Night of the Werewolf Read online

“Right.” Hank nodded. “He was King George’s personal envoy to the Indians in this part of America. He put up the mansion as his castle in the forest and got very buddy-buddy with all the Iroquois nations, including the Mohawks. In fact, he married a Mohawk squaw, whose brother was—well, the Iroquois nations didn’t really have chiefs, but her brother was one of their tribal leaders or wise men, only younger than most. His Mohawk name, translated into English, meant ‘Dark Eagle,’ and he was one of my ancestors,” Hank said proudly.

  “No kidding!” Frank was impressed.

  “Yup, my great-great-great grandfather, or something like that.”

  “That means the British agent who was King George’s personal rep was your great-great-great granduncle.”

  “Which may connect you to British nobility,” Joe pointed out.

  Hank Eagle burst out laughing. “You can’t prove it by me, but in a way you’re not so far off. You see, like most of the Iroquois, the Mohawks were close allies of the British, who had helped them fight the French. So when the American Revolution came along, they sided with their old pals, the Redcoats, against the Yankee settlers. And the British were anxious to keep it that way, so they invited Dark Eagle over to London and gave him the big hello. He actually met the King and hobnobbed with all the nobility at court. According to the history books, he was good-looking and his brother-in-law, the British agent, had had him well educated, so they made quite a fuss over him.”

  Frank said, “But he still helped the Redcoats against our side, I presume.”

  “Yup, he did,” Hank admitted. “He even led some of the Tory-Indian scalping raids on the American settlements. But you have to remember, those were pretty bloody times.”

  After the war, Hank related, Dark Eagle made peace with his Yankee enemies and inherited his brother-in-law’s timber castle, which he renamed Eagle’s Nest. Years later, it lapsed into ruin. Now the wooden mansion had been purchased by a wealthy buyer, who had hired the architect Karel Tabor to restore it.

  “Were you raised around here?” Joe asked as the boys walked outside again.

  “Sure was, in a Mohawk village near Hawk River. You’ll have to visit me there sometime. My uncle’s the medicine man.”

  Frank noticed a man watching them closely. He was elderly and wizened-looking, with dark glasses and long gray hair. When he realized he had been noticed, the stranger turned suddenly and hurried away.

  “Wait a minute!” Frank called and went after him. But before he could overtake the eavesdropper, his quarry leaped into a green foreign-made car and sped off! !

  8

  A Sinking Feeling

  The man gunned his engine hard. When he took off, his rear wheels churned up a cloud of dust, and the car’s back end slewed around sharply as he swung onto the paved highway. As a result, Frank was not able to spot the license number.

  Disgusted, the Hardy boy returned to his brother and their Mohawk friend, Hank Eagle.

  “What happened?” Joe asked.

  “That fellow was eavesdropping on us,” Frank said angrily. “Did you get a look at him?”

  “Yes,” Joe replied. “Enough to recognize him again. He had on dark glasses—sort of an oldish guy, with long gray hair curling down over his ears.”

  “Right.” Frank had noticed a strange look pass over the Indian’s face on hearing the man’s description. “Do you know him, Hank?”

  The Mohawk shrugged. “We get a lot of people stopping by to watch us. I may have seen him before. Hard to say.”

  Later, after thanking their newfound friend for his interesting guided tour of the work site, the Hardys drove back to Hawk River. “Did you notice the way Hank reacted when you described that eavesdropper?” Frank asked Joe.

  “I sure did—as if he was covering up something.” Joe added wryly, “Something tells me he was attempting to be a poker-faced Indian, only he didn’t get his poker face on fast enough.”

  “You think he was lying?”

  “I think he was trying not to lie.”

  “Same here,” Frank said thoughtfully. “But I still like him.”

  The Hardys arrived at the cottage around noon and found Chet working on his birchbark canoe. It lay overturned on the ground in front of the cabin.

  “How’re you coming along, Chet?” Joe asked.

  “Great! It’s almost done. Just have to finish sewing these strips of bark together, which isn’t easy on the fingers, I might add.”

