The Secret Warning (4 page)

 

 

 

 

 

 

A
WESTRUCK by the weird red-light signals, the boys sat hunched in their seats as the
Sleuth
plowed onward through the darkness toward Whalebone Island. Joe was the first to break their stunned silence.

“I don't get it. Was that meant as a warning for us to stay away from the island—or an order to someone to
keep
us away?”

“What's the difference?” moaned Chet. “Either way, we're asking for trouble if we go ahead and land at that spooky place!”

Joe—who knew his friend's sterling qualities could be depended upon in a tight spot—reached out and gave Chet a reassuring whack. “Relax, Strongheart!” Joe chuckled. “A spook wouldn't stand a chance against a beefy bruiser like you!”

“Oh, no? Well, I still vote we head back to the mainland.”

“Take it easy,” Frank said soothingly. “Remember, Dad will be on the island to meet us.”

The Hardys knew, from the mystery map and their chart, that Whalebone Island was shaped like a crescent. It curved from southwest to northeast, with the outward bulge to the north. Frank steered for the southern horn of the crescent. As the splash of breakers told him they were nearing land, he cut the engine and allowed the
Sleuth
to drift the rest of the way to shore.

An eerie silence lay over the island. It was broken only by the faint sighing of the night breeze and the sounds of the surf. When they had reached the shallows, Joe kicked off his sneakers and climbed over the side to help beach the boat among some reeds.

When they were safely ashore, Chet said, “Now what?”

“We'll cut across the tip of the island to the cove,” Frank said, “and meet Dad.”

The boys made their way over a ridge of dunes, topped by scrub. On the other side lay the inward curve of the crescent, indented by a sheltered cove near the center. A small blaze flickered on the beach.

“Dad's campfire!” Joe exclaimed.

The boys hurried along the shore, but as they came closer, they could see no one at the fire. Vaguely alarmed, they broke into a sprint, forgetting all caution.

Reaching the campfire, they saw that a stoutly built boat with an outboard motor had been drawn up on the sand. Near the fire lay a sleeping bag, supplies, cooking utensils, and a short-wave transceiver.

“That's Dad's radio!” said Frank.

The boys stared about through the darkness. If Mr. Hardy was concealed among the scattered trees and brush, he gave no sign of his presence. Joe gave the Hardys' special whistle, and repeated it several times, but there was no reply.

“Hey! Mavbe he saw those signals and went to the lighthouse to investigate,” Joe said in a hushed voice.

“Perhaps he sent the signals himself to warn us away,” Chet conjectured.

“Could be,” said Frank. “We'd better go there and take a look.”

The brothers had brought powerful flashlights, but used them as little as possible in making their way across the island. The terrain was humped with low hills, fringed with patches of stunted oak and pine. At the northern horn of the crescent, the land rose to a rocky eminence topped by the Whalebone Light.

Cautiously the trio approached the forbidding stone tower, trying to keep their feet from scrunching on the grit and gravel. Frank tried the door, then pushed it open. Something blocked it partway—an obstruction that yielded slightly as he shoved harder.

Frank inserted his head and right shoulder into the opening and switched on his flashlight. “Dad!” he cried out.

Joe squeezed in behind his brother, and Chet followed. The beam of Frank's flashlight revealed the figure of Mr. Hardy sprawled on the concrete floor. A thin trickle of red from his scalp had clotted across the left temple.

“Somebody knocked him out!” Frank said worriedly.

The three squatted down anxiously and Frank checked his father's pulse. It was beating strongly. Joe hurried outside, scrambled down to the water's edge, and returned a few moments later with his handkerchief soaked with cold brine. After the boys had applied it to their father's forehead and chafed his wrists, Mr. Hardy began to revive.

“Joe—Frank—Hi, Chet.” The detective gave them a rueful smile, then slowly raised himself to a sitting position.

“What happened, Dad?” asked Frank.

Mr. Hardy frowned and rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Let me see—Oh, yes, those red-light signals from the tower here.”

“We saw 'em too!” declared Chet.

“So did I—from my campsite on the other side of the island,” Mr. Hardy went on slowly. “I came over to investigate, entered this doorway, and—wham!”

“How do you feel now?” Joe inquired.

“Not too bad, except for this throbbing lump. Lucky for me I have a thick skull.”

The boys helped Fenton Hardy to his feet, then began a search of the tower. They checked every floor, up to the lantern room, but the assailant had vanished. Warily, the detective and the three youths tramped back across the island to his camp on the cove.

The fire had long since burned down to glowing embers. After it had been replenished with drift-wood and dry brush, Frank showed his father the cablegram from Egypt and the map which had been sent through the mail by “R. Rogers.”

“What's this Pharaoh's head you're supposed to beware of, Dad?” asked Joe.

“It's a solid gold bust of the Egyptian Pharaoh, or Emperor, Rhamaton IV—valued at one million dollars.”

Chet let out an awed whistle. “A
million bucks!
Wow! Where is this head, Mr. Hardy?”

“A good question, Chet,” the detective replied wryly. “I'd better start at the beginning. About two weeks ago, a freighter named the
Katawa
sank off the coast. Maybe you fellows recall hearing about it in the news. Several of the crew, including the purser, drowned.”

“It was rammed in a fog by some cruise liner, wasn't it?” said Frank.

“That's right—by the
Carona.
Well, the spot where the freighter went down is just a couple of miles north of Whalebone Island.”

