The Wailing Siren Mystery Read online

  “That’s perfect,” Frank said.

  He fastened the meat to a long string, which, when pulled, would cause the gate to fall shut. They tried it several times to be sure the trap would work.

  “Saber ought to tackle this meat before he does us,” Joe said. “I hope this trap’s strong enough to hold him. I don’t want to be his dessert.”

  The site of the trap was some distance from the camp, but the boys could see it from where they sat around the fire exchanging observations on the day’s events. When darkness began to fall, Joe got up and stretched sleepily.

  “I’m going to tumble in, fellows,” he said. “I’ll take a morning watch.”

  “Me, too.” Biff yawned.

  As Joe rose from the ground, he cried hoarsely, “Fellows, the stockade!”

  All heads swung to the direction of the trap where two glowing eyes moved slowly toward the gateway.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Another Theft

  THE boys heard the stockade gate drop. This was followed by a howling so wild and terrifying that the forest itself seemed to shudder.

  Biff and Tony started running toward the stockade.

  “Easy,” Frank warned. “Let the beast tire himself out before we take a look.”

  Excitedly the boys stood by while the trapped animal thrashed about. It jumped at the walls of the stockade, making the saplings quiver under each assault. Finally the wolf’s rage subsided into snarling submission.

  “All right, now,” Frank said. “Well see what we caught.”

  Beaming their flashlights ahead of them, the boys warily approached the stockade. When they reached the side of it, Joe dropped down on hands and knees.

  “Stand on my back,” he said to Frank, “and take a gander over the top.”

  Carefully Frank trained his flashlight and peered down from the top of the sapling wall. A large wolf, a heavy collar around its neck, crouched in one corner of the stockade. Its tongue hung out and foam flecked the cruel mouth.

  “Saber!” Frank said. “Just as we thought.”

  The boys took turns looking down at the trembling animal.

  “Th-that’s the thing which chased you and Joe?” Chet said to Frank. “Boy, am I glad I stayed in camp!”

  “What are we going to do with it?” Biff asked.

  He received no immediate answer because Frank and Joe were conferring in low tones near the gate of the stockade.

  “We don’t have the upper hand here by a long shot,” Frank was saying.

  “I see what you mean,” Joe replied. “Saber’s master is probably nearby.”

  “Right. If only he wasn’t armed! We’re no match against a man with a gun, Joe!”

  The boys decided to put on an act for the benefit of Saber’s owner. In a loud voice Frank called out:

  “Fellows, let’s get out of here! This woods is no place for campers, even with Saber out of circulation.”

  “We’ll go at the crack of dawn,” Joe agreed loudly. “I don’t like the idea of being chewed up.” Then he whispered to his brother, “But we’ll come back here without that woodsman knowing about it. Maybe we’ll have better luck next time.”

  “Saber!” Frank said. “Just as we thought!”

  Guard duty was arranged, but the night passed uneventfully.

  The next morning it was decided that Chet, Tony, and Biff would take the canoe and most of the camp equipment downstream. The river must eventually flow into the sea, probably near Barmet Bay.

  “Joe and I’ll hike back through the woods,” Frank said. “We’ll pick up the car, and contact you when we arrive home.”

  “What shall we do about Saber?” Joe asked. “We don’t dare let him out, but we can’t leave him to starve.”

  Frank said grimly, “I’ll bet that as soon as we go, his owner will come for him.”

  The Hardys shoved the laden canoe from shore and watched until their companions had paddled out of sight. Then they slung their packs over their shoulders and started back for the farm where they had left Chet’s jalopy.

  They had been on their way only a few minutes when Joe said, “Let’s go back and see if the woodsman has released Saber. Are you game?”

  Caching their packs in a thicket, the boys cautiously retraced their steps until they came to a big rock on a rise of ground. Peering around it, they were able to look down at the stockade. All was quiet except for the growl of the wolf. But as the boys watched, the animal suddenly grew restless, its growl climbing the scale to a thin whine.

  “He hears somebody,” Frank said.

  “Us, maybe?”

  “No. I think that whine means his master is around.”

  Suddenly they heard the distant sound of someone coming through the brush and flattened themselves on the ground to escape detection. Whoever it was, was making no effort to conceal his presence, certain that the campers had departed. The tramping of feet became louder, and someone approached the stockade.

  “The woodsman!” Joe whispered.

  The bearded man stopped, listened, then went to the gate of the stockade. Bending down, he lifted it, and when Saber’s head appeared, he snapped a wire leash onto the animal’s collar.

  “Fool!” the boys heard the woodsman snarl. “Letting yourself get trapped by a bunch of kids.” Then he cuffed the animal, which cringed at his feet. The wolf acted like a beaten puppy.

  The man retreated a few paces from the stockade and stood glaring at it. Then he ran up and hurled his body full force against the saplings. They began to give way under the charge.

  He repeated the performance and at length the wall crashed in. Angrily the man continued to batter the stockade until it was level with the ground. Then he set off with Saber.

  “Whew!” Joe said when the man was out of sight. “Some temper! Well, let’s make tracks! We know now that the wolf won’t starve.”

