The Hidden Harbor Mystery Page 7

  Who could that be? the Hardys wondered.

  Again the whistling came. Then a white-shirted figure crept cautiously out in front of the house.

  “Chet!” called Frank with relief.

  “Here I am,” came the reply. “Got tired of waiting in that old passage. What are you two doing up there, anyhow?”

  “We’re locked out,” Joe told him. “See if you can get into the house and free us.”

  The stout boy marched up to the front door, and tried it. “Locked,” he muttered. Almost automatically he stooped and looked under the mat. “Yes. Here we are—a key.”

  Inserting it in the lock, Chet opened the heavy door and vanished inside. In two minutes he freed Joe, then Frank. “That was easy,” he said. “Where do we go now?”

  “Back outside,” Frank answered. “We have a flying clue to bring down!”

  After bolting the room door, the three raced downstairs, locked the front door, replaced the key, and ran around the house. By now the dusk had deepened.

  “No flashlights,” said Frank. “We’ll have a better chance to see the paper against a dark background.”

  Frank turned his gaze upward. “There it is!” he announced.

  High in the wisteria covering the wide chimney, fluttered the white square of paper.

  “Oh-h,” moaned Chet. “Three of us standing on each other’s shoulders couldn’t reach that high.”

  “No, but if the top man had a stick, he might,” Frank pointed out.

  While Chet and Frank kept watch on the unpredictable paper, Joe found a fallen branch.

  “You’re elected anchor man, Chet,” Joe said, returning. Frank hauled himself up to stand on the stout boy’s shoulders. Then Joe hoisted himself up onto his brother’s. He clutched the wisteria vine for balance and began to fish upward with the stick.

  “Can’t ... reach it.” Joe grunted, extending to his utmost length.

  “You’re stepping on my ear,” warned Frank.

  In desperation, Joe took aim and flung his branch upward. With a rustling of leaves, the paper came free. The human ladder collapsed, the Hardys breaking their fall by somersaulting. The trio dashed after the white square, which now sailed toward the back of the house.

  Here the wind was not so strong. The paper lost altitude, and Joe, rushing up with a cry of triumph, made a neat two-handed catch.

  While Chet held his flashlight, the Hardys examined their find. Two sheets of white paper were stapled together. The one on top appeared to be a carefully hand-drawn map.

  “It’s the Rand property,” said Frank. “Here’s the house, with the pond and swamp behind. But what’s this encircled area?” Squinting closer, he read the small printed words which covered the pond and part of the swamp:SITE OF ANCIENT INDIAN VILLAGE

  “What’s on the second page?” Joe asked.

  “It’s a letter to Professor Rand from State University,” Frank reported, after scanning the document briefly. “It says they have no funds for excavation of the site indicated, without more proof that something of archaeological value exists.”

  “So that’s what Rand wants to find!” Joe exclaimed. “An ancient Indian village—not the buried family fortune!”

  “Don’t be too sure,” Frank cautioned. “He may be trying to kill two birds with one stone. Maybe he wants the money to finance the excavation.”

  After tucking the two papers in his pocket, Frank led the way toward the pond. A light moved slowly among the big, moss-hung cypresses of the swamp.

  As the boys crept nearer, they spotted the tall figure digging, and stooping to examine each spadeful.

  “That must be Professor Rand!” Joe whispered. Impetuously he started forward, but Frank pulled his brother back.

  “What’s the matter? We’ve been trying to catch up with Rand for days!” Joe argued.

  “It’s not the right time,” Frank countered. “He’s doing his best to hide his activities, besides dodging us! Do you think we’d learn anything from him at this point?”

  “Well, I guess he wouldn’t be very friendly,” Joe admitted.

  “He’ll be more on his guard than ever,” Frank went on. “It would be better to let him think we’ve given up. But we’ll spy on him, starting right now.”

  “Still, we can’t wait too long,” Joe insisted. “The trial against Bart Worth is getting closer, and we haven’t turned up the evidence he needs.”

  All this time the boys had been moving forward and presently were in an advantageous position to watch the digger. To their disappointment the man stopped his work almost immediately, swung the shovel over his shoulder, and started back in the direction from which he had come.

