Night of the Werewolf Read online

  Dr. Benton was a thin, fussy-looking individual. His manner seemed rather curt and impatient, as if he were tired of answering questions about the Tabor case. However, when the boys showed him the letter signed by his former patient, he agreed to spare them a few minutes.

  “Do you mind telling us who that man was who just left here?” Frank asked.

  “He came here for the same reason you did. It wouldn’t be proper for me to discuss his business with you.”

  The physician told them briefly about the treatment which young Tabor had received at the sanatorium. He scoffed at any notion that his apparent breakdown might have been purely imaginary and brought on by outside enemies.

  “That’s ridiculous!” the doctor snapped. “John was definitely suffering from delusions. Even while he was here, he reported hearing the voices of his werewolf ancestors.”

  “They wouldn’t be hard to fake,” Joe pointed out. “With a few electronic gimmicks, we could make any patient here imagine the same thing.”

  Frank nodded. “That’s true, sir. By hiding one or more miniaturized radio receivers in his room, we could be miles from the sanatorium and still broadcast such voices to a patient. By planting both a bug and a receiver, we could even make him think he was carrying on a two-way conversation with a ghost.”

  The doctor frowned. “To do that, you’d first have to get to his room. And I can assure you that none of John’s so-called enemies had a chance to do that.”

  “A staff employee might have been bribed to plant the radio gimmicks,” Joe reasoned.

  “I resent any such suggestion, young man!”

  “If you’ll let us check the room John Tabor occupied while he was a patient here,” Frank said, “we can soon tell you if it contains any bugs or other devices.”

  Dr. Benton seemed somewhat upset, but reluctantly agreed. The Hardys got a kit of detection gear which they had brought along in their car and proceeded to make an electronic sweep of the room in question. They not only checked the walls for hidden devices, but also the bedside lamp, furniture, and other items.

  “No luck!” Joe grumbled.

  “That doesn’t prove the trickery didn’t happen,” Frank pointed out. “Whoever planted the gimmicks may have removed them as soon as John Tabor checked out of the sanatori—”

  The older Hardy boy suddenly broke off speaking, shoved the chair he had been examining out of the way and darted toward the door.

  “What’s wrong?” Joe exclaimed.

  “I saw a guy peeking at us!”

  The two young sleuths rushed out in pursuit. As they emerged into the corridor, a door slammed shut down the hall. It appeared to lead to another wing of the sanatorium, but when the boys tried it, it would not open.

  “He must’ve pushed the lock button as he went through!” Frank fumed.

  “What did this eavesdropper look like?” Joe asked.

  “I only got a brief glance at him. He was rather heavyset with light blond hair, dressed in white. Probably a male nurse or attendant.”

  “He could have been the guy who planted the radio gimmick!”

  When Dr. Benton heard their story, he seemed more upset than ever. Instead of offering to help find the culprit, he insisted that the Hardys leave the sanatorium, pointing out that they had utterly failed to prove their suspicions.

  The boys stopped at a roadside diner for sandwiches. Frank pulled out the name and address of the owner of Eagle’s Nest. “He lives near New Paltz, which isn’t far from here,” the boy stated. “Should we stop in and see him?”

  “What have we got to lose?”

  The client, whose name was Crawford, proved to be a wealthy retired businessman. A balding, courtly mannered old gentleman, he seemed delighted by the Hardys’ visit.

  “Come into my study, boys,” he invited them. When they were comfortably seated, he said, “Now then, what can I do for you?”

  Frank explained how they had happened to visit Eagle’s Nest. Then he told about the gray-haired man in dark glasses who had eavesdropped on their conversation with Hank and later arranged to meet them at a restaurant in New York.

  Mr. Crawford snapped his fingers. “I know exactly whom you’re talking about!”

  “Really, sir? We’d like to learn more about him. He called himself Mr. Nest, but Joe and I are certain that name is an alias.”

  “You bet it is! His real name is Marburg. He’s an antique dealer who specializes in old manuscripts and autographs, or so he says.”

  “How did you meet him?” Joe asked.

