The House on the Cliff Read online

  “What is it?” Snattman asked impatiently.

  “We’ve been talkin’ about Ali Singh.”

  Frank and Joe started and listened intently.

  “What about him?” Snattman prodded his assistant.

  “Turn the prisoners over to him. He’s got a friend named Foster who’s captain of a boat sailin’ to the Far East tonight. Put the Hardys on board that ship,” the first smuggler urged.

  Snattman looked thoughtful. The idea seemed to catch his fancy.

  “Not bad,” he muttered. “I hadn’t thought of Ali Singh. Yes, he’d take care of them. They’d never get back here.” He smiled grimly.

  “From what he told me about that friend of his, the captain’d probably dump the Hardys overboard before they got very far out,” the man went on smugly. “Seems like he don’t feed passengers if he can get rid of ’em!”

  “All the better. We wouldn’t be responsible.”

  “Leave them to Ali Singh.” Red chuckled evilly. “He’ll attend to them.”

  Snattman walked over to the cot and looked down at Mr. Hardy. “It’s too bad your boys had to come barging in here,” he said. “Now the three of you will have to take a little ocean voyage.” He laughed. “You’ll never get to the Coast Guard to tell your story.”

  The detective was silent. He knew further attempts at persuasion would be useless.

  “Well,” said Snattman, “haven’t you anything to say?”

  “Nothing. Do as you wish with me. But let the boys go.”

  “We’ll stick with you, Dad,” said Frank quickly.

  “Of course!” Joe added.

  “You sure will,” Snattman declared. “I’m not going to let one of you have the chance of getting back to Bayport with your story.”

  The ringleader of the smugglers stood in the center of the room for a while, contemplating his captives with a bitter smile. Then he turned suddenly on his heel.

  “Well, they’re safe enough,” he told Red. “We have that business with Burke to take care of. Come on, men, load Burke’s truck. If any policemen come along and find it in the lane we’ll be done for.”

  “How about them?” asked Red, motioning to the Hardys. “Shouldn’t they be guarded?”

  “They’re tied up tight.” Snattman gave a short laugh. “But I guess we’d better leave one guard, anyway. Malloy, you stay here and keep watch.”

  Malloy, a surly, truculent fellow in overalls and a ragged sweater, nodded and sat down on a box near the door. This arrangement seemed to satisfy Snattman. After warning Malloy not to fall asleep on the job and to see to it that the prisoners did not escape, he left the room. He was followed by Red and the other smugglers.

  A heavy silence fell over the room after the departure of the men. Malloy crouched gloomily on the box, gazing blankly at the floor. The butt of a revolver projected from his hip pocket.

  Frank strained against the ropes that bound him to the chair. But the smugglers had done their task well. He could scarcely budge.

  “We’ll never get out of this,” he told himself ruefully.

  Joe was usually optimistic but this time his spirits failed him. “We’re in a tough spot,” he thought. “It looks as if we’ll all be on that ship by morning.”

  To lighten their spirits the Hardys began to talk, hoping against hope to distract the guard and perhaps overpower him.

  “Shut up, you guys!” Malloy growled. “Quit your talking or I’ll make it hot for you!” He tapped his revolver suggestively.

  After that, a melancholy silence fell among the prisoners. All were downhearted. It looked as if their fate truly were sealed.

  CHAPTER XVI

  Quick Work

  IN DESPAIR the boys glanced over at their father on the cot. To their surprise they saw that he was smiling.

  Frank was about to ask him what he had found amusing about their predicament when his father shook his head in warning. He looked over at the guard.

  Malloy was not watching the prisoners. He sat staring at the floor. Occasionally his head would fall forward, then he would jerk it back as he struggled to keep awake.

  “Snattman sure made a poor selection when he chose Malloy as guard,” the boys thought.

  Several times the burly man straightened up, stretched his arms, and rubbed his eyes. But when he settled down again, his head began to nod.

  In the meantime, the boys noticed their father struggling with his bonds. To their amazement he did not seem to be so tightly bound as they had thought. Both of them tried moving but could not budge an inch.