  Just then they heard the phone ringing. Frank dashed into the cabin to answer it. The caller was Alena Tabor.

  “How would you boys like to come on a picnic?” she asked.

  “Sounds great!” Frank replied. “When and where?”

  “Soon as you’re ready. I took a chance and told Pokey to pack a lunch for us.” Alena suggested a quiet curving branch of the Hawk River, not far from the cottage, as a place to hold the picnic, and described a particularly pleasant spot on the riverbank where she would meet the boys.

  “I’d better confess right now that I have an ulterior motive for suggesting this picnic,” she added, lowering her voice. “Something has come up that you should know about. We can talk privately at this spot I’ve picked, without running the risk of someone snooping on our conversation.”

  “Smart idea. We’ll be there,” Frank promised.

  Chet was in a dilemma when he heard about the invitation. Although eager for another chance to see his new dream girl, he was also desperately anxious to finish his canoe.

  The stout youth stood scratching his head for a moment, with a look of frustration on his freckled moonface and perspiration glistening on his tubby torso. “Listen,” he said finally, “you go ahead, and I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

  “Okay,” the Hardys agreed.

  “Just one thing,” Chet added as they turned away.

  “What’s that?” Joe asked.

  “Don’t start lunch till I get there!”

  The boys hiked to the picnic spot and found Alena waiting for them on the bank of the sparkling stream with her red miniwagon parked nearby. She wore jeans and a pretty embroidered cotton blouse and was holding a copy of the local paper, the Hawk River Herald.

  “Big news?” Joe inquired.

  “Bad news, I’m afraid. At least it’s not very pleasant from my family’s standpoint.” She handed him the paper.

  Frank and Joe saw its banner headline: “ANOTHER WEREWOLF ATTACK!” But Alena pointed to a different story, splashed all over the front page. It was a lengthy report of the Tabor family’s werewolf tradition, and pointed out that young Tabor was a seventh-generation descendant of the last alleged werewolf, Jan Tabor. This, the story implied, automatically made him a prime suspect in the local outbreak of lycanthropy.

  “That’s a shame,” Frank said with a sympathetic frown when he finished reading. “But I’m not really surprised.”

  Alena’s eyebrows went up. “What do you mean?”

  “That nasty little werewolf masquerade at your barbecue yesterday evening. Whoever was wearing that outfit was limping as if he’d been shot in the leg—like your ancestor, Jan Tabor.”

  “So you noticed, too!”

  Frank nodded. “The author of a book on werewolves told us about those oldtime cases. And if someone here at Hawk River has found out about your ancestor, and was malicious enough to play that prank last night, it seemed pretty likely the story would soon get around.”

  “Can you imagine how all the neighbors will be talking now?” Alena said unhappily. “If people start picking on John or he imagines they suspect him, I hate to think how he’ll react. I’m afraid he’ll end up in a worse state than ever!”

  The Hardys tried to comfort the girl as best they could. Luckily, there was soon a distraction to take her mind off the subject. Frank and Joe saw her eyes widen, and she pointed toward the stream.

  “Look!” she exclaimed.

  A majestic figure clad in a buckskin hunting shirt was paddling toward them in a birchbark can
oe.

  “It’s Chet!” Joe cried out.

  Their beefy chum made a striking sight in his wilderness costume as he swung his dripping paddle from one side of the canoe to the other.

  “He’s even wearing an Indian headband!” Frank muttered.

  Chet was sitting rigidly upright like a stalwart mountain man or impassive redskin brave. Presently he paused from paddling and struck a gazing pose, as if scanning a distant shore for a sign of friend or foe. The Hardys stifled wild chuckles, realizing their pal was doing all this to impress Alena.

  Suddenly Frank frowned. “Am I seeing things, or is that canoe getting lower and lower in the water?”

  “You’re not seeing things,” Joe confirmed. “Chet’s sinking!”

  Both boys realized that their pal must be feeling very uncomfortable with the water rising higher and higher around his hips. Nevertheless, his chubby face retained its dignified expression, with no sign of panic. The only hint of anxiety was that he began paddling faster and faster.