  It was late in the afternoon before the Hardys reached the road where they had first entered the woods. From there they went straight to the farmhouse and retrieved the jalopy. After thanking the farm woman for letting them park there, the boys hopped in and started for home.

  When they pulled up in front of their house, they found Chet sitting on the front steps, a piece of cake in one hand, a banana in the other.

  “Hi, fellows!” he called out. “Got a lift into town, so I thought I’d pick up the jalopy.”

  Chet said the trip downstream had been uneventful. It had joined the Willow River, which emptied into the bay. Tony had telephoned his home from a waterfront restaurant, and Mrs. Prito had come to pick up the campers in her husband’s small truck, and had delivered Chet and his canoe to the Morton home.

  As soon as Chet had finished his cake, he decided to drive home. The two tired boys picked up their packs, mounted the front porch steps, and entered the house. Mrs. Hardy flung her arms around them.

  “I’m glad you’re back,” she said. “Chet has been telling us the wildest tales about wolves and prison pits and—”

  She was interrupted by Aunt Gertrude, who came bustling into the hall from the kitchen. “I’m glad you’re back safe, too. But that Morton boy! I’d like to tie his tongue up, scaring your mother with such preposterous stories. I sent him outside with some food to stop his talking. Wolves in North Woods! Ridiculous! Why, there isn’t a wolf outside of Siberia, except in a few zoos.”

  Frank and Joe looked at each other. Perhaps they had better not tell the whole story of what had happened, except to their father. Learning that he was working on a report in his study, the boys dashed upstairs.

  “Hello, sons,” Mr. Hardy said, smiling, and closed the door. “Now let’s have the truth about your trip.”

  When the boys had finished the account of their adventures, their father asked a few questions. The point which seemed to interest him most concerned the pigeons.

  “You’re sure there was no message concealed on the one that was shot?” he asked. “Did you look under the tail feathers?”

 
The boys had to admit they had not thought to look anywhere but on the legs. Probably they had missed a good clue.

  Mr. Hardy asked the boys to go outside and look at the kidnappers’ pigeon, which was in its cage in the garage.

  “See if it’s the same kind you saw in the woods.”

  Aunt Gertrude had appointed herself keeper and feeder of the bird. She went out with her nephews to show them what her good care and a well-selected diet had done for “the poor, emaciated bird” that had been delivered to them.

  Suddenly Aunt Gertrude, in the lead, gave a shriek, then cried out:

  “It’s gone! The pigeon’s gonel”

  CHAPTER XIV

  The Mysterious Light

  THE pigeon’s cage as well as the bird had disappeared. A pane of glass which had been removed from a rear window was mute evidence of how the thief had entered.

  There was no question in the boys’ minds as to who had taken the bird. It had to be one of Frank’s kidnappers.

  “But when? When?” Aunt Gertrude cried out. “I took the pigeon his supper not an hour ago.”

  She was extremely annoyed over the incident, and Mr. Hardy was vexed that they had missed another opportunity to learn who the pigeon’s owner was.

  “I should have followed that second pigeon to its cote. It might have helped considerably if we could have found its home.”

  The detective added that the happenings in North Woods seemed to point to the fact that there was a connection between his own case and the guns and equipment stolen from the Morton truck.

  “More marked bills have turned up in the United States,” he said. “The FBI is sure the money is being used for some illegal purpose. But they don’t know yet what it could be.”

  “But I’ll bet you have a theory, Dad,” Joe spoke up.

  “Rifles.”

  “How did you figure that?”

  The detective said his assumption was based on deduction rather than absolute proof. While in Washington he had heard that a dory containing United States rifles had been found on the coast of Central America.

  “The dory had been wrecked in a storm,” the detective said, “and the men who had manned it either drowned or swam off and left it. There was no mark of identification on the boat, but I believe it came from a large vessel.”

  “Smugglers,” Frank commented. “Dad, do you think Tyler Morton’s stolen rifles are on their way to the Caribbean?”

  “You’ve given up the idea they’re in North Woods?” His father smiled.

  “No, I haven’t. And Joe and I want to go back there. Will you go with us?”

  “Yes. But first I think we’d better take a look at the area from the air.”

  “You mean scout the enemy before we attack?” Joe grinned. “Let’s go right away.”

  “The sun is too low,” his father said. “There’ll be deep shadows over the woods at this time of day. We’ll go tomorrow morning.”

  Frank made the arrangements, and at ten o’clock the next day the three Hardys were at the airport. A young man named Eric Martin, whom the boys knew, was assigned to pilot them.

  “Hello,” Joe said to him. “Any news from Wayne?”

  Eric shook his head gravely. “Not a word since that hijacker message.”

  Mr. Hardy gave the young man instructions, and they took off. Leaving Bayport behind, the plane followed the Willow River, then took the tributary that headed into North Woods.

  As the forest came into view, Frank pulled binoculars from his jacket. “I see the little pond where we went swimming,” he reported presently.

  “That means we’re close to the wolf-man’s hideout,” Joe said.

  “Yes, there’s the pen in that clearing right below us,” Frank replied. “Can’t tell from this height if any wolves are in it or not.”

  “And there’s the shack where we saw the airplane engine,” Joe remarked.

