The Hidden Harbor Mystery Page 6

  “We’ll come back tonight,” Joe proposed, “and watch for the little boy. He’ll lead us to it.”

  “Right,” Frank said. “Our next move is to investigate the fishing smack.”

  Once more the friends returned to camp. After lunch they mapped out careful plans for their sleuthing maneuvers. Then the Hardys piled their skin-diving gear into the yellow convertible and, with Chet, drove to the Larchmont docks.

  “Another boat!” repeated the man at the boat livery. “Why, you fellers didn’t bring back the first one you rented!”

  “We will this time,” Frank assured him. “We’d like to buy some fishing tackle and bait, too.”

  The transactions were completed. Soon the young detectives were chugging over the blue-green water past the buoys. When the boat had left the inlet behind, it turned along the shore line.

  As planned, Chet at the wheel guided the craft gradually in the direction of the fishing smack. Meanwhile, Frank and Joe put on their diving gear and lay down out of sight below the gunwales. Presently Chet anchored a few hundred yards from the suspicious fishing vessel. Quietly the Hardys slipped over the side into the ocean, hoping they had not been seen. Nonchalantly the plump boy began to fish.

  A short time later Frank and Joe came noiselessly to the surface beside the smack’s hull. Treading water, they listened intently as hot, angry voices reached their ears.

  “We’ve given you every opportunity, Jed,” came one voice louder and sharper than the others. “You muffed them all. First the warehouse trick, then you wrecked the wrong car. They got away from the lighthouse alive and slipped through your fingers in Sea City. What good does it do for Stewart and me to watch their movements and inform you?”

  “I couldn’t help it,” complained a familiar hoarse voice. “Those kids are a tougher job than I expected.”

  Excitedly Joe whispered, “So the flat-faced guy is named Jed—and he’s in cahoots with Cutter!”

  Frank nodded tensely. The argument aboard continued. “Well, see that you don’t fail next time,” barked Cutter. “We’ll never get what we want if we don’t stop those meddling snoopers!”

  The speakers lowered their voices, making it impossible for the boys to hear more. Submerging, Frank and Joe stroked back to their own boat.

  “Boy, have I got fish,” Chet announced proudly as he helped his friends aboard. “Look at these!”

  “We made a catch, too.” Joe told him what they had overheard at the fishing vessel as the little boat chugged back to harbor.

  “All of which means,” Frank added, “that Cutter is out to get us, and that hoarse-voiced fellow is in league with him, and was the ‘ghost’ on Storm Island!”

  Chet looked mystified. “You think Cutter’s antique business is just a cover-up and he’s in Blackstone’s pay?”

  “Could be,” Frank replied. “Also, he could be in Rand’s pay, for that matter. Though I still have a hunch the professor isn’t a crook. Maybe Cutter’s working some game of his own.”

  After returning the boat, the boys drove straight back to the dunes.

  “Out of the way!” Chet ordered as the Hardys offered to help with supper. “These are special fish. Ole Chet caught ‘em, Ole Chet will cook ’em, and Ole Chet will serve ‘em!”

  “Okay.” Frank laughed. “Just so Old Chet doesn’t do all the eating, too.”

  “Time to work!” Joe grinned, as they finished supper. “On we go to Professor Rand’s.”

  Though it was still daylight, the boys took their flashlights and set off. When they reached the meadow, they hid in the berry patch and settled down to wait for the little Negro boy to appear.

  Frank’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the surrounding area. “You know,” he whispered, “these old kitchen fragments may have been moved here. This may not have been a kitchen at all. Let’s try those other bushes—at the base of the bank.”

  “Good deduction,” said Joe.

  The youths arose and searched carefully behind the thick screen of brush Frank had pointed out.

  “Here!” Joe signaled, his fingers touching a stone frame set into the steep rise under the hedge. The other boys joined him.

  Elatedly, the three stared at a heavy wooden door. “The entrance to the passageway, I’ll bet!” Chet exclaimed.

  “Sh!” Frank warned. “Someone’s coming!”

  The three shrank into the bushes and waited breathlessly. There was faint rustling, and the little boy came by with a newspaper-wrapped package. He went through the door!