  Could he reach shore before his craft capsized? The Hardys wondered. The answer was soon apparent, however. In a few moments the canoe had sunk practically out of sight! Chet cast his dignity to the wind and tried to leap overboard. Unfortunately his foot caught on the gunwale and he plopped headfirst into the river in a resounding belly flop that sent water splashing high in the air!

  The canoe corkscrewed over on one side, upending for a moment, then once again sinking from view. Chet, meanwhile, was flailing the water with his arms and legs, trying to get his bearings and strike out for shore.

  Alena had run to the river’s edge with Frank and Joe. “Is he all right?” she asked anxiously.

  “Sure, no problem,” Frank replied. “Chet’s the best water polo player at Bayport High.”

  “But it looks as if he may lose that canoe he sweated so hard over,” Joe added.

  Without another word, the plump, apple-cheeked girl kicked off her rope-soled espadrilles and dove gracefully into the water.

  “For crying out loud,” Joe groaned. “She’s making us look like backward chumps!”

  Frank chuckled. “Never mind. They don’t need our help.”

  Apparently the river was about five or six feet deep at this point. Between them, Alena and Chet managed to retrieve the canoe and haul it ashore. The Hardys helped them drag it up on the bank.

  Chet was dewy-eyed with gratitude and astonishment that Alena had jumped in to help him. “That’s the bravest thing I ever saw!” he blurted.

  Alena smiled. “Well, I couldn’t let you lose that beautiful canoe your friends say you worked so hard to make,” she told him and gave him a consoling kiss on the cheek.

  To Chet, all the labor he had put into his canoe had paid off beyond his wildest dreams! He never stopped smiling while he and Frank examined the damage to the craft. Joe and Alena, meanwhile, went off to lay out the picnic lunch.

  “Here’s your problem,” Frank pointed out. “You sewed this row of stitches right in line with the way the bark splits. As a result, the bark is already starting to tear. Same down here. That’s probably what caused the leaks. You should have staggered the stitch holes, or else run your stitches across the grain, so to speak.”

  “Guess you’re right,” Chet said. “But who cares?” Lowering his voice and glancing over his shoulder, he added, “Boy, hasn’t Alena got spunk, though! I think she likes me a little!”

  “Could be,” Frank said with a straight face.

  Pocahontas had packed chicken sandwiches and chocolate cake, and the picnic lunch proved to be a great success, despite the discomfort of Chet’s and Alena’s wet clothes. Afterwards, Frank steered the conversation back to the werewolf mystery and the feature in the Hawk River Herald.

  “Any idea how the editor might have gotten hold of all that information?” he inquired.

  Alena hesitated, her brow puckering. “As I told you, my father once mentioned it jokingly in a magazine interview—”

  “What magazine?”

  “Worldweek. I suppose the editor of the Herald ran across that story. I can’t imagine where else he could have learned all those details,” Alena said.

  “We’ll find out,” Joe promised.

  Frank nodded. “Another thing. Now that this oldtime werewolf yarn has come out in the open, I think it’s time Joe and I talked directly to your brother. He may know something important.”

  A worried look flickered over Alena’s face. “Is that really necessary? Both Dad and I are afraid it may only make John’s delusions worse.”

  “I don’t see why. The very fact that Joe and I are trying to solve this mystery should prove to him that we don’t take any stock in such superstitions, and we certainly don’t believe he himself turns into a werewolf when the moon is full!”

  Alena smiled. “Very well, then. How soon would you like to see John?”

  “This afternoon, if possible. We can visit the Herald editor first and then go out to your place, that is, if your brother is in shape to talk to us. How did he act this morning, by the way?”

  “He slept like a log and didn’t wake up till noon. He seemed fairly normal, but apparently doesn’t remember a thing about what happened last night.”

  Alena drove the boys back to the cabin with Chet’s waterlogged canoe on top of her miniwagon. Then she went home. Meanwhile, the Hardys transferred to their own car and drove into Hawk River, leaving Chet to change into dry clothes.

  They found the Herald’s office on the town’s main street. The editor, a red-haired man named Lyle Dunn, recognized them immediately when they introduced themselves as the sons of Fenton Hardy.

