The Hidden Harbor Mystery

by Franklin W. Dixon

  In this spot the thick vegetation grew right to the water’s edge. The Hardys plunged through the tangle until they felt the tepid water lap over their sneakers.

  Their flashlight beams picked out crushed leaves and stalks where something large must have dragged itself ashore. But the trail ended a few feet from the water, in the thick growth. No further signs of the strange creature could be found.

  “Maybe the monster slipped back into the pond,” Joe whispered apprehensively.

  Suddenly Frank snapped off his flashlight and signaled his brother to do the same. At the edge of the gloomy pond, where the big swamp stretched toward the main road, a light was moving!

  In a moment the Hardys were fighting their way through the dense undergrowth toward the figure. The moon was their only light, as they crept forward silently and swiftly. Soon a glow about fifty yards ahead of them lit up a grove of weird, moss-covered cypress trees. Underneath one of them, Frank and Joe discerned a tall figure in a long coat and floppy hat, his back to the boys.

  Scarcely breathing, Frank and Joe slipped forward. In one hand the strange figure carried a small lantern. He frequently stooped to examine the ground. Once he crouched for a long time looking at something. The boys crept closer.

  Suddenly the figure stood to his full height, as if listening keenly. Then, like a shot, he went off at a swift, long-legged run through the swamp.

  “He’s heading for Rand‘s!” Frank whispered tensely, as the boys raced forward.

  A protruding root suddenly sent Joe sprawling. Frank, behind, piled on top of him. Ahead, the figure with the swinging lantern gained ground. Leaping to their feet, the boys ran on, out of the swamp and up a slight hill toward the Rand estate. Presently, a high, solid hedge, silhouetted against the moonlit sky, came into view. At the same moment, the pursued man and his lantern disappeared into the dense shrubbery. Panting, the boys pounded up and plunged through it.

  “Whoa!” cried Frank.

  Beyond the hedge the ground dropped off sharply about seven feet. Below them lay a broad meadow. The man with the lantern was not in sight.

  “Given us the slip,” Joe admitted.

  Still breathing hard from the chase, the brothers walked directly toward the ocean. They found Chet at camp, lying on his stomach, munching an apple and reading a mystery story.

  “Hi! Good night! Where have you been? Swimming in mud?” he needled, looking at their soggy, spattered clothing.

  Joe grinned. “Chet, you must go up to the pond and see the monster!”

  “The—what? No, thanks. But you’re kidding?”

  “We mean it,” Frank replied, and he told the story, exaggerating it a bit to tease Chet. “You’re really missing all the excitement, Chet.”

  “It’s okay with me. I’ll pull a fish out of the water—that’ll be monster enough for me.”

  He arose, lighted the camp stove, and prepared mugs of steaming cocoa. Suddenly he said, “Wait a minute, fellows! Did you really see some kind of prehistoric ... dinosaur ... in that pond?”

  “Well, not quite that big.” Frank had to laugh. “But the thing was as big as a man, at least.”

  Chet looked around fearfully. “Do you think the monster might be connected with the mystery?”

  “Search me,” Joe shrugged. “I wonder if that prowler out there tonight saw the creature.”

  “Funny business.” Chet shook his head.

  The campers finished their cocoa, then crawled into their bags and slept soundly. After breakfast next morning, the boys attended Sunday church service. They had lunch in town, then Frank said, “Let’s drive to Professor Rand’s house. If the professor isn’t there, we’ll go to the police. I don’t care what Blackstone says. We saw Rand take a nasty crack on the head. He may be seriously injured, or worse!”

  When the three boys reached the run-down plantation house, they found it as empty as it had appeared the day before. They headed at full speed for Larchmont and went to Bart Worth’s home.

  “You have news?” he asked expectantly.

  Joe related the fierce quarrel the Hardys had witnessed in the Blackstone mansion two nights before. “Bart,” the boy went on, “has anyone mentioned having seen the professor lately?”

  The young editor shook his head and grabbed his hat in one movement. “It’s a case for the police now,” he said, rising. But Frank restrained him.

