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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

BOOK: The Secret Warning
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Before leaving, they cruised back to the cove to salvage the outboard motor from Mr. Hardy's stove-in craft. Chet, using the binoculars, saw a man on the bridge of the
Simon Salvor
watching them intently through a telescope.
Later, as the
Sleuth
put-putted out of the cove, the
Salvor
moved away from shore. “Not taking any chances on us coming out to snoop,” Joe observed.
The Bayporters headed to the mainland at a fast clip.
Ashore, Mr. Hardy reported the loss of his rented craft to the boat livery and returned the water-logged outboard engine.
The owner took the news philosophically. “Don't matter too much—she was insured,” he said. “Have to hold your deposit, though, till I settle with the insurance company.”
The detective nodded, then asked, “By the way, you wouldn't happen to know if any boat put in here during the night—or maybe early this morning?”
“You figure that mighta been the party who scuttled your boat?” The liveryman squinted shrewdly at Mr. Hardy. “So happens I did hear o' one comin' back last night. Try Lawson's Livery down the wharf a ways—it's the only other boat rental place in town.”
Mr. Hardy thanked him, then strode along the wharf with the three boys. At the other boat livery, the investigator repeated his question to the proprietor, Eli Lawson.
“Sure, there was a boat come in,” Lawson said grumpily. “Must've been sometime between midnight and four o'clock. It was a boat that'd been stolen from me the night before.”
“Stolen!” Mr. Hardy exclaimed.
Frank and Joe looked at each other excitedly. More than likely, the boat thief had been the island ghost!
“How come you're so interested?” Lawson asked the detective.
Mr. Hardy told briefly how his rented boat had been sabotaged on Whalebone Island, but said nothing about the rest of the night's events.
“Say! By any chance, is your name Fenton Hardy?” the proprietor inquired.
“That's right. Why?”
Lawson went into the boathouse and emerged a moment later holding a soiled envelope. “When I found the boat this mornin', this was lyin' on one o' the seats.”
The envelope bore the name “Fenton Hardy” lettered in pencil. The detective opened it and took out the enclosed note. His face hardened as he read. Then he handed the message to the boys. It said:
Keep away from Whalebone Island. Next
time you won't escape.
Instead of a signature there was the crude drawing of an Egyptian-looking head surmounted by a Pharaoh's headdress.
“The Pharaoh's head!” Chet gulped.
Frank and Joe silenced him with warning looks, and Mr. Hardy thanked the liveryman. The four walked away under Lawson's inquisitive gaze.
“Is that what the golden head of Rhamaton looks like, Dad?” Frank inquired when they were out of earshot.
“Yes, almost exactly. I've seen a photograph of it.”
The boys accompanied Mr. Hardy to the parking lot where he had left his car overnight. It was decided that Frank and Joe would return to Bayport with Chet and wait for the arrival of Sam Radley.
“I'll send Sam back from Philadelphia as soon as I can spare him,” the investigator promised. “Then he can go to Whalebone Island with you.”
“Right, Dad!”
Mr. Hardy climbed into his car and sped off in the direction of the turnpike. Frank, Joe, and Chet embarked in the
Sleuth
and were soon cruising down the coast toward Barmet Bay.
It was late in the day when the Hardy boys arrived home. Aunt Gertrude's face was anxious as she greeted them.
“Well! Thank goodness you're home at last! Why didn't you answer my radio call last night?”
“Sorry, Aunty,” Frank apologized. “We were away from the
Sleuth
most of the time.”
“Anything wrong?” Joe asked.
“Indeed there was! Someone tried to break into the house!”
CHAPTER VIII
Egyptian Fake
 
 
 
 
 