  As soon as they dared, Frank, Joe, and Chet noiselessly followed, and entered a dark brick-walled passageway. Ahead and to their left, a dim shaft of light knifed into the darkness, then vanished as the small boy went through a low door.

  The youths crept forward. Chet and Joe tensed expectantly as Frank placed his hand on the door ready to shove it inward.

  “Here goes!” he whispered.

  CHAPTER X

  Hidden Passageway

  AT FRANK’S push the heavy door swung inward and banged against the wall.

  “Oh—oh—go away, sir. Go away!” sang out a child’s dear voice.

  The Hardys and Chet stared in astonishment at the scene before them. The yellow light of a kerosene lamp on a small wooden table revealed the seated figures of the little Negro boy and the old servant, Grover. In the man’s hands, partially opened, was the small package, containing meat and bread.

  In his confusion the lad almost tipped over backward in his chair. He leaped up and scampered into the shadows of several huge wooden barrels ranged sideways upon racks.

  But the elderly man stood up calmly and faced the boys across the glass chimney of the lamp. “What is it you want?” he asked in a low voice.

  “You must know, Grover,” Frank answered as Joe and Chet stepped into the light. “You saw Mr. Blackstone strike Professor Rand, and you saw us come to ask about it. We know there’s something peculiar going on, and we are trying to find out what it is.”

  “I’m not talking to you.” The thin old man’s eyes flashed in sudden anger. “You’ve got no business here. Timmy!” He turned to the lad. “Did you show these folks where to find me?”

  An eye and a forehead peered around a cask. “No, Grandpa,” came Timmy’s small voice.

  “You come on out here,” Grover ordered. “We’ve been found. There’ll be a heap of trouble for you and me now.”

  “We’re sorry,” Frank said kindly, as the little boy crept timidly to his grandfather’s side. “We don’t intend any harm. I don’t think you realize how important it is for us to talk to you. Somebody’s been trying to kill us, or at least scare us off this case. Professor Rand might tell us why, but he has evidently disappeared. Unless you help us, we haven’t a chance of straightening things out.”

  As briefly as possible, Frank explained to the elderly retainer why the boys had come to Larchmont. While he spoke, the old servant watched him closely. The anger faded from his eyes, and the lines of his face deepened with concern.

  “I just knew, if they started that feud up again there wasn’t any good going to come of it!” Grover sighed. “All right, sir, I’ll tell you folks what I can. I don’t like trouble. The faster everything’s cleared up, the happier lots of folks will be.”

  “Did Mr. Blackstone send you here to hide from us?” Joe queried.

  “Yes, sir, he did,” Grover admitted. “From Mr. Worth, too. And he sent Miss Shringle some money to go off and visit her relatives.”

  “So you were here the whole time, instead of in Chicago,” Joe continued.

  “Mr. Blackstone wanted me to go out there,” Grover admitted. “But when a body gets as old as I am, he’s kind of scared to ride in trains or airplanes way off a thousand miles away from where he’s been living all his life. So I said I’d keep snug in this beverage room, instead. I suppose you guessed this is the old plantation kitchen passage. Both sides of the family know about it.”

  “You’ve been with the Blackston
es a long time?” Chet spoke up.

  “All my life, sir. My father served the Blackstones, and his father did, too. Used to be a grand family, way back.”

  “But why did this Mr. Blackstone make you hide out?” Joe prompted. “Because we’d ask you about the quarrel we saw?”

  “Yes. The two gentlemen are fighting over that pond again. But somehow they don’t want people to know they’re fighting over it. Soon as Mr. Blackstone hit Mr. Rand with that vase, I switched off the lights—in case somebody was watching.”

  “But how did you cover it up so fast?” Joe wondered.

  “Oh, Mr. Blackstone and I carried Professor Rand into the next room. Then we swept the broken pieces of the vase under a rug. Mr. Blackstone put on his relaxing jacket and set that twin vase on his desk. He opened up his book. Then I went and let you boys in.”

  “Professor Rand’s all right, then?” Frank inquired.