  “You’d better not become involved,” the boy advised. “After all, Joe and I were the witnesses. The police know you have a feud with Blackstone, and might not believe you. Also, we don’t want Blackstone to know we’re working for you.”

  Bart agreed, and the boys left to make a report to the authorities.

  Larchmont’s police station was a trim building of whitewashed brick, just across the square from the courthouse. A desk sergeant led the three into the office of Police Chief Gerald. Frank gave an account of the attack to the middle-aged law officer, who listened intently.

  “Hmm ... by the time you entered the room, the vase had been mended,” the chief repeated. He stared ahead in deep thought. “What do you young fellows want me to do?” he asked.

  “We think you should procure a warrant and search Blackstone’s house,” Frank urged promptly.

  The chief smiled, picked up the telephone, and dialed a number.

  “Hello?” he began politely. “Mr. Blackstone, this is Chief Gerald. Some visitors to our town have been telling me about a fight at your place two nights ago. One of the men-Professor Rand, by the sound of it—is supposedly missing. I’m afraid I’ll be obliged to get a warrant and make a search of your place.”

  The three boys watched the officer’s face eagerly for some hint of Blackstone’s reaction. But they could tell nothing until the chief hung up. He looked at the boys quizzically and reported, “Mr. Blackstone says I don’t need a warrant. Told me to come on out there right now, and bring the visitors with me—that he hasn’t anything to hide.”

  Chief Gerald summoned one of his patrolmen and led Frank, Joe, and Chet to a police car outside. Within twenty minutes they were parked in front of the large brick house. Samuel Blackstone stood waiting on the porch.

  “This way, Chief,” he greeted the law officer, not waiting for an introduction to Chet Morton. “I want you to see everything.” The heavy-set man did not address the boys directly.

  Mr. Blackstone conducted them to every part of his house. Frank and Joe kept a sharp watch, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Finally, he led the group to the front door.

  “You’ve seen the house,” said Blackstone. “Now read this.”

  He produced a note written on Professor Rand’s stationery. The chief read it aloud:

  “ ‘Dear Samuel, if you want me I’m at the Storm Island Lighthouse for a few days, doing some research. Ruel.’ ”

  “My cousin is an archaeologist,” Blackstone explained. “His specialty is American Indian civilization. He’s always looking for old relics.”

  “Well, this note sounds friendly enough,” commented Gerald as he handed it back.

  “And are you satisfied?” The big man suddenly turned hard, antagonistic eyes on the Hardys.

  “Not yet,” Joe spoke up without flinching. “We’d like to talk to your man, Grover. He saw that fight, too.”

  “Grover’s older brother in Chicago is very ill,” Blackstone returned promptly. “He begged me to let him go to see him, and I did. It’s his first vacation in many years, and I won’t have him brought back for any such nonsensical reason.”

  Blackstone accompanied the boys and the police officer when they returned to the waiting patrol car. “Chief Gerald,” he said warningly, “these boys have already trespassed on my land. Now they practically accuse me of something underhanded. If they ever set foot on my property again, or annoy me in any way, I’m going to ask you to arrest them!”

  Turning quickly, he strode back to the house. Then the police car drove out of the long private road and back toward Larchmont.


  “Well, boys,” the chief told them, “you’ve made a powerful enemy.”

  “That doesn’t bother us,” Frank said. “Not if we find out the truth.”

  That afternoon, back at their camp, the three young detectives held a conference. “We must find out why that pond is so important,” Frank insisted. “I’m for going back there tonight with our skin-diving gear, and tracking down the monster!”

  That evening, as a big, round yellow moon rose above the trees of the dark swamp, the three boys stood at the pond’s edge. Frank and Joe, in bathing trunks, held diving face masks and flippers. Each had an aqualung strapped to his back. Chet stood by with a Thermos of hot broth.

  “Well, here goes,” said Frank quietly. He put on his mask, adjusted his breathing hose, and slipped into the black water.

  The next instant Chet and Joe were startled by a sudden crash of brush on the far side of the pond. As the boys stared almost hypnotized, a huge shape making remarkably little noise wrig gled off the bank into the water.