  “So you’re up here to solve our great werewolf mystery!”

  “Let’s say we’d like to do whatever we can,” Frank said evenly. “As you can imagine, that story you printed about the Tabor family is pretty embarrassing to them.”

  The editor shrugged. “We only print the news.”

  “What makes you so sure you got your facts right? Apparently you didn’t even bother to check them out.”

  “Didn’t need to,” said Dunn. “They came from an interview with Karel Tabor himself.”

  Frank frowned. “You mean the one that appeared in Worldweek magazine?”

  “Right, and confirmed by additional research data.”

  “Where’d you run across that?” Joe asked.

  “I didn’t. It was mailed to me.” The editor rose from his chair, pulled a manila envelope out of a file drawer, and showed its contents to the boys. One item was a photocopy of the magazine article, and there were several pages of typewritten notes, stapled together. Each bore the printed initials, D.Q., at the top.

  Joe whistled in surprise as he saw the latter. “You said these came in the mail. Who was the sender?”

  “No idea. As you can see, there was no name on the envelope, or inside it, either. Just an anonymous tip.”

  “Well, for your information,” Frank said, “that typewritten material was stolen from the author Desmond Quorn.”

  A faint look of alarm passed over the editor’s face.

  “Furthermore,” Frank went on, “if readers get the impression from your story that John Tabor’s responsible for these local werewolf attacks, you might be sued for libel.”

  “I didn’t say Tabor was the werewolf!” Dunn defended himself hastily, looking more alarmed than ever.

  “Maybe not directly, but people would certainly get that idea.”

  “Why should they? This isn’t the Middle Ages. There’s no more reason why they should think John Tabor is some kind of wolfman than there is to blame the attacks on one of Alec Virgil’s wolves.”

  “Who’s Alec Virgil?” Joe asked.

  “A naturalist who runs what he calls a ‘wolf farm’ near here. He breeds wolves, and some of them run pretty big, too!” The redheaded newsman got up from his desk again and fished some more material from another file drawer. “There’s a story I wrote about him a week or two ago.”


  The Hardys read the clipping with keen interest. It reported how Alec Virgil carried on his project as a labor of love to help preserve the buffalo wolf, a species threatened with extinction. It also showed a photograph of Virgil standing beside the stuffed effigy of one of his earliest pet wolves.

  Frank rose from his chair. “Okay, thanks for your time, Mr. Dunn. We appreciate your help.”

  “My pleasure, boys. Stop in any time.”

  After leaving the Herald’s office, the Hardys drove back to the cabin, picked up Chet, and went on to the Tabor home.

  Parking their car in the drive, Frank and Joe started up to the front door, with Chet tagging at their heels. Directly above, they could see the burly figure of Pocahontas, the half-breed housekeeper. She was perched on a second-floor sill, washing windows.

  Frank hesitated a moment, not sure whether he ought to call up to her or draw her attention with a gentle knock. On the other hand, he reflected, Alena was expecting them and was probably downstairs ready to answer the door. He reached out to ring the bell.

  His finger had just pressed the button when both he and Joe heard a splashing sound and a muffled gasp and felt something wet splatter them from behind.

  Turning around, the Hardys gaped in astonishment. The housekeeper had just dumped her pail of water on Chet!

  9

  Ghostly Voices

  Chet spluttered and gasped, drenched to the skin I

  Frank glanced up at Pocahontas, who was leaning outward from the windowsill. From the scowl on her coppery-skinned face, Frank was glad she did not have another pail of water handy. He had a hunch that, otherwise, he and his brother might have gotten the same treatment as Chet!

  “Good grief!” muttered Joe, appalled at their stout chum’s face. “The poor guy practically drowns before lunch and now gets doused all over again!”

  “Serves him right!” growled Pocahontas just as the front door opened. “That’ll teach him not to dump my little girl in the river!”

  “Pokey!” exclaimed Alena, taking in the scene at one horror-stricken glance. “Chet didn’t dump me in the river! His canoe sank and I dived in to help save it!”