A
rt attempted break-in while they were gone! Startled, Frank and Joe wondered what the thief had been after.
“Tell us about it, Aunt Gertrude!” Frank said.
“Well, to begin with, I was all alone in the house—”
“Alone! What about Mother?” Joe broke in.
“She was called away yesterday afternoon,” Miss Hardy explained, “to stay with a sick friend over in Bartonsville, Mrs. Filer. Gloria Filer, that is—Laura's old schoolmate. Well, I was sound asleep and suddenly the burglar alarm went off full blast!”
The boys' aunt shuddered at the recollection. “Heavens! It must have wakened the whole neighborhood—that shrill racket and all the floodlights blazing on!”
“Did you get a look at whoever touched it off?” Frank asked.
“No, I rushed to stick my head out the window, but the rascal was nowhere in sight. Probably ran off the instant the lights went on.”
Miss Hardy eyed her nephews severely. “I tried at once to contact you two or Fenton on the radio, but got no answer.”
“We were holed up in a lighthouse with a spook after us,” Joe explained.
“Humph.” His aunt gave him a suspicious glare through her spectacles. “Be that as it may, I was here alone—helpless. I might have been murdered in my sleep!”
The boys managed to mollify her by complimenting her on her courage and presence of mind.
“Did you call the police, Aunty?” Frank asked.
“Naturally. But they found no footprints, no clues of any kind.”
Suddenly she again looked annoyed. “Which reminds me. The curator called from the new Howard Museum.”
“Mr. Scath?” said Frank, immediately interested. “What did he want?”
“Wouldn't tell me. Just asked to speak to Fenton or one of you.” Miss Hardy sniffed. “I suppose he thought not being in the detective business I wasn't bright enough to take a message.”
“I doubt that, Aunt Gertrude.” Grinning, Frank went to the phone and called the Howard Museum. In a few moments he reached Mr. Scath.
“Glad you called, Frank,” the curator said. “Something rather odd has come up. Since your father serves as our security adviser, I thought I'd better pass the word along.”
“What's it about, sir?”
Mr. Scath explained that he had received a telephone call just before lunch. “The man wouldn't give his name, but he warned me that someone might contact the museum soon and try to sell me a fake Egyptian art object.”
Frank's eyebrows shot up. “Did he say who this phony was, or what the object would be?”
“No hint at all. In fact, he hung up before I could ask any questions.”
“Thanks for letting us know, Mr. Scath,” said Frank. “Dad's out of town right now, but that tip could be very important. If any such art faker does show up, I'd appreciate it if you'd let us know right away.”
“I'll certainly do that.”
After completing the call, Frank told his brother the news.
“Wow! A fake
Egyptian
art object!” Joe exclaimed. “It could be an imitation of the Pharaoh's head Dad's looking for.”
“Just what I was thinking,” Frank said.
The Hardy boys decided to sleep downstairs, in case the unknown prowler might make another attempt to break into the house. But the night passed without incident.
The next morning the two boys decided to go to the beach for a swim.
“Let's stop off at Chet's and see if he wants to come,” Joe suggested.
Under a blaze of dazzling sunshine they started off in their convertible. Presently they turned up a dirt lane that led to the Morton farmhouse, just outside of Bayport. Two girls were seated on the front porch.
Iola, Chet's pixie-faced, dark-haired sister, was Joe's favorite date. She hopped up from the porch swing to greet the visitors. “Hi, you two ghost hunters!”
Her friend, Callie Shaw, a pretty brown-eyed blond girl, chimed in, “What's the latest on the Whalebone spook?”
“Last we heard, he needed a shave,” said Frank, climbing out of the car and smiling at Callie, whom he liked very much.
“Where's Strongheart?” Joe asked.
At that moment Chet burst out through the screen door, munching on a large Danish pastry.
“Somebody call me? Oh, hi, fellows!”
“What's that—breakfast or lunch?” Frank asked with a grin.
Iola laughed. “With Chet, there's no hard and fast distinction.”
“Aw, cut it out,” the chubby youth said good-naturedly. “I'm just finishing breakfast.” He added to the Hardys, “Slept late, that's all. Who wouldn't after that rugged expedition you guys roped me into!”
“Okay, you're excused,” Frank said. “But get your trunks. We're going to the beach.”
“You girls like to come?” Joe asked casually.
“We'd love to, but how can we?” said Callie. “We have to put our hair up for the party.”
“What party?” Frank asked.
“What party! This afternoon, at Biff Hooper's. Don't tell me you forgot!”
The Hardys exchanged blank looks, then recalled Biff's word-of-mouth invitation during a sandlot baseball game last Monday afternoon.
The Hoopers were leaving Friday on a two-week vacation trip to California, so Biff had decided to have a going-away party on Thursday. The affair was to be an early barbecue supper, since he and his parents had to pack and prepare for a seven-o'clock take-off the next morning.
“I guess we did forget,” Joe admitted. “We've been sort of busy.”
“Sure, sure, we know,” Iola said, dimpling. “Incidentally, Biff told us yesterday he has a surprise announcement to make at the party.”
“Announcement about what?”
Iola threw up her hands. “Don't ask us. It all sounded very mysterious. Maybe he was just trying to whet our curiosity.”
“Just as long as he doesn't whet Chet's appetite,” Joe needled.
Everyone laughed and Chet went back into the house to get his swim trunks.
The Hardys could hear the sound of a telephone ringing. A few moments later, as they were chatting with the girls, Mrs. Morton put her head out the back door.
“Frank and Joe—”
“Yes, Mrs. Morton?”
“Your aunt just phoned. She asked me to tell you that Mr. Scath from the museum called again —some man is on his way to the house to see you.”
The boys jumped to their feet. “Did Aunt Gertrude say who he was?” Frank asked.
“No, but I guess it must be urgent. She advised you both to come home at once.”
As they were thanking Chet's mother for the information, Chet returned, holding a rolled towel under one arm. “What's the matter?” he inquired plaintively. “Is the swim off?”
“Maybe not,” said Frank. “Come on back to the house with us. We can whip over to the beach as soon as Joe and I talk to this visitor, whoever he is.”
The three boys climbed into the convertible and sped back to the Hardy home at High and Elm streets, where they hurried into the kitchen.
“What's up, Aunty?” Joe inquired. “Did Mr. Scath tell you who's coming to see us—or why?”
Miss Hardy looked up from the pie dough she was rolling and pursed her lips. “He didn't, and I'm sure I have no idea of the reason for his visit, since none of you has seen fit to take me into your confidence about this mystery.”
The boys' grins faded as the front doorbell rang. Frank and Joe hurried to answer it.
The caller was a fat, balding, dark-complex-ioned man in a white silk suit. “Is this the Hardy residence?” he asked.
“Yes. Please come in,” Frank said.
The man stepped inside and handed the boys an ornate visiting card, which read:
Mehmet Zufar
Dealer in Middle Eastern
Antiquities and Objets d'Art
 