  Seconds later, a saw-tooth fin broke the smooth moonlit surface of the pond and headed straight for the spot where Frank had gone underl

  CHAPTER V

  Marooned!

  “THE monster! It’s after Frank!” cried Joe as the creature’s long serrate fin disappeared beneath the pond’s surface.

  Quickly adjusting his own face mask and breathing tube, Joe plunged into the dark, menacing water. He kicked powerfully with his flippers, and shot down through the water. The bottom of the pond was absolutely black, but just enough of the moon’s pale light filtered down through the murk for him to distinguish violent thrashing motions dead ahead.

  Instantly Joe encircled his brother’s shoulder with one arm. At the same time, he came to grips with something cold and slippery that was tugging Frank’s limp body deeper into the pond.

  Fearlessly Joe attacked. But the creature possessed great power and gradually wrestled him down into the thick ooze at the bottom.

  Joe gritted his teeth but never let go his hold on Frank. In a moment he wrenched himself loose from the monster. It closed in again. Desperately, Joe shook off his flippers and kicked with all his might against the cold, slimy body of the attacker.

  This propulsion speeded the boys upward through the water to the surface. With a frantic one-arm stroke, Joe swam to the shore, still grasping his unconscious brother. Chet waded out and helped pull them in. A few minutes later Frank was sitting up and shaking his head groggily.

  “Drink this,” ordered Chet, handing over the Thermos of beef broth. “What happened?”

  “That thing got me from behind,” Frank reported, after a gulp of the hot broth. “My air line was nicked. Started to get a trickle of water. I held my breath till I blacked out!”

  Joe, meanwhile, had removed his own equipment and was examining his brother’s air hose. “A jagged cut,” he told them. “Could be from several things—knife, claws, shears, teeth.”

  “Teeth!” echoed Chet. “You mean—an alligator?”

  Joe shook his head. “The monster’s head we saw was no alligator’s.”

  Chet shuddered. “That’s enough sleuthing for one night,” he declared firmly. “Let’s go!”

  The Hardys agreed, but they were more determined than ever to discover the pond’s secret.

  In spite of his close call, Frank awakened fit and alert the next morning. “Let’s hire a boat and go out to Storm Island today,” he proposed at break fast. “I want to see if Rand is really there. I don’t trust Blackstone’s ‘friendly note.’ Anybody might have written it.”

  After cleaning up camp, the three friends headed for town in the convertible. As they drove through to the far side of Larchmont, they saw masts, cables, and booms of fishing boats, with sea gulls flapping their wings among them.

  “Larchmont docks,” Frank announced.

  They had no trouble in hiring a boat for the day. While Frank was settling a deal with the owner of a motorboat, Chet and Joe bought some bread, cheese, and cold cuts at a nearby grocery. Just as the boys were ready to shove off, a tall, familiar, pale-faced man approached them.

  “Where to, fellows?” Henry Cutter asked. His tone was friendly, but he watched them sharply. Another man, whom the boys assumed was Cutter’s partner, Mr. Stewart, joined him.

  “Oh, it’s such a swell day,” replied Frank, casually squinting overhead, “we thought we’d take a sightseeing cruise.”

  “Hmm. Well, have fun. Come along, Stewart.” The two men walked off.

  “They’re a nosy pair,” Chet complained, settling back in the boat, an old wooden craft with deep sides and a high windshield. Eagerly Joe took the wheel, which resembled a ship’s helm. Frank and Chet sat on the wooden box housing the engine. Soon the craft was moving toward the mouth of the inlet into the Atlantic.

  “Storm Island is a little south of here,” explained Frank, opening a chart. “It’s nothing but a pile of rocks in the sea, according to Worth. The light hasn’t been used in years, since there’s no more shipping from Larchmont.”

  They left the harbor and headed the boat south on the blue-green sea. The white dunes of the beach were far over to their right. The horizon was a line where the powder-blue sky met the darker hue of the ocean. Then a pile of jumbled rocks came into view.

  “Must be Storm Island,” Frank said briefly.

  As they came closer, they saw that the islet was indeed nothing but a mass of rock, about a hundred yards long. From its center rose a conical wooden tower with a black roof and gaping windows.