  “I guess he’s through for tonight, and we didn’t learn a thing,” Chet complained, sloshing in and out of the mucky swamp.

  The digger, familiar with the area, outdistanced them. When the boys reached the Rand house, it was in darkness.

  “Let’s get back to camp,” Chet begged. “I’ve had it. Besides, there’s food back there.”

  The Hardys, feeling they could learn nothing more at the moment, agreed. Next morning found them driving to Larchmont on a new angle.

  “Guess Joe and I will have a history lesson at the library,” Frank told Chet, “while you stock up on food.”

  They stopped at the town’s public library and the Hardys went inside. Chet continued on to shop for food. Soon Frank and Joe were engrossed in a thickly bound stack of yellowed newspapers dating back before the Civil War.

  “Plenty of piracy and smuggling going on along this coast just before the war,” Frank observed.

  “Yes,” Joe corroborated. “Officials couldn’t tell where all the stolen goods and contraband were coming from.”

  “The name Blackstone seems to have become more and more prominent in business, social, and civic events,” Frank went on. “Anything else interesting?”

  “This paper reports a tremendous hurricane just after the Civil War ended. Nothing to do with our case, I suppose.”

  The boys finished their research and left the library. Chet was waiting outside in the convertible.

  “Saw Mr. Cutter hanging around the supermarket,” he reported. “Think he saw me but didn’t let on.”

  “He’s so busy keeping tabs on us he doesn’t have time for his own business,” Joe stated.

  “Why don’t we trail him?”

  Frank had another idea. “I think now we ought to look for Hidden Harbor—from the air, where we’ll have a better view. The Blackstones could have done all the smuggling mentioned in the newspapers by means of such a secret harbor. That would explain their sudden prosperity, and also why Rand and Blackstone, despite their differences, are so hush-hush over everything.”

  “You fellows go on,” Chet said. “I’ll take this stuff back to camp. What’ll you do for a plane?”

  “Engage Al West,” Joe answered. “I’ll check with the airport.”

  The boy made his call from a booth in a store. He learned that the young pilot would be glad to take them up. “Come right over,” Al said.

  When Joe left, he spotted Mr. Stewart seated in the adjoining booth! “Did he overhear me?” Joe wondered.

  Chet drove the convertible back to camp with the supplies, while Frank and Joe hailed the rather antiquated yellow-and-black town taxi. Soon they were heading along the main road to the airport. Frank watched carefully, but nobody seemed to be following them.

  At the airport Al greeted the Hardys affably and invited them to lunch in the airport cafeteria. Afterward, the three boarded Al’s trim amphibian. Frank sat beside the pilot, Joe behind him in a comfortable leather seat. After getting clearance from the tower, Al gunned the plane down the runway, eased back on the wheel, and they were air-borne. For some minutes the ship gained altitude. Then, without warning, it lurched violently to portside and nosed down.

  Frank was thrown against the pilot, who slammed sideways against the cockpit window.

  “What’s wrong?” Joe
shouted.

  “Don’t know,” Frank replied, then suddenly he said, “Al’s out coldl We’ll crash!”

  CHAPTER XII

  Alligator!

  WITH engines roaring, the amphibian was heading toward the ground at a steep angle.

  “Good night!” Joe yelled.

  Frank sprang into action. He pushed Al back into the seat with his left arm, seized the wheel with his right hand, and pulled back. No response !

  Joe reached forward, grasped Al’s shoulders, and straightened the limp pilot in his seat. Frank, with both hands on the wheel now, strained to level the faltering plane. Sweat stood out on his forehead as the wooded swamp beneath them seemed to rush upward.

  Barely at treetop level, the craft recovered from its sickening dive.

  Al’s eyes fluttered open. He shook his head, then he came fully alert as several branches scraped the bottom of his craft. He grasped the wheel from Frank, and with his jaw set grimly, fought for altitude.

  Nobody spoke until Al banked toward the airport.

  “Thanks,” he said, “I think we’ll make it.”

