The Hooded Hawk Mystery Read online

  “More likely it’s the latter, since the pigeon came in from the sea.” Mr. Hardy said. “We’ll do our best to find the spot.”

  Mr. Ghapur leaned forward in his chair. “Nothing must happen to Tava. He is like one of my own family. When he was just a small child, I was the guest of Satish Nayyar.” Turning to Mr. Delhi, he asked, “Do you remember the cheetah hunt?”

  “I certainly do,” Mr. Delhi recalled, “and my cousin will never forget how you saved Tava’s life, at peril of your own, when the boy was attacked by the cheetah.”

  “It was a great honor,” Ghapur said quietly. He turned back to Fenton Hardy and concluded, “I guess we’ve finished our mission here. Mr. Delhi will return with me to my home in Washington. His enemies must not know where he is, so we will leave the way we came. We are deeply grateful to you all.”

  “We’ll try to justify your gratitude,” Fenton Hardy promised.

  Mr. Delhi asked that they spare no expense in tracing down every possible clue. “Incidentally,” he added, “Tava brought along his favorite goshawk on this trip. This might help you locate him.”

  When he and Rahmud Ghapur had left, Mr. Hardy said to his sons, “I believe there’s a connection between Tava’s kidnappers, the rubies on the pigeon, and the smugglers of aliens from India. You boys made a start checking the coast-line for clues. You might follow up on that, as well as try to locate the carrier pigeons’ cote while I’m away. I’m due back in Washington tomorrow.”

  “We’ll keep after the waterfront angle,” Frank assured him. “We’re going to do some sleuthing from the air, too, to track down the pigeon’s owner.”

  The family was up early the next morning so that Fenton Hardy could catch the first plane to Washington. While the boys were feeding and watering the falcon, their mother brought them two hundred dollars cash and asked that they deposit it in the bank before three o’clock. They drove their father to the airport, then looked for their friend George Simons, who owned a helicopter.

  “No passengers ahead of us today, I hope,” said Frank.

  “You’re the first. Climb in. What are you fellows chasing this time?” the pilot asked with a smile.

  “Carrier pigeons and their home cotes,” Frank told him.

  First they flew to the end of the bay and from there headed in the southwesterly direction which the two carrier pigeons had followed. The pilot kept the helicopter at low speed while Frank scanned the land below.

  Meanwhile, Joe was watching the horizon behind them for any slow-moving boat that might be plying between some ship and the shore. He saw none but suddenly cried out:

  “Here comes a pigeon northeast of us!”

  Simons held the helicopter stationary until the bird had come alongside and moved ahead of his craft. Then he trailed it. For about eight miles the pilot kept the pigeon in sight while Frank plotted its course on a map he had brought. Then, suddenly, the bird made a dive for a sparsely wooded area.

  Simons stopped his forward flight and lowered the helicopter to get a better look. The boys carefully scrutinized the area, but there was no sign of a house or barn with a cote. Frank and Joe were puzzled, but finally concluded it must have been a wild bird that had just happened to take the southwesterly route.

  Although the Hardys spent most of the morning scouting the Bayport environs, they saw no other pigeons.

  At the airport, as the boys climbed into their convertible, Joe asked, “Where do we go from here?”

  “We ought to go to the bank,” his brother replied, starting the motor. “But let’s scout around the waterfront first for the heavy-set, sun-tanned man wearing a ruby ring.”

  Joe nodded. “How about looking for that suspicious sailor on the Daisy K? If he’s the fellow, he may be wearing the ring now.”

  They parked their car a block from the shoreline, then walked briskly to the dock area, where fishing boats, excursion steamers, deep-sea charter cruisers, and pleasure craft tied up. As the two headed for the Daisy K, Joe gripped Frank’s arm and pointed toward an outdoor lunch stand.

  “Look at the ring on that fellow on the second stool!” he said excitedly.

  A stocky, dark-skinned sailor sat there eating. As he lifted a hamburger to his mouth, the sun sparkled on a ruby ring—the same unusual ring the falcon snatcher had been wearing!

