The House On The Cliff Part 4

"That's rough stuff," Joe said to his father as they turned onto the sh.o.r.e road, "barging into house, tying up the owners, and kidnaping a guy!"

"Yes," Mr. Hardy agreed. "It looks as though 'your friend Jones is mixed up in some kind of racket.

Those men must have been pretty desperate to risk breaking into an occupied house."

The boys' father was able to follow the tracks of the car from the tread marks in the dusty road. But soon there were signs that another car had turned onto the sh.o.r.e road from a side lane and the trail became confused.

The Hardys pa.s.sed the lane that led into the Pollitt place and continued on until they came to a hilltop.

Here they could get a clear view of the road winding along the coast for several miles. There was no sign of a car.

"We've lost them, I guess," said Frank in disappointment, as Mr. Hardy brought the sedan to a stop.

"They had too much of a head start," Joe remarked. "If only we'd gotten to the farm sooner. Well, we may as well go back."

Mr. Hardy agreed, turned the car around, and once more the Hardys headed for the farm. On the way they discussed the mysterious kidnaping, and speculated on the ident.i.ty of those responsible.

"I'll bet those men in the other motorboat saw us rescue Jones, or else they heard somehow that he'd been taken to the farmhouse," Joe surmised.

"If they are the kidnapers, I wonder what will happen to Jones now," Frank said gravely. "They tried to kill him once."

"Maybe they'll just hold him prisoner," Mr. Hardy stated thoughtfully. "They were probably afraid he'd tell all he knew, and couldn't afford to leave him at the farmhouse."

When they got back to the Kanes', they found the farmer and his wife somewhat recovered from their harrowing experience. Mrs. Kane was busy straightening up the kitchen.

"We couldn't catch them," Frank reported sadly.

"Well, those hoodlums had a high-powered car and they weren't wastin' any time. I could see 'em from the window as they went down the lane," the farmer remarked, frowning angrily at the recollection.

"Please tell us exactly what happened, Mr. Kane," Joe urged.

"Well, Mabel and I were here in the kitchen," the man began. "Mabel was was.h.i.+n' the supper dishes when this fellow came to the door. He was a tall chap with a long, thin face."

"He asked us if we were looking after the man that was almost drowned earlier," the farmer's wife took up the tale. "When we said we were, the fellow told us that Mr. Jones was his brother and he had come to take him away."

"I got suspicious," Mr. Kane broke in. "He didn't look nothin' like Jones. I asked him where he lived."

"At that," Mrs. Kane said, "he walked in the house with another fellow right at his heels.

They grabbed my husband. Henry put up an awful good fight but he was outnumbered. When I tried to help, a third man appeared from nowhere and held me back."

"They dragged us into the livin' room, tied us to those chairs, and put the gags in our mouths," the farmer continued. "Then we heard 'em goin' into Jones's room. Pretty soon they carried him out to a car where a fourth fellow was sittin' at the wheel."

"Did Jones put up a fight when they took him away?" Frank asked.

"He tried to. He hollered for help, but of course I couldn't do anythin' and he was too weak to struggle much."

"This whole affair is very peculiar," Mr. Hardy observed. "Perhaps Jones is mixed up in the smuggling going on around here. But who were those four men, I wonder?"

Mrs. Kane shook her head. "All I know is, we're sure glad you and your sons came out tonight. There's no telling how long we'd have been tied up before somebody found us!"

"We're glad, too, that we got here," Frank replied.

"You folks say your name's Hardy?" said the farmer. "Any relation to Fenton Hardy?"

"Right here." The detective smiled.

"Pleasure to know you!" exclaimed Kane heartily, putting out his hand. "If anyone can get to the bottom of this business, you can."

"I'll certainly try," the boys' father promised.

The Hardys bade the farmer and his wife good-by. They promised to call again at the Kane farm as soon as they had any further information, and Mr. Kane, in turn, said he would notify them if he found any trace of Jones or his kidnapers.

When they returned home the boys followed their father into his study.

"What do you make of all this, Dad?" Joe asked.

Mr. Hardy sat down at his desk. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair a few moments without speaking.

"I have only one theory," he said at last. "The kidnapers probably are Snattman's friends. That means you boys may have uncovered the fact that there is a whole gang of smugglers around here."

The brothers were pleased with their progress. "What do we do next, Dad?" Joe asked eagerly.

"I want to evaluate this case from every angle," their father replied. "I'll think about it and talk to you later." With this the boys had to be content for the rest of the week end.

When the brothers came downstairs Monday morning, Mrs. Hardy was putting their breakfast on the table.

In answer to the boys' inquiries, she replied, "Your father went out early this morning in his car. He didn't say when he would return. But your dad didn't take a bag with him, so he'll probably be back today."

Mrs. Hardy was accustomed to her husband's comings and goings at odd hours in connection with his profession and she had learned not to ask questions.

Frank and Joe were disappointed. They had looked forward to resuming a discussion of the case with their father.

"I guess we're left on our own again to try finding out something about those smugglers," Frank remarked, and Joe agreed.

Later, when they reached Bayport High School, the brothers saw Iola Morton standing on the front steps. With pretty, dark-haired Iola was her best friend Callie Shaw. Callie, a blond, vivacious, brown-eyed girl, was Frank's favorite among all the girls in his cla.s.s.

"How are the ghost hunters this morning?" she asked with a mischievous smile. "Iola told me about your adventures on Sat.u.r.day."