  “What happened?” Joe asked.

  “Control failure. Something went haywire.”

  Al radioed for emergency clearance.. and brought the plane in for a rough landing. When they climbed out, shaken by their close brush with death, Al summoned the maintenance crew. Together they went over the controls.

  “Here’s your trouble,” one of the mechanics said finally. “A stabilizer cable has been cutl”

  “Sabotage!” Joe exclaimed.

  Frank nodded understandingly. “Stewart must’ve heard you telephone the airport. But how did he have time to get here and cut the cable before we arrived?”

  Joe, seeing a puzzled look on Al’s face, told him of Cutter’s and Stewart’s apparent attempts on the boys’ lives.

  The pilot frowned. “What road did you take out here?” he asked.

  “The main highway from Larchmont.”

  “There’s a shorter way, over back roads. That old taxi probably crawled like a snail, too. Stewart could easily have beaten you here, and tampered with the ship while we ate lunch.”

  Al brought out his tool kit and quickly fixed the damaged cable. He threw a calculating glance at the sky, where dark clouds were forming in the west.

  “Storm’s coming up,” he said. “But I guess we still have time to look around before it hits.”

  Once more, the silver amphibian raced down the runway and lifted into the air.

  “I hope Chet nails things down at camp,” Frank remarked.

  “He’d better. Haven’t you heard?” Al asked. “Hurricane warnings have been out since last night. There’s a big one working up from the Gulf of Mexico, but she shouldn’t arrive here for several hours.”

  The craft passed high over Larchmont, then winged above the ocean. The choppy water was a deep, black-tinged green. White lines of foam stroked far up on the beach.

  “There’s our tent!” Joe called out.

  “Yes, and there’s our enemy’s observation post.” Frank pointed to the fishing smack bobbing at anchor on the rough water.

  Al West banked the ship inland across the pale, high-peaked sand dunes. From this height, all the huge ancestral Blackstone plantation was visible at once. On the right, the shiny slates of Samuel Blackstone’s home peeped through well-spaced trees. Rand’s mansion, nearly overgrown, was harder to pick out. Between the two houses, the pond reflected the troubled gray sky. At the edge of the water on the ocean side, black-cypress foliage indicated the swampland.

  “You say you’re looking for a harbor?” Al was perplexed. “A harbor means a break in the coast, fellows. It’s solid beach and dunes along here.”

  Frank was eying the fingers of water leading from the pond, some wide, some narrow, which lost themselves among the dunes or stretched into the swamp among the cypresses.

  “Go lower, Al,” Frank directed. “Let’s see where some of those bayous lead.”

  “Okay,” said Al. “But none of those little inlets reaches to the ocean or ever has so long as I’ve been around here—and that’s all my life!”

  A closer view appeared to upset a theory Frank had that at one time there might have been a channel leading to a harbor. But now every finger of water was choked by stumps or ended in a mass of vegetation.

  The amphibian spiraled slowly upward again, then made another run over the area.

  “Say,” Frank cried out suddenly, “the pond does have a big loop in it directly in the center of the ocean side, and one of these fingers runs straight toward the sea.”

  The others agreed. Then Frank added, “I see something else. That finger of water is of a lighter shade than the pond. There may still be an underground stream running from the ocean to the pond—but not enough to cause any perceptible rise and fall of the pond with the tide.”

  “Why is the inlet lighter?” Joe asked.

  “Probably a different kind of soil underneath,” remarked Al. “Well, fellows, do you all want to head back now?”

  “Hold it!” Joe cried suddenly. “There’s a boat! On one of those strips of water!”

  Al kicked his ship into a sharp wing over that brought his craft low over the spot. A rowboat was quickly pulled out of sight in the hanging moss.

  “What would a boat be doing in there?” Frank wondered.

  “Yes,” Joe put in. “I’d like to go down and find that man!”

  “Maybe we can,” Frank suggested. “How about it, Al? Could you set us down on the pond?”

  Apprehensively the pilot checked the clouded skies. He looked at his watch.

