The Pentagon Spy Page 5

  Frank walked around the building knocking on the windows and at the back door, all to no avail. He was wondering what to do next when out of the corner of his eye he noticed a movement in the underbrush flanking the woods. A man was sneaking away!

  Frank called out for him to stop, but the stranger started to run. Guiding himself by the sound of crashing through the underbrush, Frank ran after him. He caught up with the fugitive about twenty yards into the woods. Panting for breath, the man swung around, and his face became visible in the beam of Frank’s flashlight.

  He was Crow Morven!

  “What were you doing hiding in the bushes?” Frank demanded.

  “I was on my way home. When I saw you sneaking around the house, I thought you were a burglar, so I watched you.”

  “Didn’t you hear me call Mr. Hammerley and recognize my voice?” Frank asked.

  Morven shook his head, pulling loose of Frank’s grip. The young detective realized he had no right to stop the foreman, so he let him go and watched him disappear into the woods. Then he returned to the loft. Dawn was just breaking.

  “Morven’s our prime suspect,” Joe said after hearing Frank’s tale.

  His brother agreed. “Unfortunately, we still don’t have any proof.”

  The boys decided there was no point in remaining in the loft, now that the weather vane was gone. They moved to the front porch of the house and sat on wicker chairs around a small table until the housekeeper arrived at 8:00 A.M. She let them in with her key, saying she was surprised that Mr. Hammerley was still in bed. “He’s always up when I get here,” she added, shaking her head. She went upstairs, calling the farmer.

  At last he appeared, breathing slowly and with his face flushed. Yawning drowsily he invited the boys to have breakfast with him. “Anything exciting happen during the night?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” Frank said hesitantly. “The Flashing Arrow was stolen!”

  “What!” Hammerley exploded.

  Frank explained how the thieves had managed to remove the weather vane, and he watched Hammerley’s angry face with apprehension.

  “You knew the thieves might try to steal my antique. Why did you let them take it from under your noses?” the farmer thundered.

  “We didn’t expect a chopper,” Chet pointed out. “Neither did you.”

  Hammerley simmered down. “You have a point there, young man. This is the first time I ever heard of robbery by helicopter.” He frowned thoughtfully, then sat down at the table. “So the crooks changed their method of operation. Is my hex sign still there?”

  “It’s there,” Joe confirmed. “‘They had no chance to take it.”

  “We tried to phone you after it happened,” Frank said, “but the line was cut.” He explained how he had attempted to deliver the message in person, only to find complete silence at the house.

  “I can’t understand why I didn’t hear you,” the farmer said. “I’m usually a light sleeper. But I didn’t hear the helicopter you described, either. And I overslept this morning. Couldn’t seem to wake up when Mrs. Smith called me. It’s mystifying.”

  “Not if you were slipped a drug,” Frank declared. He looked closely at the farmer. “You were breathing rather slowly when you came down, and your face was red,” he added. “Those are symptoms of chloral mixed with alcohol. Did you take anything before you went to sleep last night?”

  “Only my nighttime cocoa.”

  “Where’s the cup?”

  “It was on my bedside table. Mrs. Smith may have taken it to the kitchen by now.”

  “We’d like to see it before she washes it.”

  Hammerley led the way into the kitchen. The housekeeper was just about to put the cup into the sink.

  “Hold it, Mrs. Smith!” Joe called. “May we have that cup for a moment?”

  She handed it to the boy. At the bottom were the crusted remains of the cocoa Hammerley had drunk the night before.

  “I’ll get the kit,” Joe offered and went upstairs to the room where they had left their bags. Soon he returned with a small detective box the boys always carried with them on their trips. He set it on the kitchen table and removed an eyedropper with a chemical in it. He added a few drops of water from the faucet, then squeezed the solution onto the caked remains of the cup. Transparent crystals formed at the bottom.

  “That’s chloral hydrate!” Joe declared. “Mr. Hammerley, you were drugged!”

  “Seems like a strong dose,” Frank added. “Who made your cocoa last night?”

