The Hidden Harbor Mystery Read online

  As Joe turned, something lifted him up and rushed him toward the wide-open window. With a wild cry of “Help!” Joe felt himself plunging into space!

  CHAPTER VI

  Signal Fire

  DEEP in the tower, Frank and Chet were electrified to hear a wild cry for help, and then another fainter call, which seemed to come from outside the lighthouse.

  “Fra-ank!”

  “It’s Joe!” cried Frank. He sprinted up the rickety staircase so fast that the structure shook underneath him. Chet ran behind.

  The two piled into the empty beacon room. For a moment Frank and Chet heard only the strong wind sweeping through and the sound of the sea breaking on the rocks below. Then came a kicking sound outside.

  Frank rushed to the window. Two tanned hands clung to the sill. Over the side, in the early evening darkness, he could see Joe dangling ninety feet above the sharp rocks.

  “Chet! Over here!” Frank yelled, at the same time seizing his brother’s wrists. The hefty boy was at his side in a second. Together, they hauled Joe in to safety.

  “Somebody—threw me—out!” the boy gasped as he sank to the floor to rest. “I managed to grab the sill.”

  “Thank goodness you did,” said Frank.

  Chet said in astonishment, “But there’s nobody on the island!”

  “Wait!” Frank signaled abruptly. “Quiet!”

  Speechless, the three boys listened. The sea crashed over the rocks. The wind hummed through the room. Did they also hear creaking on the old staircase below?

  Frank hurried stealthily halfway down the steps. But he neither saw nor heard anything and returned to the platform.

  “You sure the wind didn’t blow you out?” Chet asked Joe. “It’s pretty strong.”

  “No.” By now Joe had recovered from his close call. “I was grabbed and pushed through the window. No doubt about it.”

  “But how could anybody have climbed the stairs without our knowing it?” Frank frowned.

  “There’s got to be an answer,” Joe returned. “Let’s have a look at the stairs. Anybody got a flashlight?”

  Chet produced a tiny one from a pocket, but it would not light. “Guess it needs new batteries,” he apologized.

  Frank brought out a packet of matches and lighted their way down. When he reached the two missing steps, Frank cautiously leaned down into the open space and struck another match. A network of thick diagonal supporting beams was revealed in the flickering light.

  “A risky place to hide,” he said. “But it could be done by a strong and agile person.”

  “We’d better face up to it,” Joe said somberly. “We’re being dogged by a dangerous enemy, and he’s on this island with us!”

  “Yes,” Frank agreed, swiftly piecing together recent events. “He must have been dropped off by that speedboat we saw heading away. Then he untied our boat and hid among the rocks until he heard us mention lighting the beacon.”

  “You mean he slipped up to the tower ahead of us?” Chet asked.

  Frank nodded. “He stayed behind these supports until Joe climbed to the beacon, then followed. He slipped down the stairs while we were pulling Joe in. That was the creaking we heard.”

  “All right,” agreed Joe. “But we’ll have a hard time finding him at night if he’s hiding out in those rocks. We have nothing but matches.”

  Frank and Chet pulled out their packets, which were only partly filled.

  Most of these matches were used to hunt for the fourth person who, they learned, was not inside the lighthouse.

  “Only one thing for us to do,” said Frank. “We’ll lock the door and bunk in the keeper’s quarters. Whoever our enemy is can spend the night on the rocks! Then in the morning we’ll find him.”

  “Good plan,” Joe assented. “We’ll take turns standing guard.”

  As Frank took the first watch, Joe and Chet stretched out on the floor to sleep. At midnight Frank awakened the stout boy. Joe took the early-morning shift. There had not been a disturbing sound during the night.

  At dawn the three stranded sleuths emerged from the lighthouse. A red ball of sun was coming out of the steel-gray sea. A light mist hung over the water.

  “The third straight meal I’ve missed,” moaned Chet in a voice of genuine suffering.

  Manfully, however, he handed round a breakfast of cookies and two gulps of water apiece. “Just enough for lunch and supper,” he said, and carefully stored the provisions again. “Maybe I can catch a fish later.”

  “Now, let’s find our enemy,” said Frank. “And stay together, so we can handle him when we do!”