  The boys passed quickly and ducked behind a building.

  “What’ll we do now?” Joe asked.

  “Let’s confront him and see how he reacts,” Frank urged. “We’ll move in on either side.”

  “Okay.”

  They took seats next to the man and Frank looked him straight in the eye. “What did you want with our falcon?” he asked.

  The man looked up, startled. “Falcon? You’ve mistaken me for someone else,” he mumbled and backed off the stool.

  “Let’s confront him and see how he reacts,” Frank urged

  Joe gripped him by the shoulder. “If you won’t tell us, you can explain it to the police!”

  “The police? Say, what’s going on? I don’t know anything about a falcon, I swear!” The sailor’s voice grew loud and he shook off Joe’s hand.

  “Where did you get that ruby ring?” Frank broke in, stepping in front of the suspect.

  This question brought a curious reaction. Apparently the man thought the boys intended to steal it, for he yelled, “Oh, no, you don’t!” and plunged headlong at Frank, trying to move past him.

  Frank thrust out a leg in front of the sailor, who tripped over it and fell. Instantly Joe came down on his back, pinning him to the ground.

  “Now maybe we’ll get an answer!” he said.

  CHAPTER VI

  A Big Boner

  BYSTANDERS had gathered around the Hardy boys and the sailor.

  “All right, talk!” Frank ordered, dragging the man to his feet.

  The heavy-set, dark-skinned sailor straightened up. Glaring at the Hardys, he asked, “What do you want to know about my ruby ring?”

  “Where did you get it?” Joe asked.

  “Well, I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you think,” the man said sullenly. “I bought it from another sailor just last night.”

  “What did this man look like?” Frank pressed.

  The sailor suddenly reddened. “Why—er—I don’t know, but he also was Indian. Say, I can prove everything I told you!”

  Turning, he yelled to the counterman to verify his story. To the Hardys’ chagrin the counterman did so, saying he had seen the transaction.

  “We’re sure sorry,” Frank apologized. “We—we made a mistake. We’d like to make up for it.”

  The sailor grinned. “Well, all right, you can pay my lunch check,” he said. “I’m broke.”

  “Maybe we can do even better,” Joe said. “Want to sell the ring?” he asked, recalling that Mr. Delhi had said to spare no expense in following up clues.

  The sailor hesitated, then took off the ring, named the price he had paid for it, and said he would sell for a small profit. Frank paid him, as well as the lunch check, from his mother’s two hundred dollars. The sailor saluted crisply and hurried away.

  Shaking their heads ruefully, the Hardys resolved to be less hasty in jumping to conclusions. They went to the bank to deposit Mrs. Hardy’s remaining bills, then continued on toward the dock where the Daisy K tied up. She was not in port.

  “As long as we’re here,” said Joe, “we may as well make some inquiries about the crew.”

  They quizzed supply men and ships’ captains. Finally one of the captains declared:

  “That sounds like a fellow named Ragu, first mate on the Daisy K. Heavy-set. Piercing black eyes. Came from India. I’ve seen a ruby ring on him.”

  Frank and Joe could hardly believe their good fortune. That sailor they had seen leaning on the boat’s rail must have been the original owner of the ring! The captain said he had just seen him in the Sea Foam Restaurant. The boys hurried there and spotted Ragu at a table in the far comer.

 
As the Hardys approached, Ragu glanced up and half rose from his chair, then slowly settled back.

  “You’re Ragu, aren’t you?” Joe asked.

  “Of what importance is that to you?”

  “We’d like to know something about a ruby ring you’ve been wearing,” Frank told him.

  “I own no ring,” the sailor said belligerently.

  Frank displayed the ring he had just bought. “You don’t own this ring now,” he said evenly, “but you did. Where did you get it?”

  Ragu snatched the ring and hurled it away.

  “You are evil boys!” he almost screamed.

  Instinctively Frank and Joe turned to recover the ring. Frank picked it up. When the boys whirled back, Ragu was dashing out a side door.