Mr. Hardy explained that the
Katawa
had been carrying not only cargo, but also a dozen passengers—one of them a foreign art dealer named Zufar, who had boarded the ship at Beirut in the Middle East.

“Zufar was bringing the golden Pharaoh's head with him,” the detective continued, “to sell to a customer in New York. And the head was allegedly in the ship's strong room when the
Katawa
sank. Zufar has lodged a claim with Transmarine Underwriters, the line's insurance company, for a million dollars.”

“The news stories on the sinking never mentioned the Pharaoh's head, did they?” Joe asked.

“No. As a security precaution, Zufar had purposely avoided any publicity about the treasure, and since the sinking, the line has also tried to keep the matter out of the news for the same reason.”

“You said the head was
allegedly
in the ship's strong room,” said Frank. “Is there some doubt about it?”

“That's where the mystery comes in, and that's why Transmarine has engaged me to investigate the case,” Mr. Hardy replied. “They've been tipped off that a gold head of Rhamaton IV is secretly being offered for sale.”

“Was the tip on the level?” Joe asked.

“So far we don't know. I've been checking it out, but may not know the answer until divers get at the
Katawa's
strong room. Meantime, the tip brings up a number of interesting possibilities.”

“Right,” Frank said. “The head being offered for sale might be a fake. Either that, or the one that went down with the
Katawa
was a phony.”

Mr. Hardy smiled at the rapid-fire deductions, as Joe added, “Maybe the treasure already has been salvaged from the sunken hulk.”

Chet joined in. “Hey! The head might not have been on the ship at all!”

“Exactly,” said Mr. Hardy. “It may have been filched from the
Katawa
back in Beirut—or even in Le Havre, France, where she stopped before the crossing to New York.”

Frank grinned and inquired, “How come you were so interested in the legend of Whalebone Island, Dad?”

“Because I have a feeling it may tie in with this case.” Fenton Hardy stirred up the fire, adding, “Before we do any more talking, let's have another look at that map.”

Joe handed him the paper.

“Hmm. The X mark appears to lie between two hills directly back of this cove,” said the detective.

Frank bent close to peer at the map. “And these trees form a sort of arrowhead triangle pointing right at the spot.”

Mr. Hardy rubbed his jaw. “I'm wondering if we should investigate now or wait until morning. I'd feel a lot better knowing who knocked me out —and just where he's lurking.”

“If you ask me, that's a good reason for checking out the X mark right now,” said Joe. “Suppose something valuable is stashed there, Dad. The person who conked you may be after it—and he might just snatch it during the night.”

“You have a point there, son,” the detective conceded. “Very well. If you're all willing, let's go look.”

Dousing their campfire, the group headed inland. Beyond the screen of trees sheltering the cove, the ground rose slightly, then flattened again amid a tangle of brush that made their going difficult in the darkness.

Presently Frank halted and touched his father's arm. “Look! Those must be the three trees, Dad!”

His beam, moving back and forth, showed three scrubby trees, positioned like the points of a triangle.

Mr. Hardy nodded. “No doubt about it. Those humps on the skyline up ahead are two shallow hills.”

The four advanced cautiously past the trees. In a few moments they came to the brink of a steep ravine, cupped between the hills.

They began clambering down the slope into the gully. Joe shifted his flashlight to his left hand in order to seize hold of some underbrush and steady his descent. As the yellow beam veered toward the left bank of the ravine, he let out a sudden startled yell.

“Look! There's somebody!”.

The others turned hastily, but the figure had darted out of sight.

“Where did he go?” Mr. Hardy asked.

“Among that shrubbery. I didn't get a good look, but he—”

Joe's words were drowned out by a terrific blast! The left wall of the ravine exploded with a shattering force!

 

 

 

 

 

T
HE blast knocked the sleuths flat against the bank of the ravine as fragments of rock and earth showered down upon them.

“Are you all right, boys?” gasped Fenton Hardy.

Three voices reassured him. Frank lay on his flashlight, and when he pulled it free, the beam still shone. Joe's light had been buried somewhere in the debris.

“Whew!” Chet gulped as he struggled upright. “Feels like I just got creamed by a whole football line!”

“Let's get out of here,” Mr. Hardy said.

Shaking the dust from their clothes, the four clambered back up to level ground. Frank turned and shone his beam down into the ravine, the bottom of which was heaped with rubble.

“That fellow you saw, Joe—what did he look like?”

“I hardly had time to see his face at all,” Joe replied, “but two things I did notice were—a red beard and a black cloak!”

Chet groaned. “The Jolly Roger ghost again!”

“I doubt if ghosts are capable of planting explosives,” Mr. Hardy said dryly. “It was probably the same person who hit me.”

“Think we should try to hunt him down, Dad?” asked Frank, aiming his flashlight beam toward the brush-covered hillside left of the ravine.

“No. We wouldn't stand a chance of finding him in this darkness. Worse yet, we'd make easy targets. Better switch your light off, son.”

“For that matter, we'd be sitting ducks around a campfire,” Joe reasoned.

“True enough—which is why we're not going to risk it,” said Mr. Hardy. “Our safest bet is to hole up in the lighthouse until morning. After that, we can decide our next move.”

Under cover of the darkness, the group made their way slowly northeast toward the Whalebone Lighthouse, using the dim outline of the tower as a direction guide.