  “Well, shortly after I bought Eagle’s Nest, there was a story in one of the New York papers. It reported that I was having the old mansion restored, how I planned to make it into a historic showplace. Next day I got a call from Marburg. He offered to buy any old documents that turned up during the restoration. I tried to be polite, and honest. Told him I didn’t expect to find anything of value. After all, the house has been sitting up there in the woods for years, an empty shell just rotting away.

  “But Marburg refused to take no for an answer. He kept pestering me with calls,” Mr. Crawford went on. “Even drove all the way from New York City just to see me. Finally I became fed up. Didn’t trust him, anyhow. He sounded like a crook to me. I told him I wanted nothing to do with him, and if he bothered me any more, I wouldn’t even give him the chance to bid on anything that turned up.”

  “I wonder why he lied to us about his name,” Frank mused.

  “In my opinion,” said the elderly businessman, “it merely confirms what I suspected all along. The man’s dishonest. He’s ready to go to any lengths to lay his hands on whatever valuable items come to light. But he recognized you as the Hardy boys. So he’s trying to cover himself, hoping you won’t be able to trace him if he has to resort to theft or trickery.”

  “What about the tomahawk he mentioned?” Joe asked. Mr. Crawford shrugged. “No telling. Wouldn’t surprise me if it were part of some elaborate confidence game he’s playing.”

  The Hardys thanked their elderly informant and resumed their drive to the Adirondacks. When they arrived at Hawk River in midafternoon, Chet burst out of the cabin to greet them.

  “You really missed some action here last night!” he blurted.

  Joe hopped out of the car and stretched his arms and legs. “What happened?”

  “Plenty! For openers, there were more wolf howls and werewolf attacks.”

  “Were you keeping an eye on the Tabors’ house?” Frank put in anxiously.

  The chubby boy nodded and threw out his chest. “You bet I was. In fact I came near solving the mystery all by myself!”

  “Well, don’t keep us in suspense!” Joe urged. “Give us a blow-by-blow!”

  “Okay, okay. If you’ll listen and give me a chance, I will. I was up in the tree, same as before, see? Something seemed to be moving in the shadows, and all of a sudden I caught on. There was another guy keeping watch on the house!”

  “Did you get a look at him, Chet?”

  “Not right away. It was too dark where he was standing. As I told you, he was in the shadows. Let’s just call him Mr. X.”

  “Suits us. But what happened?”

  Chet related that shortly before midnight he had seen John Tabor sneak out of the house.

  “Was this before or after the howls started?”

  “Right after.” The chubby youth shuddered. “Boy, it was weird! Almost as if he heard the wild wolves calling him and was going out in the woods to join them! Anyway, Mr. X started tailing him. So naturally I followed both of them. And when they got out in the open more, out in the moonlight, I finally got a chance to see what Mr. X looked like. He was a thickset guy with a dark cap and a big droopy dark mustache.”

  The Hardys exclaimed almost in unison, “Same guy we saw at the sanatorium!”

  Frank added more cautiously, “At least the description fits. Go on with your story, Chet.”

  Their stout chum reported that he had followed the two men up a wo
oded hillside. “We were going along quietly,” he continued, “when suddenly I heard a twig crack, as if someone stepped on it. Not in front of me, behind me!”

  Joe said, “Oh, oh, you mean someone was following you?”

  “That’s what it sounded like.” Chet gulped as he recalled his feelings at that scary moment. “Man, I was really shook up!”

  “What did you do?” Joe asked tensely.

  “I froze for a moment, then crouched down in a clump of brush. I figured if somebody was shadowing me, I’d waylay him and grab him as he came by.”

  Frank waited for the climax of the story. “Any luck?”

  “Oh, I caught him all right,” Chet said ruefully. “But I’m not sure how lucky I was. The guy fought like a wildcat. We were rolling all around in the dark, then he grabbed a stone and conked me on the head. When I came to everything was silent. So I came back here to the cabin. And I never even got a good look at the fellow I was scrapping with!”

  “Never mind. You did fine, Chet, and showed plenty of nerve in a tight spot.” Frank clapped the boy on the back, then frowned thoughtfully. “But this gives the case a new twist. Two other guys keeping John Tabor under surveillance!”