  All morning, as the sun rose higher, the boys combed the deep cuts and passageways in the rocks.

  “How could anybody hide here?” Chet wondered.

  “He couldn‘t,” Joe assured him. “I believe someone came back here in a boat and took the intruder away. Probably turned off the motor and used oars so we wouldn’t hear what was going on.”

  Chet now asked, “Why didn’t the beacon work last night?”

  “Gas didn’t get up to the light,” Joe reported. “I never did smell it. Probably there’s a break in the old line.”

  “How about the lamps up there?” suggested Chet. He referred to a circle of oil lamps, backed by once-shiny tin reflectors, extending all around the tower platform.

  “No oil,” Frank said. “Those go back to the days when this light was built—long before it was converted to acetylene.”

  At that moment Joe, in his dark-blue jersey, gazed at the tower. Frank looked at his brother, then at his own maroon shirt. Finally he stared with sudden hope at Chet’s white garment, which blazed with a wild, colorful design.

  “Say, what are you up to?” the chunky boy asked uneasily.

  “We need your shirt,” replied Joe. “It’ll be a perfect distress flag.”

  With a martyred air, Chet pulled off his shirt, and the Hardys rigged it on the shaft of an old broom in the lighthouse. They mounted the signal on the tower.

  “So far, so good,” Joe said when they were on the ground once more. “What about a signal for tonight? Let’s find something to make a fire.”

  Another tour of the island turned up only a few sodden bits of driftwood. After a cheerless lunch of water and cookies, Frank and Joe went to scour the lighthouse for fuel, while Chet tried his best to snare a fish but failed.

  After a time the brothers dragged out a heavy armchair with the stuffing about to burst from the seams. While they kicked this apart, Chet looked curiously at a little brick structure about the size of a dog kennel.

  “Hello—an old brick oven,” he thought.

  The opening had been sealed up with brick and masonry. Chet worked at the mortar with his pocketknife. It crumbled, and Chet pulled out the bricks. He peered inside.

  “A tin box!” he yelled. “Treasure!”

  Instantly Frank and Joe left their demolished chair and rushed over.

  “There’s more than treasure,” Joe said excitedly, peering in. “Look at that pile of newspapers! Now we’ll get a fire going tonight!”

  He yanked out a great stack of old papers, somewhat damp and moldy with age.

  “What’s new in the world?” quipped Chet. “Say, these are funny newspapers. No headlines.”

  “ ‘The relief of General McClellan from command of the American Federal armies has been announced,’ ” Joe read from one of the small-print columns. “Hey! It’s all about the Civil War. These papers were published in London.”

  “Our history teacher will shoot us if we burn these,” Chet objected.

  “If we don’t burn them, we may never see our history class again,” Frank reminded him. “Let’s just hope we won’t have to. Open that tin box, Chet.”

  Using his knife, the stout boy complied. Inside was a package of papers, carefully tied with a printed note on top.

  “It says these papers were saved from the Sally Ann, an English ship returning to America, when she was wrecked on the reef,�
� he announced.

  “Dull stuff, probably,” commented Joe. With Chet’s help, he began spreading the old newspapers in the sun to dry, weighting them with bricks from the oven.

  Frank, meanwhile, leafed through the little package of documents. They were mostly shipping invoices and insurance papers for the ship’s cargo. Dull stuff, as Joe had said. But then, tucked among them, a note on plain white paper caught his attention. Suddenly he leaped to his feet.

  “Joe! Chet! Listen to this! It’s a memo from the Sally Ann‘s captain to himself!”

  When the other two had dashed over, astonished, Frank read the memo:

  “ ‘Last voyage—my friend, Clement Blackstone, embarked with his entire family for England, from Hidden Harbor. Before sailing, Clement informed me, as his boyhood friend, that the family fortune and papers were hidden nearby, and gave me directions for finding them, in case he should never return. Memorized directions in order to avoid committing them to writing.’ ”

  Joe gave a whistle. “Maybe you didn’t find a treasure, Chet, but you’ve given us a clue to one. But where’s Hidden Harbor? There’s nothing hidden about Larchmont’s inlet.”