  “Okay,” he agreed. “But don’t make it long. When that storm hits, she’ll be a honey. I want this ship safe in her hangar long before then!”

  Veering round, the silver craft came in just over the cypresses, glided onto the pond, and floated toward shore.

  Quickly the Hardys rigged mooring lines. Then the brothers waded ashore and plunged into the swamp.

  Ducking under vines and hanging moss, leaping from one solid foothold to another, they pushed toward the spot where they had seen the rowboat disappear.

  Under the cypresses, silence prevailed. In spite of the unsettled weather above, the thick mossy curtains scarcely moved. Frank and Joe forged ahead and presently found themselves beside a wide stream, which was running toward the pond.

  Frank tasted the water. “Fresh,” he announced.

  Narrowing and branching, the little stream led them deeper into the treacherous area. At last Joe halted, crouching, behind a huge fallen tree trunk. Ahead, through the moss, he had spotted the rowboat.

  A blue-shirted, slightly built man with his back to the boys leaned over the stern. He wore gloves. Hand over hand, he brought up a dripping object in a net.

  “A baby alligator!” Frank whispered.

  The man dropped the reptile into a deep box on his boat, and lowered his net again. Twice more the Hardys watched him bring up a similar catch.

  “That’s illegal,” Frank commented quietly. He slipped over the huge tree trunk and crept ahead. Joe, following, supported himself against one of the tree’s low-hanging limbs. Suddenly the branch gave way with a loud crack.

  Instantly the stranger dropped low in his boat. The next moment he came up again with a blue shotgun barrel trained in the Hardys’ direction. A blast and a puff of gray smoke followed rapidly. Deadly pellets ripped shreds in the hanging moss and leaves just beside the brothers.

  Frank and Joe were hugging the mucky earth when the second blast sounded. This time the shot rattled into a fallen tree trunk right behind them.

  “Keep down!” Frank warned. “He may have another shell ready!”

  But now the stranger was bending low over his oars. With quick pulls on them he sent the boat up the little stream, and in a moment was out of sight around a bend.

  “Better let him go if we don’t want to get shot,” Frank said. “Let’s look at the alligator nest.�
��

  Frank and Joe clambered forward to the mud-bank.

  “Besides poaching baby alligators,” said Frank, “he was stealing the eggs, too. Look. There’s the nest he was rifling.”

  The boy pointed to a freshly dug mound of mud at the very end of the oozy bank. Half sunk in the muck and water was a fallen tree trunk. Balancing themselves, the boys walked out on it for a look.

  “I guess these poachers sell the baby alligators to tourists and pet shops,” Joe said.

  “Well, the fellow should be reported,” Frank stated flatly. “Alligators in this country are protected by law against poaching. That’s why he shot at us.”

  Stooping, Frank peered into the muddy hole, but no eggs were visible. He straightened up, then looked around, puzzled.

  “Say, which way is the plane? We couldn’t have come far, but I’ve lost my sense of direction in this place.”

  “Yell,” Joe suggested. “When Al answers, we’ll know which way to go.”

  “Al! Al West!” The boys’ voices echoed through the silent swamp.

  “Louder!” Joe urged, cupping his hands and taking in a tremendous breath. “Hey‾All Where are you?”

  In his strenuous effort, the boy lost his balance on the slippery trunk. With a splash he went down into the water. Grabbing the trunk with both hands, he tried to hoist himself out.

  “My legsl They’re caught in some vines!” he gasped.

  Stooping to aid his brother, Frank spotted a sudden movement on the surface of the stream. Then he recognized the snout of an alligator. The angry reptile was swimming straight toward Joe!

  CHAPTER XIII

  Hurricane

  JoE, trapped, blanched when he caught sight of the oncoming alligator. Frank balanced himself on the fallen trunk and glanced quickly about for a means of rescue. A stout log about four feet long floated by. Seizing the log, Frank lifted it over his head in both hands.

  When the alligator’s ugly snout came into range, Frank hurled his weapon with a mighty thrust. A solid crack told him that the heavy log had struck the animal’s head. The huge reptile rolled over, its short legs flailing helplessly and tail lashing from side to side.