  “Any hunches about who they are?” Joe asked, eyeing his brother hopefully.

  “No. But I’d sure like to know where John was going. Could you show us the route he took, Chet?”

  Chet Morton shrugged. “I could try.”

  The three boys drove to a spot near the Tabor house, then parked and got out, with Chet leading the way. He guided them away from the road, through a ragged patch of woods and over a rough, uneven stretch of terrain. Finally, they clambered up a hillside.

  “Hey, look!” Joe exclaimed, pointing ahead.

  Beyond the trees, they glimpsed a small hut.

  “Wow! I didn’t see that last night!” said Chet. “That must be where John Tabor was heading!”

  The Bayport trio pressed forward and entered the hut. It was littered with books and papers. Besides a table, chair, cot, and wood stove, there was a drawing board with an architectural sketch pinned to it, and various drafting instruments. Electricity was supplied by a small generator.

  “This must be where John comes to study and sketch out ideas for his designs,” said Frank, glancing around with interest.

  “Hey! Look at this!” Joe said, holding up what appeared to be a fur rug.

  “It’s a wolf skin!” gasped Chet.

  “Right! Complete from nose to tail. The head even has glass eyes!”

  Frank, who hurried to his brother’s side, turned it over. “And leather straps with buckles are on the underside, so a person can strap it on!”

  In their excitement over the find, the boys failed to hear footsteps approaching outside the hut. Suddenly the door burst open and a voice bellowed:

  “You’re all under arrest!”

  15

  Paleface Archer

  The boys whirled to face the speaker. He was a tall, rawboned man wearing a stetson felt hat and a sheriff’s badge pinned to the olive-gray jacket of his uniform.

  “Under arrest for what?” Frank asked.

  “Breaking and entering’ll do for a start.”

  “We didn’t break in, Sheriff. The door was open.” Frank identified himself and his brother, as well as Chet, and explained that they were investigating the werewolf mystery.

  On hearing that two of the youths were the sons of the famous detective, Fenton Hardy, the lawman relaxed his angry expression somewhat and even shook hands. “I’m Sheriff Kennig,” he told them. “You can forget what I said about being under arrest. But that still doesn’t excuse you for poking around without permission. I’m the local law officer. If you’re up here to work on a case, you should’ve checked in with me first.”

  The Hardys thought it best not to argue.

  “We’re still fairly new at detective work, Sheriff. We don’t have your experience at crime-fighting,” Frank said diplomatically. “I guess we have a few things to learn.”

  The rawboned police officer seemed mollified by Frank’s attitude and shrugged a bit pompously. “We all have to start somewhere,” he said. “What’s that you’re holding, young fellow?”

  “A wolf skin,” Joe said, handing it over.

  “Hm.” Kennig examined the hide, obviously mystified but doing his best to look professional. “I’ll take charge of this. It may be important evidence.”

  “How did you know we were here, Sheriff?” Joe inquired.

  “I didn’t. Just got a phone tip that it might be worth while to take a look in John Tabor’s cabin.” He added, “As your Dad may have told you, that’s one of the most important techniques in police work—gathering leads from informers.”

  “Any idea who the caller was?” Frank asked.

  Sheriff Kennig cleared his throat. “Actually, no. He didn’t leave any name. But he spoke with a foreign accent.”

  The lawman fished a gleaming metal pellet from his jacket pocket and held it out to show the boys. “Here’s something else that may interest you fellows, strictly off the record, you understand.”

  “A silver bullet!” Joe exclaimed. “Where’d it come from, Sheriff?”

  “When that werewolf was prowling around last night, someone took a shot at it. I dug this out of the bark of the tree where it hit. Didn’t get too mashed up.”

  Chet started to say something. Frank sensed that he might be about to mention the bullet fired into the Hardys’ front door in Bayport, which might have led to lengthy questioning by the sheriff. So he silenced his chum with a quick frown. Instead, Chet said, “Er, silver bullets are what people used to say it took to kill a werewolf, right?”

  The sheriff nodded. “Uh-huh. And this isn’t the only one that turned up.”

  Frank flashed him a startled glance. “Where else?”

