Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

The Yellow Feather Mystery (9 page)

BOOK: The Yellow Feather Mystery

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The boys smiled reassuringly at their mother, and promised that they would take no unnecessary chances. Just then Aunt Gertrude called that a snack was ready.

After they had eaten, they changed their clothing and stowed a few extra things in an overnight bag. As they started back to the Academy, Frank patted his jacket pocket to make sure that the folded paper of rectangular cutouts, which he had taken from his father's desk, was still there.

“It will be interesting to see how this sheet compares with the one that Greg made this afternoon,” he said to Joe. “Even if it should be a fake, as Dad suspects, the difference between it and the one Greg made might provide a clue.”

“Maybe so, but the idea of looking through all those books in the library again makes me want to scream.” Joe groaned.

Back at the school, they found that Chet and Greg were in a double room next to theirs. Greg was getting ready for bed. Chet, head propped up on three pillows, was reading a magazine.

“What happened?” he demanded.

Briefly, the Hardys recounted the chase which had led to the newspaper office. Then Frank produced Kurt's sheet of cutouts and checked it against the one Greg had made.

“They're certainly different,” Greg observed. He was eager to try Kurt's copy on the library books.

Frank suggested that Joe go to bed. “You've had a rough day,” he said.

“Guess I could use some shut-eye,” Joe admitted.

Chet yawned. “How about me? I'm bushed, too, making meals for a hungry wolf pack all day long.”

Frank grinned. “Okay. And listen, in the morning I'll have breakfast in bed, sausage, pancakes, plenty of syrup.”

“And coffee with a yellow feather,” Chet said as he rolled over to go to sleep.

Frank and Greg, armed with flashlights, tiptoed down the deserted corridor carrying both copies of the cutouts. They entered the library and closed the door behind them. There was not a sound but the ticking of the old-fashioned clock on the wall. Its hands stood at midnight.

The two settled themselves at a large table. With the aid of their flashlights they re-examined many of the books they had checked earlier that evening, trying to find a clue in the difference between the two sheets. For more than an hour they looked for a combination of words that made sense.

Finally Frank gave up. “I think it's hopeless,” he said. “And we still don't know if Dad is right about Kurt's sheet being a fake.”

Greg yawned. “We have no guarantee that mine is correct, either. I've got a pretty good memory, but who knows? I might have left something out, or moved one of the cutouts either to the left or right of its designated place. Well, let's head for bed.”

Frank followed him out of the library.

Their eyes accustomed to the darkness, the boys moved silently through the wing. Just before they reached the main part of the building, Frank suddenly stopped short.

“Sss-s-t!
Gregâwaitâ”

Frank was staring upward at the frosted-glass transom of one of the classrooms.

“What's up?” Greg whispered.

“I'm sure I saw a light flickering in there!”

Frank gripped the knob and flung open the door. Almost with the same motion, his other hand found the switch for the overhead light. Illumination flooded the room.

A man in a dressing gown, his back to them, stood in the middle of two rows of desks. He was holding a small flashlight and seemed frozen into immobility. But in a second he turned.

“Mr. Kurt!” Greg and Frank cried.

The headmaster glared at them balefully. “Why are you wandering about at this hour?” he thundered.

“We saw a light in here,” Frank explained, “and came to see who the burglar was.”

“I'm just inspecting the classrooms,” Kurt explained testily, walking toward them. “You needn't trouble yourselves by snooping.”

On a hunch Frank moved quickly toward the spot where Kurt was standing. Casually he glanced down at the nearest desk.

Crudely carved into its polished surface was:

REVENGE HARRIS D.

Kurt, apparently upset that Frank had seen the strange message carved into the desk, tugged nervously at his beard.

“Who was Harris D?” Frank inquired.

“I don't know,” Kurt snorted.

Frank looked hard at Kurt to see if the man were withholding information, but the headmaster did not flicker an eyelid.

He urged Frank and Greg into the hall and on toward their rooms. In the morning Frank told Joe what had happened.