  “Hidden Harbor,” Frank mused. “Wherever it is, the Blackstone fortune is nearby.”

  Joe sighed. “If we don’t get off this island, we’ll never find it,” he reminded the others. “Let’s spread out the rest of these papers to dry, and then get the chair stuffing out in the sun, too.”

  They waited hopefully throughout the day for their distress signal to be noticed, but no one appeared. Finally, when evening came, the three boys carried the stuffing, the papers, and pieces of the wooden chair-frame to the highest point on the rocks. A starlit sky spread overhead, but a hard wind and a heavy sea had set in. The high-dashing spray was caught by the wind and whipped over the little island like gusts of fine rain. While Frank and Chet acted as shields, Joe lighted one of their few remaining matches. A feeble flame began to lick at the crumpled papers, only to be extinguished by the driving spray. Another match was used, with the same result.

  “Shall we use our last two matches?” Joe asked.

  “Try one more,” Frank answered.

  This time a bluish-yellow finger of flame climbed, spread out, caught at the chair stuffing, and began to lick at the wood.

  At that moment a shout, followed by the sudden roar of a motor, brought the boys to their feet.

  “It came from the jetty!” cried Joe.

  Racing around the lighthouse, they saw a dark figure leap into a motorboat, which then churned out from the island.

  Frank and Joe ran at top speed to the end of the stone dock, plunged into the rough water, and struck out after the fleeing boat.

  For a while the heavy waves slowed the boat more than the swimmers. But just as Joe came within grabbing distance, it suddenly spurted ahead and roared off into the darkness.

  “Where was that guy hiding?” Frank asked himself dismally.

  Thoroughly soaked and chattering with cold, the Hardys returned to their fire, only to find darkness.

  “I did my best to keep it alive,” Chet apologized.

  The heavy spray had quenched the flames, and the high wind had scattered the remaining paper all over the wet rocks.

  CHAPTER VII

  Amusement Park Trouble

  MISERABLY, the three boys plodded back to the shelter of the lighthouse. Hunger and the lack of dry clothes combined to make a fitful night’s sleep. Next day, as the marooned trio stepped into the morning sunlight, a faint droning sound alerted them to a silvery object passing high overhead.

  “A seaplane!” Joe cried wildly. “Hey! Help!”

  Stripping off their shirts, Frank and Joe waved madly, while Chet bellowed at the top of his lungs. The plane continued toward the mainland.

  “No breakfast ration today, boys,” Chet said grimly. “No cookies, no water. I won’t put up with it. There are fish in this ocean, and I’m going to get one somehow!”

  While the stout boy lumbered off with a determined frown, Frank and Joe discussed the case once more.

  “Who’s trying to get rid of us?” asked Frank. “Blackstone? Then he sure will go to any length to keep Bart from proving the rumor.”

  “It must be Blackstone,” Joe decided. “He deliberately let us think Rand was out here. He must have faked that note.”

  “He could have been fooled by it,” Frank commented. “Who else might have guessed we’d come here? Cutter? Stewart? The boat owner?”

  “Maybe Cutter and Stewart,” Joe agreed. “That pale-faced Cutter seems mighty interested in us. Maybe he’s working for Blackstone.”

  A shout from Chet interrupted their speculations. Dripping wet, the stout boy hustled toward them. In his arms gleamed a big mackerell

  “It was washed into a tide pool,” he cried excitedly. “I waded in after it!”

  A few minutes were enough to rip out part of the railing of the wooden staircase and build a fire. “Here goes my last match,” said Chet. Soon he had planked the mackerel in fine style. Using sea water for salt, the boys regaled themselves on the tasty fish.

  As they finished, a drone overhead announced the return of the silver seaplane. The boys signaled frantically. This time the craft circled once, then settled down on the calm water.

  “Hot dog!” yelled Chet in fervent relief.

  The seaplane taxied up to the stone dock, and the cabin door opened. “Hello, there,” called the slim, sunburned young pilot, leaning out. “I didn’t see your signals earlier, but my passenger did. He didn’t tell me until we landed—thought it was a joke.”

  “Some joke!” said Chet as the boys clambered in.