  “Mrs. Smith, as usual,” Hammerley replied.

  The housekeeper’s face went ashen. “I didn’t put anything in Mr. Hammerley’s cocoa!” she cried out.

  Chet put an arm around the excited woman’s shoulder. “No one’s accusing you,” he said, trying to calm her.

  “Let’s test the can of cocoa,” Frank suggested. He tried the same experiment and discovered there were knockout drops in the can, too. “That means anyone who had access to the can during the day could have done it,” he concluded.

  “It must have been yesterday,” Hammerley stated. “I had cocoa from that can the night before last, and it was perfectly all right then.”

  “Can you remember who came to your house yesterday?” Joe prodded.

  Hammerley frowned. “The usual tradesmen, some grain dealers from Lancaster, and a couple of politicians who want me to run for the town council in the next election.”

  “Crow Morven was here,” Chet pointed out.

  “Yes, but only in the front room,” Hammerley replied. “He wasn’t in the kitchen.”

  “He could have sneaked in while no one was looking,” Joe suggested.

  “Morven wouldn’t do a thing like that!” Hammerley defended his foreman. “I trust him.”

  “He sneaked into the barn last night,” Joe reminded the farmer. “And he was hiding in the bushes after the helicopter took off.”

  Hammerley shrugged. “He thought he left his jacket. And later he told you he was on his way home. He stays up until that time quite often, checking around the property to see that everything is all right.”

  Frank signaled Joe not to press the matter any further. Apparently Hammerley trusted his foreman, and they would need proof to convince him of any wrongdoing on Morven’s part.

  Just then the foreman walked into the house. When he heard what had happened, he jeered at the boys. “You guys are a great bunch of detectives! Fooled by a copter.”

  He urged Hammerley to fire the young sleuths, since they had not been able to prevent the theft.

  “After all,” he insisted, “the weather vane was safe while I was on guard in the barn!”

  “Maybe you know more about the chopper than we do!” Chet challenged him.

  Morven glared at Frank. “I was on the ground when the chopper came overhead. You saw me. Remember?”

  “Correct,” Frank admitted.

  Hammerley intervened in the dispute. “The question is, what to do now?”

  “We lost the Flashing Arrow,” Joe stated. “But we’re determined to find it and bring it back!”

  “Where will you begin?” Hammerley asked doubtfully.

  “We have a clue. I saw the license number on the chopper—JF333. Have you any idea what that could mean?”

  “It probably means the helicopter came from Juniper Field,” Hammerley said. “That’s a small airport five miles from here. Why don’t you drive over there and check it out?”

  “No use driving,” Morven advised. “The bridge up the road was washed out by the last flood. Hasn’t been repaired yet. The detour will take you fifty miles around the hills. It’s five miles to walk.”

  “Which direction?” Joe inquired.

  “Across the pasture to the big maple tree on the other side. Follow the footpath between two big boulders and it’ll lead you to Juniper Field.” Saying he had some farm chores to look after, the foreman left the house.

  “We’ll walk, then,” Joe decided. “Okay with
you fellows?”

  Frank agreed at once, but Chet hesitated. The idea of a five-mile hike did not appeal to him. But he did not want to be left out of the investigation, so he set out with Frank and Joe for Juniper Field.

  As they passed the barn, they saw Morven looking at them from the skylight. He had a grim smile on his face and he shook his fist at them.

  “That guy knows more than he lets on,” Frank thought to himself. “We’ll have to watch him very closely.”

  The three boys crossed the Hammerley farm between plowed fields and reached a barbed wire fence where the pasture began. Next to the gate stood a pen made of heavy boards. A gigantic bull in the pen glared furiously at them, pawed the earth, bellowed loudly, and rattled the boards by banging its horns against them.

  “I’m glad he’s not loose,” Chet said fervently.

  “So am I,” Joe agreed.

  The boys walked through the gate into the pasture. The big maple on the other side gave them their bearings, and they walked toward it at a rapid pace. Beyond it, the broad expanse of fields and meadows was broken only by an occasional tree or shrub.