  “Yes, he came round after an hour, mad as a wet hen. Couldn’t complain much though, because they didn’t want to attract anybody’s attention about their arguing over the land. After Professor Rand left, Mr. Blackstone said that he wanted me to go to Chicago for a while.”

  “Do you know where the professor is staying?” Frank asked.

  Grover shrugged. “If he’s gone, I don’t know where he’s keepin’ himself. Timmy, have you seen Mr. Rand around lately?”

  “No, Grandpa,” replied the lad meekly. With round eyes, he watched the boys.

  “Timmy’s been sort of shadowing you,” the old man explained. “He was afraid you’d make trouble for me if you found me.” Grover smiled at his grandson. “These gentlemen are all right, Timmy. No need to fear.”

  At this point Joe decided to try a new lead. “Grover,” he began, “do you know why the Rands and Blackstones are fighting over the border line property again? Is it because the Blackstone family fortune is buried on it somewhere?”

  “Also, where’s Hidden Harbor?” Frank added.

  For a moment Grover blinked at the boys in amazement. “How’d you all know about that?”

  Quickly Joe recounted the discovery of the captain’s note while the boys were marooned at the lighthouse.

  “You all know about as much about it as I do,” Grover informed them. “Old Mr. Clement Blackstone, they say, buried his money and family papers before he sailed away to England. That was while the Civil War was going on. Mr. Clement never came back. He died over there—after the war. Then the Rands and Blackstones started feuding about that land.”

  “Where was the treasure buried, exactly?” Joe pursued. “Didn’t anybody ever dig it up?”

  “Seems they kind of lost track of things, somehow,” the old man answered, obviously puzzled himself. “My daddy told me when I was a boy he once heard it was buried at the mouth of Hidden Harbor, but I don’t know any Hidden Harbor.”

  “Hmm, that’s something new, anyhow,” Joe observed. “At the mouth of the harbor.”

  “It’s the key to the whole case,” Frank declared earnestly. “Not the money, but the papers. They’ll tell us how the fortune was made. They might prove Bart’s story!”

  After a moment’s reflection, he injected a new idea. “You say everybody ‘lost track’ of the fortune, Grover,” Frank said. “Didn’t the feud die down just about the same time? There must be some connection.”

  “You mean,” Joe put in, “both families wanted the disputed land in order to locate Clement’s buried fortune. But after they ‘lost track’ of it, the land wasn’t important to them any more?”

  “Right,” Frank said. “The feud has started up again because somebody found a clue to the fortune.”

  “I can’t be rightly sure,” Grover suddenly declared, “but it seems to me Professor Rand is kind of looking for that money. Fact is, he was the one started up this feuding. Mr. Blackstone, he’s a rich man—he doesn’t need any more money than he’s got. But Mr. Rand—well, you boys have seen his house. He sure could use a fortune.”

  “That’s a logical idea,” Joe agreed.

  “Then what is Blackstone making such a fuss about?” demanded Chet, bewildered.

  “Oh, Blackstone may not want the money,” Joe pointed out. “It’s those family papers he doesn’t want found, because they contain proof of something he doesn’t want publicized.”

  “I get it! The piracy and smuggling charges!” Chet exclaimed. “The evidence Bart needs!”

  Frank nodded decisively. “All this boils down to one thing, fellows: We must find Hidden Harbor and find it fast, before Bart’s case comes to court!”

  Suddenly Joe held up his hand, warning for silence. From outside the room, the sound of leather heels striking upon brick reached them.

  “Somebody’s comin’ down the passage,” Grover whispered nervously.

  Quickly the old man bent over the lamp chimney and gave a strong puff. The old beverage room was plunged into total darkness. The footsteps passed by, unhurried, in the direction of the plantation house.

  “Who could it be?” Frank asked Grover.

  “I don’t know, sir,” was the answer. “Nobody knows this place except the family and the servants.”

  “Joe, you and I will follow that man!” Frank decided quickly. “Chet, stay out in the passage by this room. Just make sure the fellow doesn’t slip back and escape.”

  Cautiously Frank pulled back the door, and the three slipped into the dark passageway. Ahead, the footsteps sounded on the brick floor with a regular, hollow ring.