"Chet was really scared," Iola chimed in. "I think somebody played a good joke on all of you."

"Well, whoever it was had better return the telescope eyepieces and our motorcycle tools," Joe said defiantly.

But as the day wore on and none of their cla.s.smates teased them or brought up the subject, the Hardys became convinced that the "ghost" had been serious and not just playing pranks.

"It was no joke," Joe said to Frank on the way home. "If any of the fellows at school had done it, they'd have been kidding us plenty by now."

"Right," Frank agreed. "Joe, do you think the smugglers had anything to do with what happened at the Pollitt place?"

"That's a thought!" exclaimed Joe. "That house on the cliff would be a great hide-out. If the smugglers could make the house appear to be haunted, everyone would stay away."

"I wish Dad would get home, so we could take up this idea with him," Frank said thoughtfully.

But Mr. Hardy did not come home that day. He had often been away for varying lengths of time without sending word, but on this occasion, since he had not taken a bag, the boys felt uneasy.

"Let's not worry Mother about this," Frank said. "But if Dad's not back by Wednesday-at the latest-I think we should do some inquiring. Maybe Pretzel Pete will be able to help us."

Joe agreed. Wednesday was the start of their summer vacation and they could give full time to trying to locate their father.

On Tuesday afternoon the mystery of Mr. Hardy's absence took a strange turn. Frank and Joe came home from school to find then-mother seated in the living room, carefully examining a note that she evidently just had received.

"Come here, boys," Mrs. Hardy said in an apprehensive tone. "Look at this and tell me what you think."

She handed the note to Frank.

"What is it?" he asked quickly. "Word from Dad?"

"It's supposed to be."

The boys read the note. It was typed on a torn sheet of paper and the signature looked like Fen-ton Hardy's. It read: I won't be home for several days. Don't worry. Fenton.

That was all. There was nothing to indicate where the detective was; nothing to show when the note had been written.

"When did you get this, Mother?" asked Frank.

"It came in the afternoon mail. It was addressed to me, and the envelope had a Bayport postmark."

"Why are you worried?" Joe asked. "At least we've heard from Dad."

"But I'm not sure he sent the note."

"What do you mean?"

"Your father and I have an agreement. Whenever he writes me, he puts a secret sign beneath his signature. Fenton was always afraid that someone would forge his name to a letter or note, and perhaps get papers or information that he shouldn't have."

Frank picked up the note again. "There's no sign here. Just Dad's signature."

"It may be his signature. If not, it's a very good forgery." Mrs. Hardy was plainly worried.

"If Dad didn't write this note," Joe asked, "who did and why?"

"Your father has many enemies-criminals whom he has been instrumental in sending to prison. If there has been foul play, the note might have been sent to keep us from being suspicious and delay any search."

"Foul play!" exclaimed Frank in alarm. "Then you think something has happened to Dad?"

CHAPTER VII.

The Hidden Trail JOE put an arm around his mother. "Frank and I will start a search for Dad first thing tomorrow," her son said rea.s.suringly.

Next morning, as the boys were dressing, Joe asked, "Where shall we start, Frank?"

"Down at the waterfront. Let's try to find Pretzel Pete and ask him if Dad talked to him on Monday. He may give us a lead."

"Good idea."

The brothers reached the Bayport waterfront early. It was the scene of great activity. A tanker was unloading barrels of oil, and longsh.o.r.emen were trundling them to waiting trucks.

At another dock a pa.s.senger s.h.i.+p was tied up. Porters hurried about, carrying luggage and packages to a line of taxicabs.

Many sailors strolled along the busy street.

Some stepped into restaurants, others into amus.e.m.e.nt galleries.

"I wonder where Pretzel Pete is," Frank mused. He and Joe had walked four blocks without catching sight of the man.

"Maybe he's not wearing his uniform," Joe surmised. "You know, the one Dad described."

"Let's turn and go back the other way beyond the tanker," Frank suggested.

The boys reversed their direction and made their way through the milling throng for six more blocks.

Suddenly Joe chuckled. "Here comes our man."

Strolling toward them and hawking the product he had for sale came a comical-looking individual. He wore a white cotton suit with a very loose-fitting coat. Around his neck was a vivid red silk handkerchief, embroidered with anchors.

The vendor's trousers had been narrowed at the cuff with bicycle clips to keep them from trailing on the ground, with the result that there was a continuous series of wrinkles from the edge of his coat to his ankles.

The man wore a white hat which came down to his ears. On the wide brown band the name Pretzel Pete was embroidered in white letters.

"Boy, that's some gear!" Frank murmured.

Pretzel Pete's garb was bizarre, but he had an open, honest face. He stopped calling "Pretzels! Hot pretzels! Best in the land!" and smiled at the Hardys. He set down the large metal food warmer he carried. From the top of it rose three short aerials, each ringed with a dozen pretzels.

"You like them hot, or do you prefer them cold?" he asked the brothers.

Joe grinned. "If they're good, I can eat them any way." Then he whispered, "We're Mr. Fen-ton Hardy's sons. We'd like to talk to you."

At that moment a group of sailors brushed past. Pretzel Pete did not reply until they were out of earshot, then he said to the boys, "Come into this warehouse."

The brothers followed him down the street a short distance and through a doorway into an enormous room which at the moment was practically empty.

"You've brought a message from your pop?" the vendor asked.