  They landed at a little stone jetty and tied up the boat, then mounted some stone steps that apparently led to a path to the lighthouse. Quickly the boys looked around for the gangling figure of the professor. No one was in sight.

  “Professor Rand!” Joe called out. No answer.

  The boys walked around the islet, peering into crevices of jagged rocks, and calling out periodically. There was no response.

  “Maybe he’s inside the lighthouse,” Chet said.

  The young sleuths entered the deserted rooms at the bottom of the now run-down tower, where lighthouse keepers had made their home in years past. Finding nothing, they climbed the winding enclosed staircase. At one point two steps were missing and the three friends had to reach up to the third one above.

  At the top of the lighthouse was a round platform with the large, old-fashioned light in the center of it. Several of the broad glass window-panes had been broken.

  Suddenly Joe cried out. “Hey! Our boat!”

  He pointed down to the landward side of the islet. Drifting rapidly away from the jetty was their rented craft! In the distance, a pleasure speedboat plowed away from the island.

  Turning, Frank and Joe clattered down the old wooden steps. Chet followed close behind. “Our food’s aboard!” he groaned.

  The trio emerged from the lighthouse and dashed down to the jetty. By this time their boat had already drifted a distance too great to swim.

  “I’m sure I tied those lines tightly!” Frank declared. “They were cut—by somebody in that speedboat, I’ll bet.”

  “But why?” Joe burst out. “Boy, what a mess! Not only have we come way out here on a wild-goose chase, but to top it off, we’re marooned!”

  Chet was so dejected at this thought he could only groan again, “All our food gone!” The boys returned to the lighthouse and took stock of their situation. From every point of view it seemed desperate.

  “We have one quart of drinking water in my canteen,” Chet informed them, “and one package of cookies I brought in my pocket. Oh, all that wonderful cheese, meat, and—I can’t stand it!”

  “No ocean-going vessels pass anywhere near here,” Frank put in glumly. “And I guess this isn’t a popular spot for pleasure cruising. The water’s too rough!”

  “The boat owner thinks we’re on a pleasure ride,” Joe added, “but he doesn’t know where. And somehow I doubt that Cutter and his pal will advise anyone if they find out we’re
missing.”

  Frank jumped up. “Let’s go outside and see if there’s anything on this island we can rig for a signal!”

  All afternoon the youths explored their sea-locked prison. The island was composed of sharp, craggy rock faces with steep drops in between. The surf on the ocean side had made a network of shelving ledges and hollow caves.

  At suppertime they sat down on the rocks and Chet doled out to each boy a ration of two chocolate cookies and two swallows of water. As they chewed their meager meal, staring idly at the old tower, Frank burst out:

  “I know what! We always carry match packets with us when on a camping trip, so let’s light the beacon tonight as a distress signal. All these old-fashioned lighthouses used acetylene beacons. If we can’t make this one work, what good is the chemistry we’re learning in high school?”

  Eagerly Frank led the way into the lighthouse. Sure enough, in a small ground-floor room directly at the center of the tower, they found a big tank with a pipe rising up toward the light.

  “But where will we get the gas for the tank?” Chet wanted to know.

  At that moment Joe pried the lid off an old drum. “Here we are—calcium carbide!”

  Frank explained. “Wc put some of this chemical in the tank and pour sea water over it. The chemical reaction produces acetylene gas, which burns with a bright white light.”

  Already dusk was falling. They sent Chet out with a bucket for sea water. Meanwhile, Joe climbed the staircase to the beacon. There he found a big metal ring with multiple jets. Looking out one of the broad, paneless windows, he saw Chet returning with his bucket of water.

  Then Joe heard the tinkering of metal far below. He took a packet of matches from his pocket and held one ready to strike.

  “Okay!” came the muffled signal. “Light her!”

  Crouching, Joe held his flaring match to the jets. The stiff breeze, whipping through the wide window, snuffed it out. Again and again he brought a flame over the holes, but without result. Finally, all his matches were gone. At that moment the boy heard the floor creak nearby.