  The Hardys started after him, but suddenly Frank stopped and said, “Joe, let him go. I’m sure that Ragu’s the fellow who grabbed the falcon from you. If he doesn’t think we’re after him, and if he’s connected with the senders of those rubies, maybe he’ll lead us to them.”

  “Guess you’re right, Frank.”

  They went back to their convertible. As Frank was about to pull away from the curb, a vivacious voice said:

  “What a beautiful ring you’re wearing, Frank.”

  Frank and Joe looked up into the smiling face of Callie Shaw, a close friend of Iola’s. Blond, quick-witted, and carefree, she appealed particularly to Frank. Although interested, and frequently very helpful in the boys’ sleuthing, the pretty brown-eyed girl loved to tease the Hardys.

  “Is the ring a gift?” Callie asked.

  “No,” Frank replied with a smile. “It’s a clue in a new case we’ve taken on.”

  Iola Morton had joined the group now and was talking to Joe. She said gaily, “Don’t forget the fish fry at the farm this afternoon.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for all the mysteries in Bayport,” Joe replied.

  “The whole gang will be there,” Iola said. “Why not bring along your hawk and give us a demonstration?”

  “Sure thing!” Frank agreed.

  “Be there about three,” Callie said. “Games first and we’ll eat at five.”

  The girls waved good-by and headed for a waterfront fish shop.

  “If we’re going to exhibit Miss Peregrine,” said Joe, “we’d better go home and groom her!”

  When they reached the house, the boys showed their mother the ring and told her how they had paid for it. “Mr. Delhi will reimburse us,” Frank explained. “I’ll put the ring in Dad’s safe.”

  After lunch he and Joe fixed a bath for the falcon. Then they changed their clothes, picked up the bird, perch, bells and lure, and set off for the Morton farm. They found a lively gathering of a dozen couples playing spirited games of softball and badminton.

  But the moment the young people saw the falcon, they focused all their attention on the bird. Joe set the perch on the ground and said they would let her fly later. The hawk remained quiet as he and Frank joined in the games.

  Finally Chet, who was wearing a flashy dark-green shirt splotched with brown and white, said, “Show them what Miss Peregrine can do, fellows.”

  Frank looked around for a quarry. Suddenly a jay flew across the field at the edge of a woods. Frank picked up the hawk, yanked off the hood and flung the hawk in its direction. As the guests excitedly watched her fly toward the jay, a short-winged goshawk came rifling in from the woods and dived toward the jay.

  “That’s a trained bird!” Frank exclaimed.

  Instantly the two hawks began to fight over the jay. Joe started forward, calling excitedly to the falcon. Frank held him back, saying:

  “It’s too late now. They’ll fight to the death.”

  But the falcon abruptly shifted to avoid the vicious talons of the goshawk and then climbed up where she would have the advantage. While the hawks were maneuvering for position, the jay disappeared in the brush.

  Frank and Joe whistled and shouted to Miss Peregrine, hoping to stop the fight. Suddenly the goshawk took flight and disappeared into the shelter of the woods. The falcon oriented herself, located the boys by the sound of their voices, and came down obediently to the feathered lure.

  “Hey! You’re pretty good!” Chet exclaimed admiringly, and the other young people applauded.

  The Hardys smiled, relieved that their falcon was safe, then looked inquiringly toward the woods into which the goshawk had vanished.

  “Come on, Joe and Chet!” Frank urged. “Let’s find the owner of the hawk! It could be Tava.”

  Frank hooded the peregrine and placed her on her perch. Then the three boys hurried into the woods.

  Joe spotted a trail of recently trampled grass. Eagerly the trio followed it. They had gone only about a hundred yards when they were confronted by a large red sign with white lettering:DANGEROUS AREA! KEEP OUT!

  The boys were puzzled, especially Chet, who was well acquainted with the woods. “Gosh, I never saw that before,” he said. “What’s going on here?”

  The land looked undisturbed. There were no signs of digging, tree-felling, or other hazardous operations.

  Farther ahead the boys came across similar warning signs.