  “Figured ”I’d better check,“ said the pilot. ”My name’s Al West. I’ll take you to Larchmont Airport and drive you to town, if that’ll help.“

  “Thanks a million!” Joe said gratefully.

  “Same here!” Frank exclaimed. “We thought we were stuck on that rock pile for good!”

  Exactly one hour later the Hardys and Chet, who was still shirtless, stepped from Al West’s car, waved good-by, and trooped into the Larchmont Record office.

  Bart Worth stared at them, flabbergasted, and upon hearing their story, expressed still further amazement. “You come home with me for a change of clothes and a solid meal,” he ordered. “And you’d better forget my case. This newspaper isn’t worth risking your lives.”

  “We’ll accept that meal,” Frank answered for the three, “but if you think anything could keep us from this job now, you’re mistaken. We have several scores of our own to settle.”

  While the hungry youths feasted at Worth’s bountiful table, the editor paced the floor.

  “The lawsuit against me is coming up for trial, and I haven’t a shred of proof that some outsider tampered with my editorial,” he said. “Jenny Shringle first told me that story. She may have something to back it up, if we could find her.”

  “Somebody besides her neighbor must have seen her leave,” Frank reasoned. “We’ll comb the town.”

  “Good!” said Worth. “I’ll come along.”

  The boys set out, accompanied by the editor. First, Chet bought a blazing yellow shirt with a pattern of zigzag lightning on it.

  “This’ll make a swell distress signal”—he grinned—“if we need one again.”

  They started from the town square and questioned everyone who might have noticed the seamstress departing a few mornings before. No one had. Gradually the four worked their way to the docks, where the man from whom the boys had rented the boat eyed them suspiciously.

  “Where’s my boat?” he asked.

  “Drifted off,” Frank answered.

  “Drifted off! Then you all will pay for her!”

  Bart Worth immediately drew out his checkbook. “You boys were working in my interest when you lost it,” he insisted, despite the Hardys’ protests.

  Once more they pressed the search. Suddenly Frank halted before a small gift shop not far fr
om the docks.

  “Those two oriental vases,” he said, pointing to the window. “They’re the same kind as the one Blackstone used to hit Rand!”

  Eagerly the party went into the store. Chet noticed a small, shy-looking Negro boy, who had been tagging them constantly, enter after them.

  “Oh, those china vases,” the shopkeeper said in answer to Frank’s question. “Yes, they’re always sold in pairs.”

  “That explains how Blackstone replaced his,” Frank murmured to the others, as they turned to go. Quickly the little lad slipped out in front of them.

  “That kid’s been eavesdropping on us for half an hour,” Chet finally remarked.

  “That youngster?” Bart shook his head doubtfully. “He’s doing no harm, I’m sure.”

  Next, the Hardys and their friends stopped at an open-air fish market. While Frank, Joe, and Bart questioned the paunchy vendor, Chet watched the little boy sneak up behind the high wheel of a loaded cart of fish, and listen with bright, inquisitive eyes.

  “Jenny Shringle?” the vendor repeated. “Sure, I saw her. Just the other day, early—”

  Crash! Chet had made a frantic dive at the little eavesdropper. The boy had dodged nimbly, but Chet had caused the whole cartload of fresh, wet fish to tip forward on its two wheels. The fish cascaded in a heap on top of Chet!

  “My fish!” cried the vendor.

  “My new shirt!” Chet wailed.

  “Get that kid!” cried Joe to others on the street. But the little boy disappeared.

  After Chet had been helped to his feet, and the Hardys had paid for the fish, the vendor, mollified, went on with his story.

  “I was settin’ up my stall t‘other morning. Pretty soon I saw Jenny come by and get on the six-o’clock bus for Sea City. She’s got kin there, you know, Mr. Worth. Right funny, though, she didn’t carry a suitcase.”

  “That settles it,” said Frank with satisfaction. “We’re off for Sea City!”

  They hurried back to the Record’s parking lot, where the four got into Worth’s green sedan and sped out to the boys’ camp among the dunes. Here Chet quickly changed his fishy shirt, and the party drove off.

  They traveled at the highest legal speed toward Sea City. Suddenly Bart slowed down.