Cairo, Egypt
Frank and Joe glanced at the card, then looked at each other excitedly.
Their visitor was the owner of the golden Pharaoh's head!
CHAPTER IX
The Shattered Cat
 
 
 
 
 
“I
SHOULD like to see Mr. Fenton Hardy, the detective,” said the stout visitor.
Joe found himself staring with fascination at the man's tiny black mustache, which twirled upward at each end.
“Our father's out of town just now, working on a case,” Frank explained. “If you'll have a chair and tell us why you came, perhaps we can help.”
Mehmet Zufar glared irritably, but nonetheless seated himself in the living room. Plucking out a handkerchief, he dabbed the beads of perspiration from his large forehead.
“My dear young man,” Zufar snapped, “Fenton Hardy was recommended to me as the ablest private investigator in America. In fact, I was referred to him on a matter of the utmost importance by Mr. Scath, the museum curator. I did not come to deal with boys!”
Frank said evenly, “I just thought we might help.”
“If you'll tell us what you want,” Joe put in, “we'll inform Dad as soon as we can get in touch with him.”
Zufar glared for a moment, then said abruptly, “My card, please!”
The art dealer fished a gold pencil from an inside pocket and jotted something on the back of the card. “When Mr. Hardy is free,” he said, “please have him contact me at this address in New York.”

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