“There must be something very important in that classroom,” his brother remarked. “What could it be?”

“It certainly is related to that desk,” Frank answered as he pulled on his sweater. “Kurt was pretty eager to get us away from it.”

“Let's take another look,” Joe suggested.

The Hardys finished dressing and hurried toward the classroom. The corridor was deserted. Employing caution, however, Joe remained at the door while Frank crossed to the carved desk.

“Someone has removed the top!” Frank called. “There's a brand-new one here now!”

“I'm sure Harris D is the answer,” Joe asserted. “If we can find him, he might give us a clue.”

The boys decided to work on this new angle as soon as possible. But first they wanted to get the paper and check the Personal ads.

As they walked out of the classroom and along the hallway, they met Mr. Teevan with several copies of the
Bayport Times
under his arm.

“Good morning,” Frank said. “We were just going out for the paper. Can we borrow one of yours?”

“Sure. You can keep it.”

“How is your wife?” Joe asked.

“Tolerably well,” the custodian answered. “She hasn't got over her fright completely. But I dare say she'll be back at work in a day or two. Well, good-by, boys.”

“So long. And thanks for the paper.”

Frank and Joe bounded up the stairs to the guest room. Frank spread the
Times
on the dresser and turned to the Personal column. Quickly he ran his finger down the advertisements. As he neared the bottom of the list, he gave a shout.

Just then Greg and Chet walked in.

“Listen to this!” Frank said excitedly. “ â
Yellow Feather: Meet 100 F.R. Pt. 2101.' ”

“Wow!” Chet exclaimed. “That must be the ad Kurt put in!”

“He might have done it to send us on some wild-goose chase,” Joe suggested. “I'm convinced that he'd go to great lengths to get rid of us.”

“In which case you won't move a step away from here!” Chet said firmly.

“I think we should follow up the clue, even if it's a trap. Since we know it might be, we can be prepared,” Frank said.

“But what does that code mean?” Chet asked, repeating the words. “There's no doubt about the Yellow Feather part. But what about the rest?”

“One hundred F.R. Pt.,” Frank said. “One hundred what? Feet maybe? One hundred feet R. Pt.”

“Rocky Point on Barmet Bay!” Chet exclaimed.

“A meeting place,” Greg agreed. “Sounds logical.”

“The rest is easy,” Joe said. “Two thousand, one hundred and one. Twenty-one 0 one. The naval and military way of telling time. Twenty-one means nine P.M., and the 0 one means one minute after nine.”

“Meet one hundred feet off Rocky Point at one minute past nine P.M.,” Frank read the complete message. “As I said before, it could be a trap. But it could also be a meeting between our buddy and the Yellow Feather. If so, we'll have to catch them in the act!”

“In the
Sleuth?”
his brother asked, referring to their sleek motorboat.

“No,” Frank corrected him. “We'd be smarter not to take our own boatâsomeone might be watching for us to start out in it and follow us.”

“Then how about Tony Prito?” Joe suggested. “He says his
Napoli
is in good shape and I know he'll be glad to take us.”

“Good idea,” Frank said.

“Well, I hope you don't want me to go,” Chet spoke up. “Operation Sub-zeroâ
br-r-r!”

The Hardys looked at Greg. “Joe and I should do this job alone,” Frank said. “I'd hate to expose you to danger. Anyway, both you fellows ought to stay here and keep your eyes open.”

After breakfast Frank called Tony Prito. The star end of Bayport High's football team and close friend of the Hardys was always ready for adventure. He assured Frank that he would be delighted to take them out.

“Meet me at eight o'clock,” he told them.

“Drive out Shore Road, and I'll have the
Napoli
waiting for you in Segram's Cove.”

Frank had just stepped from the booth when a familiar voice called:

“Hi, Frank!”

“Skinny! Say, you're just the person I need.”

“Swell. What can I do for you?”