  The boys exchanged glances, both realizing what had happened. “Dad resorted to an old trick!” Frank told himself, and Joe was silently fuming, “Why didn’t we think of it?”

  Mr. Hardy had profited by his previous experience. When the smugglers had seized the detective and tied him to the cot for the second time, he had used a device frequently employed by magicians and professional “escape artists” who boast that they can release themselves from tightly tied ropes and strait jackets.

  The detective had expanded his chest and flexed his muscles. He had also kept his arms as far away from his sides as he could without being noticed. In this way, when he relaxed, the ropes did not bind him as securely as his captors intended.

  “Oh, why were Frank and I so dumb!” Joe again chided himself.

  Frank bit his lip in utter disgust at not having remembered the trick. “But then”—he eased his conscience—“Dad didn’t think of it the first time, either.”

  Mr. Hardy had discovered that the rope binding his right wrist to the cot had a slight slack in it. He began trying to work the rope loose. This took a long time and the rough strands rubbed his wrist raw. But at last he managed to slide his right hand free.

  “Hurray!” Frank almost shouted. He glanced at the guard. Malloy appeared to be sound asleep. “Hope he’ll stay that way until we can escape,” Frank wished fervently.

  He and Joe watched their father in amazement, as they saw him grope for one of the knots. The detective fumbled at it for a while. It was slow work with only his one hand free. But the boys knew from his satisfied expression that the smugglers in their haste apparently had not tied the knots as firmly as they should have.

  At this instant the guard suddenly lifted his head, and Mr. Hardy quickly laid his free hand back on the cot. He closed his eyes as if sleeping and his sons followed his example. But opening their lids a slit, they watched the smuggler carefully.

  The guard grunted. “They’re okay,” he mumbled. Once more he tried to stay awake but found it impossible. Little by little his head sagged until his chin rested on his chest. Deep, regular breathing told the prisoners he was asleep.

  Mr. Hardy now began work again on the knot of the rope that kept his left arm bound to the cot. In a matter of moments he succeeded in loosening it and the rope fell away from his arm.

  After making sure the guard was still asleep, the detective sat up on the cot and struggled to release his feet. This was an easier task. The smugglers had merely passed a rope around the cot to hold the prisoner’s feet. A few minutes’ attention was all that was necessary for the boys’ father to work his way loose.

  “Now he’ll release us,” Joe thought excitedly, “and we can escape from here!”

  As Fenton Hardy tiptoed toward his sons, the board floor squeaked loudly. The guard muttered again, as if dreaming, shook his head, then sat up.

  “Oh, no!” Frank murmured, fearful of what would happen. He saw his father pick up a white rag someone had dropped.

  A look of intense amazement crossed Malloy’s face. As he opened his mouth to yell for help, Fenton Hardy leaped across the intervening space and flung himself on the smuggler.

  “Keep quiet!” the detective ordered.

  Malloy had time only to utter a muffled gasp before the detective clapped a hand over the guard’s mouth, jammed the rag in it, and toppled him to the floor. The two rolled over and over in a desperate, silent struggle. T
he boys, helpless, looked on, their fears mounting. They knew their father had been weakened by his imprisonment and hunger, and the guard was strong and muscular. Nevertheless, the detective had the advantage of a surprise attack. Malloy had had no time to collect his wits.

  Frank and Joe watched the battle in an agony of suspense. If only they could join the fight!

  Mr. Hardy still had the advantage, for he could breathe better than his opponent. But suddenly Malloy managed to raise himself to his knees. He reached for the revolver at his hip.

  “Look out, Dad!” Frank hissed. “He’s got his gun!”

  Quick as a flash the detective landed a blow on the guard’s jaw. Malloy blinked and raised both hands to defend himself as he fell to the ground. Mr. Hardy darted forward and pulled the revolver out of the man’s side pocket.

  “No funny business!” the detective told him in a low voice.

  Without being told, Malloy raised his hands in the air. He sat helplessly on the floor, beaten.

  “He’s got a knife too, Dad,” Joe said quietly. “Watch that.”