  Chet brought up the subject of Crow Morven. “We’re not his favorite people,” he observed. “Maybe he gave us a bum steer about walking to Juniper Field. You think we should go back and take the car?”

  “No way.” Frank grinned at the hopeful tone in Chet’s voice. “We go by leg-mobile.”

  “Morven has no reason to give us a bum steer,” Joe affirmed. “We’d find out how to get there anyway, and we’d know he was lying. He wouldn’t want that to happen. Not if he’s up to something.”

  “I sure wish somebody would come along and give us a lift.” Chet sighed.

  They were about in the middle of the pasture when suddenly the earth seemed to shake behind them. They heard the pounding of hooves in their direction.

  Whirling around, they were appalled to see that the bull was out of its pen and dashing toward them. Its eyes were fiery with rage, and steam spouted from its nostrils. It shook its horns savagely as it hurtled forward at terrific speed!

  Chet had moved a little to one side during the walk. The bull singled him out and headed straight toward him. Chet turned to run but stumbled and fell. The bull, lowering its horns, lunged forward to gore him!

  8

  Disguise and Alias?

  In a flash, Frank took off his rust-colored shirt and draped it to one side like a bullfighter’s cape. He caught the attention of the enraged beast, and it charged the shirt, stomping past Chet, missing him by a hairsbreadth. Frank moved the shirt farther away from his friend, and again the bull went for it in a violent attack.

  As the Hardy boy maneuvered the bull into following the shirt, Chet scrambled to his feet. He ran to a nearby tree, climbed into it, and peered frantically through the branches.

  Frank continued to play the role of matador with a cape. Stepping backward, he shifted the shirt from one position to another, each time goading the bull into another charge. Slowly but surely the boy guided the animal back to its pen. Its final charge sent it careening through the gate. Joe, who had followed his brother, locked the bull in with a shout of relief.

  “You should have been a bullfighter, Frank,” he said.

  “No thanks. I don’t want to be anywhere around if that brute escapes again.”

  Joe tried to secure the lock of the pen but found that the latch refused to stay in place. “The screw’s loose!” he exclaimed. “Won’t hold the gate closed properly. Somebody did it deliberately. I wonder if Crow Morven’s responsible for the bull getting out?”

  “He might have set us up when he told us to go through the pasture,” Frank said. “Then he unscrewed the latch after he left the house. But we have no proof.”

  Joe took a small, multipurpose screwdriver out of his pocket and tightened the screw on the latch, while Frank examined his shirt. Finding nothing worse than a tear at the bottom where the bull had gored it, he put the shirt back on and they rejoined Chet, who was still up in the tree.

  “Is it safe to come down?” he asked apprehensively.

  “Sure it is,” Frank said, and the three resumed their walk across the pasture. Near the tall maple they found a gate, went through, and saw the path leading into the woods. Recognizing the two boulders Morven had mentioned, they continued on. A small plane zoomed low overhead and vanished beyond the treetops. They heard the sound of motors revving up, and when they reached the end of the woods, they were on the outskirts of the airport.

  The plane they had seen was taxiing to a stop in front of the control tower. Another one was swinging around for a thrust down the runway into take-off. A number of small craft were parked around the perimeter of the airfield.

  A single helicopter stood behind the control tower. It bore the painted legend JF333 on its side.

  “That’s our chopper,” Joe said. “The one we saw grab the Flashing Arrow!”

  “Let’s check it out,” Chet suggested, walking toward the helicopter.

  Frank restrained him. “Not yet. We’ll have to get an okay at the office first. Otherwise it might be the lockup for us if the owner blows the whistle.”

  At the office, Frank asked the clerk who owned the helicopter.

  “We do,” was the answer. “Juniper Field. The chopper’s for hire.”

  “Was it rented recently?”

  “Just last night. Why the questions?”

  To avert suspicion, Frank said, “We might want to take it out. Mind if we have a look?”

  “Be my guest,” the clerk offered.

  “Can you tell us who hired the helicopter last night?” Joe queried casually.