  “Knows his way,” Joe murmured as the brothers crept along in pursuit.

  Abruptly the sharp heel taps ceased. A moment later came a steady scraping sound.

  “He’s climbing stairs,” whispered Frank.

  Hurrying forward, the young sleuths found that the passage branched into two corridors. One led to a narrow brick stairway.

  “Must go to the second story,” Frank deduced. “The other branch probably leads to the kitchen of the house.”

  Afraid to turn on their flashes lest they be detected, the boys mounted the steps. A narrow slit of light indicated a door slightly ajar above them. After listening carefully a moment, Frank pushed it lightly, and he and Joe stepped into an empty closet.

  At the front of the closet was another door, opened a crack. Warily, the brothers stepped into a lamplit room.

  As the young detectives looked curiously around them, a sudden sound on their right caused them to whirl sharply.

  The hall door to the room they had entered was just closing. The Hardys heard the metallic click of a key turning, and a lock bar sliding into place.

  Fearing trouble, Joe raced to the tunnel entrance. It was locked.

  CHAPTER XI

  Acrobatic Detectives

  “LOCKED in!” exclaimed Joe, rattling the door handle. “What’s the idea?” He and Frank heard the booted footsteps retreating along the hall and down a stairway.

  The boys surveyed their little prison. A narrow bed and broad writing table were the extent of the furniture, except for well-stocked bookshelves that covered two walls from floor to ceiling.

  “This must be Professor Rand’s study,” Frank whispered. He examined the volumes briefly. “They’re all on ancient Indian civilizations,” he noted. “And look! Here are some written by Professor Rand.”

  “Very interesting,” Joe said wryly. “Right now I’m more interested in getting out of here.”

  “Let’s try the window,” proposed Frank.

  He pulled open two narrow french doors. A gust of cold wind from the sea struck the boys as they stepped onto a railed balcony.

  “No ground supports,” Joe noted, leaning out over the rail. “We’re too high to jump.”

  The brothers looked around from their perch, located on the front face of the mansion. The huge trees were out of reach, as was the roof above them.

  Suddenly, below them, the Hardys distinctly heard the sound of a door closing.

  “Over there!” Joe pointed toward a tall man
’s figure. The man paused to jerk a flashlight from his pocket. In the same motion, something white fluttered to the ground. Then the man, carrying a spade, slipped around the corner of the house..

  “Must be Professor Rand!” Joe hissed excitedly. “I wish we could get hold of that paper he dropped.”

  Frank nodded. “Wonder if he locked us in.”

  Just then a swift gust of wind carried the white square upward. It wavered, and spiraled around directly toward the boys!

  The Hardys clutched and pawed the air. Maddeningly the paper swooped high, sideslipped, and landed on another little balcony two window widths from their own.

  “Too far to jump,” Frank judged. “See if we can bridge it. We must get that paper. I’ve a hunch it’s important!” he declared grimly.

  They stepped over the top rail together. As Frank wedged his toes under the bottom rail and grasped the lower sections of two of the sturdy spindles, Joe, facing outward, bent down and took hold of his brother’s ankles.

  “Ready!” he called.

  Frank loosened his foothold but held fast to the spindles as Joe gave a mighty swing, carrying both boys into the air. Joe, finding he could reach the next balcony, hooked his knees over its railing, let go his grip on Frank, and pulled himself up. But just as he stepped to safety, a fresh gust of wind whirled the white paper upward and away.

  The paper sailed farther and farther. Finally it disappeared around the corner of the house.

  Now, trying the french windows on his own balcony, Joe found them locked securely. The boys groaned and Frank said, “This would have been a swell time to follow the fellow in the raincoat.”

  “I’ll bet he locked us in,” Joe reasoned. “He left the secret door through the closet open and the light on in the study, to trap us.”

  Frank had another theory. “Maybe it wasn’t Rand whose steps we heard. Someone else could’ve set the trap. The professor might’ve been here the whole time and never realized what was going on.”

  Suddenly, between rushes of wind, a faint whistling came to the boys’ ears from the grounds.