  “Thanks, Joe,” his father replied. Then, motioning with the pistol, he said, “All right. Let’s have the knife!”

  Sullenly the guard removed the knife from its leather sheath at his belt and handed it to Mr. Hardy.

  Frank and Joe wanted to shout with joy, but merely grinned at their father.

  Still watching Malloy, the detective walked slowly backward until he reached Joe’s side. Without taking his eyes from the smuggler, he bent down and with the knife sliced at the ropes that bound his son. Fortunately, the knife was sharp and the ropes soon were cut.

  “Boy, that feels good, Dad. Thanks,” Joe whispered.

  He sprang from the chair, took the knife, and while his father watched Malloy, he cut Frank’s bonds.

  “Malloy,” Mr. Hardy ordered, “come over here!”

  He motioned toward the bed and indicated by gestures that the smuggler was to lie down on the cot. Malloy shook his head vigorously, but was prodded over by Joe. The guard lay down on the cot.

  The ropes which had held Mr. Hardy had not been cut. Quickly Frank and Joe trussed up Malloy just as their father had been tied, making certain that the knots were tight. As a final precaution they pushed in the gag which was slipping and with a piece of rope made it secure.

  The whole procedure had taken scarcely five minutes. The Hardys were free!

  “What now?” Frank asked his father out of earshot of Malloy. “Hide some place until the Coast Guard gets here?” Quickly he told about Tony and Chet going to bring the officers to the smugglers’ hide-out.

  “But they should have been here by now,” Joe whispered. “They probably haven’t found the secret door. Let’s go down and show them.”

  This plan was agreed upon, but the three Hardys got no farther than the top of the first stairway when they heard rough, arguing voices below them.

  “They can’t be Coast Guard men,” said Mr. Hardy. “We’ll listen a few seconds, then we’d better run in the other direction. I know the way out to the grounds.”

  From below came an ugly, “You double-crosser, you! This loot belongs to the whole gang and don’t you forget it!”

  “Listen,” said the second voice. “I don’t have to take orders from you. I thought we was pals. Now you don’t want to go through with the deal. Who’s to know if we got ten packages or five from that friend o’ Ali Singh’s?”

  “Okay. And the stuff’ll be easier to get rid of than those drugs. They’re too hot for me. Snattman can burn for kidnapin’ if he wants to—I don’t.”

  The voices had now become so loud that the Hardys did not dare wait another moment. “Come on!” the boys’ father urged.

  He led the way back to the corridor and along it to the door at the end. Suddenly Frank and Joe noticed him falter and were afraid he was going to faint. Joe recalled that his father had had no food except the candy bar. Ramming his hands into his pockets, he brought out another bar and some pieces of pretzel. Quickly he filled both his father’s hands with them. Mr. Hardy ate them hungrily as his sons supported him under his arms and assisted him to the door.

  As Frank quietly opened it, and they saw a stairway beyond, the detective said, “These steps will bring us up into a shed near the Pollitt house. There’s a trap door. That’s the way Snattman brought me down. Got your lights? We haven’t any time to lose.” Mr. Hardy seemed stronger already. “I’ll take the lead.”

  As they ascended, Frank and Joe wondered if they would come out in the shed where they had seen the man named Klein picking up small logs.

  When the detective reached the top of the stairs he ordered the lights out and pushed against the trap door. He could not budge it.

  “You try,” he urged the boys. “And hurry! Those men we heard may discover Malloy.”

  “And then things will start popping!” Frank murmured.

  The boys heaved their shoulders against the trap door. In a moment there came the rumble of rolling logs. The door went up easily.

  Frank peered out. No one seemed to be around. He stepped up into the shed and the others followed.

  The three stood in silence. The night was dark. The wind, blowing through the trees, made a moaning sound. Before the Hardys rose the gloomy mass of the house on the cliff. No lights could be seen.

  From the direction of the lane came dull, thudding sounds. The boys and their father assumed the smugglers’ truck was being loaded with the goods which were to be disposed of by the man named Burke.

  Suddenly the Hardys heard voices from the corridor they had just left. Quickly Frank closed the trap door and Joe piled up the logs. Then, silently, the Hardys stole out into the yard.