  “Somebody fired one at Karel Tabor this morning. Happened just as he was climbing into his helicopter to take off for New York.”

  “Did anyone spot the gunman?”

  “Nope. The shot came from the woods near the Tabor’s house. Whoever it was, looks as if someone around Hawk River may figure the best way to get rid of werewolves is to wipe out the Tabor family!”

  “After telling the sheriff where they could be reached, the Hardys headed back to their car with Chet. Both Frank and Joe were worried that the furry clue they had discovered in the hut might cause fresh trouble for the Tabors.

  “You think the sheriff would go as far as tossing John in the clink?” Chet asked owlishly.

  “He just might,” Frank replied, “if people around here get worked up enough about the werewolf attacks.”

  “I still don’t see how anyone could be deceived by that wolf skin , though,” Joe argued. “Even if someone strapped it to his arms and body, I wouldn’t be fooled into thinking it was a real werewolf!”

  “Neither would I,” Chet chimed in.

  “And it sure wouldn’t explain that glowing wolf creature we saw at the Bayport Diner,” Frank pointed out.

  Suddenly Joe snapped his fingers. “Hey! I’ll bet I know where that pelt came from!”

  “Where?”

  “Off that stuffed wolf that got stolen from Alec Virgil! That would explain the glass eyes!”

  “Right,” his brother agreed. “Someone just emptied out the stuffing. I think you’ve hit it, Joe.”

  Frank was thoughtful when they arrived at the cottage. “Do you suppose the Mohawks knew anything about werewolves?” he mused.

  “Sure,” Joe replied. “That book by Desmond Quorn says that American Indian tribes had lots of folktales about people turning into animals. Why?”

  “Hank Eagle said his uncle’s a medicine man, remember? Just for the fun of it, I’d like to hear what he has to say about this werewolf scare. Who knows, he might come up with some kind of Indian lore or wolf-hunting gimmick that we could use to distract people around here and take some of the heat off the Tabors.” Frank looked at his two com
panions. “Are you game to drive to Hank’s village?”

  Joe nodded, and Chet was positively enthusiastic about the idea. A visit with the Indians, he felt, would give him a chance to soak up some real wilderness know-how. When the trio set off in the car again a short time later, the stout youth was clad in his fringed buckskin hunting shirt and headband, and even brought along his bow and arrows.

  The Mohawk village, as they found out by asking directions, lay only a few miles from Hawk River. To Chet’s disappointment, it consisted only of a few weatherbeaten houses and cabins, and the people, aside from their coppery complexions and, in some cases, braided hair, seemed no different from other local Americans.

  “Chet looks more Indian than they do,” Joe remarked with a chuckle to Frank.

  The Mohawks seemed to think so, too. When the boys climbed out of the car, a group of children who had been playing in front of the general store immediately surrounded the chubby visitor, admiring his bow and arrows and asking questions about his costume.

  Meantime, Frank and Joe asked where Hank Eagle’s uncle lived. His name was Adam Eagle, and he proved to be a thin, gnarled-looking old man with a beaky nose and high-cheekboned face. When he heard that his callers were friends of his nephew he greeted them with a firm handshake.

  “Say-go! Skaw-non-gowa, my friends. How are you?”

  The boys chatted with him and found out that Adam Eagle, too, had been a high-steeler in his youth. He had helped build the George Washington Bridge across the Hudson River and the Empire State Building, but now worked as a carpenter and odd-job man.

  “Hank told us you were a medicine man,” Joe remarked.

  The elderly Mohawk shrugged. “Sometimes I make herbal remedies for my neighbors when they are ill, and perform tribal ceremonies.”

  It turned out that he had already heard about the werewolf attacks at Hawk River. When Frank asked his opinion about them and how the trouble could be stopped, at first Mr. Eagle would say little.

  But finally, as a favor to the boys, he donned an Indian costume and built a small fire of twigs in the fireplace of his cabin. He played eerily on a red cedar flute. Then, shaking a pair of gourd rattles and speaking in the Mohawk tongue, he began calling on Ga-oh, the Spirit of the Winds. Frank and Joe got goose pimples listening to the weird chant.