  Frank turned to Chet. “What could make this a dangerous area?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” his puzzled friend replied. “Old Mr. Smith who owns these woods used to encourage the public to picnic here.”

  “If any big project were under way, everybody in Bayport would have heard about it,” Frank remarked.

  “Let’s split up and see if we can find out what’s going on,” Joe suggested.

  He and Chet searched a wide sweep on either side of the trail, while Frank followed the trampled path. The boys lost sight of each other as the foliage became more dense. But Frank could check the others’ positions from the sounds of their passage through the undergrowth. Soon these sounds were muffled, and the woods became a silent, twilight world.

  Suddenly from Chet’s direction came a cry for help.

  “Chet’s in trouble!” Frank yelled.

  Instantly he and Joe were crashing through the underbrush to their friend’s aid.

  CHAPTER VII

  Dangerous Explorations

  FoR several anxious moments Frank and Joe could not locate Chet. But finally they came upon him huddled in a clump of brush near a brook.

  “He’s unconscious!” gasped Joe.

  They knelt beside Chet, then carefully carried their friend out of the thicket to a clearing. As the boys gently placed him on the ground, they noticed blood oozing from a wound near the back of his head.

  “This was no accident,” Frank declared.

  “Someone gave him a heavy blow!”

  Both boys glanced around cautiously to make sure none of them was in immediate danger, then they gave Chet first aid. As Joe chafed the boy’s wrists, Frank started for the brook to soak a handkerchief to bathe Chet’s wound and brow.

  He had gone only a few feet when he heard a slight rustling sound. Looking around quickly, Frank spotted a movement in some bushes about fifty feet away. Without turning, he whispered:

  “Joe, take care of Chet. I see someone. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Frank headed for the bushes, but almost at the same moment, someone went crashing through the underbrush. The young detective increased his own pace, following the fugitive by the sounds of flight.

  Several hundred yards farther on, Frank spotted the back of a tall, thin man for a fleeting second.

  Frank put on a burst of speed which brought him closer to the man. They were both making considerable noise now, as twigs and leaves crackled under their feet. For this reason Frank was not immediately aware of footsteps behind him. When he heard them, the boy started to turn, but the next second a heavy blow caught him on the side of his head. Knees buckling, Frank pitched forward and blacked out!

  Back at the clearing, Joe had heard the sounds of the chase, but he was confident that his brother would be more than a match for any
adversary. Then he went to the brook, soaked his handkerchief in the cool water, and bathed Chet’s wound. The boy’s eyes flickered open and he looked up dazedly.

  “Take it easy,” Joe advised. “Someone knocked you out. But Frank’s after him now.”

  “I remember. Someone rushed up behind me and I yelled for help. He conked me.” Chet relaxed and closed his eyes.

  Joe sat down on a log to wait for Frank’s return. Glimpsing the sky through the trees, he could see that the afternoon was waning. It struck him that their friends at the fish fry probably were wondering about the boys’ long absence. Should he try to get Chet back and not wait for Frank? But Joe decided against this.

  “Chet should take it easy,” he thought.

  As time passed and his brother still did not return, Joe grew worried. “Chet, I’d better look for Frank,” he said. “Do you think you can make it back to the farm alone?”

  “Guess so.”

  Joe helped him to his feet. The stout boy took a few steps, then stopped, admitting that he felt dizzy.

  “You better rest a while longer,” Joe said.

  He rummaged in the undergrowth and found a strong, heavy stick. Handing it to Chet, he said, “You ought to be able to defend yourself with this. I’m going to hunt for Frank.”

  “Okay. I’ll wait here.”

  Joe moved off into the woods, trying to follow the general direction Frank had taken. Several times he gave the Hardys’ secret birdcall whistle, and listened eagerly for his brother’s response. But it never came.

  Joe trudged on, following the trail of trampled grass he had found. As he reached a dense section, he heard someone moving just ahead of him. Joe stopped and gave the whistle again. There was no reply, but the rustling grew louder. He looked about for a weapon, found a heavy stick, picked it up, and went forward.

  As Joe crept around the bole of a large tree, he saw Frank staggering along!