  The plane crisscrossed the area, but nothing suspicious came into view.

  “Take her down to a thousand feet,” Mr. Hardy told the pilot.

  The plane banked and descended.

  Frank handed the binoculars to his father, but the detective could see nothing save the dense, uneven forest below.

  “Those gangsters must have some kind of camp,” Joe said.

  “If any of them are in the North Woods,” said his father, “they’re taking every precaution not to have their camp spotted from the air. But I was hoping we might find something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “Smoke, a camouflaged building, trees or vegetation arranged in some significant pattern. I suppose we may as well turn back.”

  After the plane had landed and the Hardys were driving home, they made plans to leave together directly after lunch for a more careful search through North Woods. As they walked into the house, Mrs. Hardy handed her husband a telegram. He tore it open, read it swiftly, and frowned.

  “I’ve been called back to Washington,” he said. “I’ll have to catch a plane. This is urgent.”

  Mr. Hardy said he would be gone only one day. He suggested that his sons keep busy on the case.

  “Sure, Dad. How?” Frank asked.

  “Suppose you circle the entire woodland area in your car. It’s close to seventy miles all the way around, I’d say, and there may be another trail that’s a shortcut to the thieves’ camp.

  “Talk to people who live on the edge of the woods,” his father continued. “Perhaps they can provide you with some clues.”

  The young detectives started out in their car after lunch. When they reached the outskirts of North Woods, the good roads came to an end, and they began bouncing over rutted, narrow dirt roads.

  “Pretty rugged out here,” Frank said.

  They stopped at every house whose acreage bordered the woodland. Most of the farmers had no interest in the forest and knew little about it, except that a fox would sneak out now and then to kill their chickens.

  About four o’clock the boys drew up beside a stooped man walking along the road. He was very friendly but tired looking, as if he had been guiding a plow all day.

  “Hello,” Joe greeted him. “Can we give you a ride?”

  The farmer whipped out a red bandanna to wipe his forehead. “Art’s the name. And thanks, but I turn down this lane.”

  Frank spoke of their interest in the woods. The man eyed the boys with a skeptical half-smile.

  “Them woods is a good place to stay clear of, I always tell folks. Why, out yonder there’s a pit full of snakes; hundreds of ’em wriggling around like they was crazy!”

  Frank and Joe looked at each other as the man continued, “Then there’s those wild dogs, too. Ain’t never seen ‘em, but on dear nights I hear ’em.”

  “Anybody live in North Woods?” Frank asked.

  “Not that I ever heerd tell of, son.”

  The boys thanked the farmer and drove on to the next place. They found its owner as full of wild tales as his neighbor. He had been told that any humans or farm animals straying into the forest were never seen alive again, though their cries of agony could be heard for miles.

  “Did you ever hear any?” Frank asked.

  “No. But once I did hear a siren—like a fire-en gine siren—and right after that there was a glow over the trees, just like the Northern Lights.”

  This man was sure no one lived in the forest any longer. The whole tract had been bought up by a lumber company years before, he told them. There were rumors that strangers had been seen on one of the old woods roads—surveyors, most likely. The boys drove off, excited by what they had heard.

  “What do you think of that siren-and-light story, Frank?”

  “If we hadn’t heard the siren ourselves, and seen the wolves, I’d say all the stories were yarns. I’m sure the other rumors were circulated by people who want to keep visitors out of North Woods.”

  Joe was all for going into the forest at once and having another look at the wolf-man’s place.

  Frank
shook his head, “Nobody’d know where we were. And, anyway, an order from Dad is—”

  “You’re right. Let’s finish our job.”

  The boys made a complete circuit of the forest, but found no trails that looked as though they had recently been used. The only new clue the day had yielded was the matter of the unexplained lights. Both boys were puzzled.

  “Joe, it’s the second time there’s been a connection between a sudden flash of lights and a wailing siren,” Frank said. “Do you suppose the one that night on the ocean, when every light on the yacht suddenly blazed up, could have anything to do with North Woods?”

  Joe grinned. “You’re stretching my imagination, but you probably mean that the plane could have signaled and the lights were an answer both times?”

  “Exactly. When the siren wailed over North Woods, the trees were too thick for us to see any lights.”

  “But we didn’t hear a helicopter.”

  “That’s correct! So we’re right back where we started from, which is exactly nowhere.”

  Frank switched on the car radio, hoping for good news of Jack Wayne. But again the report was disappointing, and the announcer said hope for the flier was waning. The Hardys were silent the rest of the way home.

  Frank pulled into the driveway and drove the car into the garage. He and Joe jumped out and made for the back steps, but the door swung open before they had reached it. Mrs. Hardy came out, obviously agitated.

  “Frank! Joe!” she cried out. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

  “What’s the matter, Mother?”

  “It’s Chet. He’s been telephoning every few minutes for the past half-hour.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s in trouble. Needs your help right away!”

  CHAPTER XV

  An Urgent Plea

  CHET in trouble again!

  “Did he say what about?” Joe asked.

  Mrs. Hardy shook her head. “But he wants you to go right over to the farm.”

  “I wonder if it has anything to do with the stolen rifles,” Frank mused.