet yelled

&nbs
p; After descending a long hill in a series of hairpin turns, the car approached a small iron-railing bridge across a deep chasm. The waters of an overfull mountain river churned below. A sign at the bridge read:

  CAPACITY LOAD 5 TONS

  “Guess you’ll have to swim over, Chet,” Frank said jokingly.

  The plump boy snorted indignantly as the big convertible rolled onto the planks of the bridge. When it was halfway across, a splintering, cracking sound gave warning that the wooden planks were giving way!

  “We’re going to crash through!” Chet yelled.

  CHAPTER VI

  Unusual Bait

  As Frank Hardy heard the crunching sound of the planks collapsing beneath the car, the thought flashed through his mind: “Keep going! It’s our only chance!” Instantly he pushed the gas pedal to the floor.

  There was a whine of rubber on wood and a splintering sound. The back end of the convertible seemed to shudder and sink. Then at the last second the spinning tires caught hold. The convertible lurched forward and was out of danger on the other side of the bridge.

  “Whew!” exclaimed Frank, stopping the car. “What did I tell you, Chet? We should have let you cross the bridge by yourself!”

  But Chet was too thankful for their narrow escape to retort. Joe was already out of the car. “Let’s have a look around,” he urged.

  Firmly taking hold of the iron railings, the brothers ventured out onto the bridge. Two planks dangled toward the dark water, and one was missing entirely.

  “We’ll have to do something,” Joe declared, “to warn other drivers.”

  Crossing to the opposite bank, Frank and Joe set up a temporary roadblock by rolling some logs down from the wooded hillside. Meanwhile, Chet arranged a line of good-sized rocks to close off the bridge on the other end.

  “We must report this as soon as we come to a phone,” Joe remarked.

  For more than a mile the road continued through wooded hills. At last the boys reached a farmhouse. On the rural mailbox was the name Wynn. Frank explained the situation at the bridge to the family, who had just sat down to an early supper. Immediately the father left the table to phone the police.