  “A tall man wearing a black beard and dark glasses.” The clerk consulted his register. “His name is John Jones according to his flying license. He landed back here, paid his fee, and left.”

  When the boys were outside the office again, Frank remarked, “Sounds like a disguise, and the name has to be an alias, too!”

  “Well, he couldn’t have been Crow Morven,” Chet pointed out. “Morven was on the ground when the chopper came over.”

  The helicopter was a small model with a single set of rotary blades. The cockpit, protected by wraparound unbreakable glass that allowed a view from side to side as well as in front, had seats at the instrument panel for pilot and copilot. A compartment in the rear permitted a passenger to be squeezed in.

  The rear compartment also held the winch, a spinning drum worked by hydraulic controls. The tail of the helicopter formed a mesh of metal struts, designed to give balance in the air. The landing gear terminate in three wheels, two up ahead and one behind.

  The craft showed signs of use the previous night. There were oil stains on the fuselage beneath the blades and the wheels were caked with mud.

  “There must have been two guys last night,” Frank observed. “The pilot and a man to work the winch.”

  Chet climbed into the back seat and began to spin the winch. “No cable or grappling iron in here,” he informed Frank and Joe, who had gotten into the front. “They must have taken them away.”

  “Along with the Flashing Arrow,” Joe said morosely.

  The Hardys, who were experienced pilots, examined the instrument panel. “I wish we could go for a spin,” Frank said. “I’ll bet this whirlybird works like a charm.”

  “We saw that last night,” Joe reminded him. “The pilot could have landed in our laps if he’d wanted to. I hope he left his calling card in here.”

  They spent half an hour searching the craft for a clue, but all they found were pamphlets on such things as flying rules, airport regulations, and maintenance instructions for the helicopter.

  “No luck,” Frank said disgustedly. “Let’s get out of here.” As he turned, he brushed against the front seats, sweeping a folded piece of paper onto the floor of the cockpit. A flash of red caught Joe’s eye. He picked up the paper and was astounded to see a hex sign!

  Someone had drawn in colored ink the red pent
agram in a white square inside a black circle. The three boys looked in fascination at the mystic symbol.

  “That’s Mr. Hammerley’s hex!” Chet burst out.

  “Is there anything on the other side?” Frank asked.

  Joe turned the paper over. It said in large printed letters: CHESAPEAKE CROSSING. Apart from that, the paper was blank.

  Chet scratched his head. “I never heard of Chesapeake Crossing. Is it a town?”

  “Yes, on Chesapeake Bay,” Joe replied.

  The boys descended from the helicopter, and, returning to the office, they told the clerk they were not going to hire the helicopter after all. Then they headed for the police station of the nearby town to ask about the stolen weather vanes.

  The sergeant on duty said, “We haven’t had a break in the case yet.”

  “Are there no clues at all?” Frank asked.

  “The only thing we heard from an informer is that there’s a fence for stolen weather vanes in the Chesapeake area of Maryland.”

  The boys stared in amazement but did not reveal their clue.

  “Our informer doesn’t know where the fence is,” the sergeant went on, “but the Maryland police are checking on it. That’s all I can tell you.”

  Outside headquarters, Joe commented, “Looks as if we’d better go to Chesapeake Crossing. That may be where the Flashing Arrow is, along with all the other weather vanes that disappeared around here.”

  Frank nodded.“Besides, Dad’s in Washington. We’ll still be near enough to give him a hand if he needs us on his spy case.”

  Strolling through the town, the boys came to the county historical museum. It was a single-story building with wings on either side.

  A sign on the front door proclaimed: WEATHER VANE EXHIBITION

  “Let’s go in,” Frank proposed. “It might give us an idea.”

  They were the only visitors. The curator came out of his office. He was a plump, jolly man in white ducks, white shirt, and horn-rimmed glasses, who introduced himself as Gaspard Clay. He had a habit of clearing his throat as he spoke.

  “Since you are the only ones here today, ahem, let me show you around,” he offered. “You can see the whole museum, except, ahem, for the west wing, which is closed to the public because it’s undergoing repairs.”