“Play detective. Find Benny Tass and ask how he got permission to go to Bayport last night. Tell him you heard that he was seen there at the newspaper office. Report to me how he reacts and what he says.”

Skinny said he would do it at once. But as he started off, another thought came to Frank and he called him back.

“Did you ever hear of an alumnus of Woodson Academy called Harris D?” he asked.

Skinny's forehead wrinkled. “Harris DâWould you mean Harris Dilleau by any chance?”

“Maybe. Who was he and when was he here?”

“Why, a long time ago. I've heard my uncle John Mason talk about him several times. He was in the same class. Uncle John graduated about twenty-two years ago.”

“What did he say about Dilleau?” Frank was intensely interested.

“Oh, he was a real troublemaker, my uncle said. I think he was expelled from school.”

The boys separated and Frank went to the guest room to relay this latest bit of information to Joe.

“Now we're getting somewhere!” Joe cried. “Let's go to the library and see if we can find out anything more about Dilleau in the yearbooks.”

But as they scanned the row of annuals, they became discouraged. There was only one publication which dealt with Dilleau's years at Woodson. Although Skinny's uncle was mentioned prominently, there was only one short reference to Harris D.

Joe returned the volume to its proper place. “I'm going to search for the missing yearbooks,” he declared, “and see if they contain any information about Dilleau. I'll bet he's a friend of Kurt.”

During the day he examined shelf after shelf of books but drew a blank. Frank busied himself trailing Kurt. The headmaster's activities, however, were above suspicion.

Skinny Mason came to Frank later in the afternoon to report on Benny Tass. The boy had admitted to him that he had gone to the
Bayport Times
with an advertisement, but claimed it had not appeared in that day's paper.

Frank and Joe did not believe Benny's story. And when they set out that evening they were thinking as much about Kurt as the Yellow Feather, hoping to capture both of them.

They drove to Segram's Cove by a circuitous route in order to throw off any possible followers, but reached the bay shore at exactly eight o'clock.

Frank cast the car headlights over the water and the beams picked out Tony in his motorboat. Frank turned off the lights, locked the car, and the boys started down the slippery embankment.

The sound of an engine reached their ears as the boat drew toward them, then they heard Tony's voice as the bow of the
Napoli
scraped softly against the low dock. An instant later he was running up the snowy slope to meet them.

“Hi, Tony,” Frank greeted their friend. “Good timing, eh?”

“Good timing, but bad conditions. Frank, I don't think we can go. There's too much floating ice in the bay!”

CHAPTER XI

Dangerous Waters

“You mean we'll have to give up an opportunity to capture the Yellow Feather?” Frank asked with a groan of disappointment.

“Tony,” Joe said, “this might be our only chance!”

The
Napoli's
skipper shrugged. “The whole bay is full of great chunks of ice. If we hit one of those floes, it would knock a hole in the hull so fast we'd sink like a rock.”

Through the darkness, the boys could see the white floes bobbing up and down on the water.

“Miniature icebergs,” Frank observed. “But I sure hate to miss this opportunity of perhaps solving the mystery.”

“I'll tell you what,” Tony spoke up. “I'm willing to risk the boat. You fellows pilot her. You're better navigators than I am.”

“I'm game if you are!” Frank cried, and Joe agreed.

All three sprinted out on the dock and jumped into the
Napoli.

“You take the wheel, Frank,” Joe said, then released the line.

Frank assured Tony he would use care and eased the sleek craft out into the ice-jammed water. Since he did not wish to betray their presence, he decided to proceed without lights.

“Joe, crawl onto the bow and tell me where to steer,” he directed.

Joe felt his way forward in the dark. Lying on the deck with his head hanging over the prow, he kept up a rapid-fire series of instructions.

“Who would ever keep an appointment out here in the bay on a night like this?” Tony asked as the
Napoli
snaked slowly among the chunks of ice.

“I don't know, except the Yellow Feather!” Frank said.

As the boat moved farther out of the cove, the danger from the ice increased.

BOOK: The Yellow Feather Mystery

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