  CHAPTER XVII

  Hostages

  LITHE as Indians the three Hardys hurried across the lawn and disappeared among the trees. They headed for the road, a good distance away.

  “I hope a bus comes along,” Frank said to himself. “Then we can get to a phone and report—”

  His thought was rudely interrupted as the boys and their father heard a sound that struck terror to their hearts—the clatter of the logs tumbling off the trap door!

  An instant later came a hoarse shout. “Chief! Red! The Hardys got away! Watch out for them!”

  “He must be one of the men we heard coming up from the shore,” Joe decided. “They must have found Malloy trussed up!”

  Instantly the place became alive with smugglers flashing their lights. Some of the men ran from the truck toward the road, shouting. Others began to comb the woods. Another man emerged from the trap door. He and his companion dashed to the ocean side of the house.

  Two burly smugglers flung open the kitchen door and ran out. One shouted, “They ain’t in the house!”

  “And they’re not down at the shore!” the other yelled. “I just talked to Klein on the phone down there.”

  “You guys better not let those Hardys get away!” Snattman’s voice cut through the night. “It’ll be the pen for all of you!”

  “Fenton Hardy’s got a gun! He took Malloy’s!” came a warning voice from the far side of the house. The two men who had gone to the front now returned. “He never misses his mark!”

  When the fracas had started, the detective had pulled his sons to the ground, told them to lie flat, face down, and not to move. Now they could hear the pounding steps of the smugglers as they dashed among the trees. The boys’ hearts pounded wildly. It did not seem possible they could be missed!

  Yet man after man ran within a few yards of the three prone figures and dashed on toward the road. Presently Mr. Hardy raised his head and looked toward the Pollitt mansion.

  “Boys,” he said tensely, “we’ll make a run for the kitchen door. The men won’t expect us to go there.”

  The three arose. Swiftly and silently they crossed the dark lawn and slipped into the house. Apparently no one had seen them.

  “When Snattman doesn’t find us outdoors,” Joe whispered, �
��won’t he look here to make sure?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Hardy replied. “But by that time I hope the Coast Guard and State Police will arrive.”

  “Joe and I found a hidden stairway to the attic,” Frank spoke up. “Snattman won’t think of looking in it. Let’s hide up there.”

  “You forget the ghost,” Joe reminded his brother. “He knows we found that stairway.”

  “Nevertheless, Frank’s suggestion is a good one,” Mr. Hardy said. “Let’s go to the attic. Were any clothes hanging in the closet that might be used to conceal the door?”

  “Yes, a man’s bathrobe on a rod.”

  The Hardys did not dare use a light and had to make their way along by feeling walls, and the stair banister, with Frank in the lead and Mr. Hardy between the boys. Reaching the second floor, Frank looked out the rear window of the hall.

  “The smugglers are coming back!” he remarked in a low voice. “The lights are heading this way!”

  The Hardys doubled their speed, but it was still slow going, for they banged into chairs and a wardrobe as Frank felt his way along the hall toward the bedroom where the hidden staircase was.

  Finally the trio reached it. Just as Frank was about to open the door to the attic, a door on the first floor swung open with a resounding bang.

  “Scatter and search every room!” Snattman’s crisp voice rang out.

  “We’re trapped!” Joe groaned.

  “Maybe not,” Frank said hopefully. “I have a hunch Klein was the ghost. It’s possible that he’s the only one who knows about this stairway and he’s down at the shore.”

  “We’ll risk going up,” Mr. Hardy decided. “But not a sound.” He slid the bathrobe across the rod, so that it would hide the door.

  “The stairs creak,” Joe informed him.

  Mr. Hardy told his sons to push down the treads slowly but firmly with their hands and hold them there until they put one foot between them and then raised up to their full weight.

  “And lean forward, so you won’t lose your balance,” he warned.

  Fearful that he could not accomplish this, Frank opened the door carefully and started up in the pitch blackness. But the dread thought of capture made him use extreme caution and he reached the attic without having made a sound.