Night of the Werewolf

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Good question,” said Joe. “You think it might have turned up on other jobs the guy’s pulled?”

  Frank nodded thoughtfully. One of the first principles of detection that the Hardys had learned from their father was that a crook’s modus operandi, or operating procedure, was often the best way to identify the person responsible for a given crime.

  “You may have something there,” Joe said. “Why don’t you call Sam Radley? There’s a phone booth over by the counter. You might catch him in if he’s not working with Dad today.”

  “Good idea.” Frank got up and placed a long-distance call to Bayport.

  Sam Radley was one of Fenton Hardy’s top operatives. As it turned out, he was writing a report at his desk and answered immediately. “What can I do for you, Frank?”

  “I’m calling from New York, Sam. I wonder if you could check the files and see if you have anything on a safecracker whose known habits include leaving traces of chewing gum on the safe.”

  Sam chuckled. “I don’t have to look. It so happens your Dad wanted a rundown on the same crook recently, in connection with his investigation of those three building disasters.”

  “No kidding!” Frank felt a surge of excitement.

  “The guy in question is a young fellow, a regular technical and electronic whiz,” Radley went on. “Got out of prison not long ago. He has a habit of chewing bubble gum while he’s working on a job.”

  “And sometimes the bubbles burst and gum splatters the safe?”

  “Right. That’s how he got his nickname ‘Bubbles’. His real name is Lew Upton.”

  “Thanks a lot, Saml” Frank hung up and hurried back to pass on the information to his brother.

  The waitress had brought their orders, and Joe was already munching a hamburger. “Upton?” he echoed with his mouth still half full. “He could be Zachary Upton’s son!”

  “Check! The one who was convicted and sent to prison!” Frank said.

  The two discussed the latest development eagerly as they ate lunch. Then Frank happened to glance toward the door. He signaled to Joe and said in a low tone, “Here comes our man!”

  The mysterious eavesdropper who called himself Mr. Nest had just entered the restaurant and was approaching their table. Gray-haired, with a rather shrunken, wrinkled face, he was wearing sunglasses as before and an expensive-looking bronze silk suit.

  “So you kept our appointment. That’s good!” he remarked hoarsely, sliding into the booth beside Joe. “Maybe we can do business.”

  “What kind of business?” Frank asked cooly.

  “Don’t stall around, Sonny!” the elderly man rasped. “I’ve got just one thing to discuss with you, and that’s the tomahawk! Can we work out a deal or can’t we?”

  The Hardys stared at him, puzzled. They had no idea what Mr. Nest was talking about.

  “First you’d better tell us what tomahawk,” Joe demanded, fishing for information.

  Instead of answering, however, Mr. Nest leaped up from the booth and hurried out of the restaurant!

  13

  Toy Boat Trick

  “Hey, wait!” Joe called, but the gray-haired mystery man had disappeared before the boys recovered from their surprise.

  “Come on, let’s go after him!” Frank exclaimed, springing to his feet.

  He dashed toward the door, but as he passed the counter, the cashier reached out and grabbed his arm. “Just a minute!” she protested indignantly. “You can’t sneak out of here without paying!”

  Frank started to explain, but saw that it would be useless, so he fished money out of his pocket and hastily settled their bill.

  Meanwhile, Joe brushed past him to pursue Mr. Nest. As he ran out the door, a cane was suddenly thrust in front of him. Joe tripped and sprawled full-length on the pavement!

  Angrily he got up and turned to let off steam at the person responsible for the mishap. Then he saw that the cane was held by a poorly dressed man clutching a tin cup with pencils, evidently a blind beggar.

  “Sorry if I got in your way,” the man mumbled.

  Joe stifled the angry remark that had risen to his lips. “Never mind,” he said, and hastily collected himself to renew the pursuit. His eyes swept the throng of passing pedestrians and picked out a gray-haired man in a bronze-colored suit near the next corner, about to cross the street.

  Joe dashed after him, shouldering his way deftly through the crowd, muttering apologies whenever he bumped into someone. He reached the curb and started across just as the light was changing. With a blare of horns, a pack of cars surged into motion and roared straight at him in the typical impatient fashion of New York traffic.

  Joe leaped and hopped across the street, dodging a taxi, a station wagon, and a delivery van. His pulse was racing as he reached the opposite corner but there was no time to stop and cool his jangled nerves. He could see the man in the brownish suit not far ahead.

  Joe darted and swivel-hipped his way through the stream of pedestrians. He reached his quarry and grabbed him by the arm. “Okay, Mr. Nest, if that’s your real name. Hold it!”

  The man turned. He had a large, red nose, veiny jowls, and bushy-browed blue eyes, which at the moment were sparking dangerously. “Let go of my arm, young fellow!” he growled. “Just who do you think you are?”

  Joe’s eyes widened in chagrin as he saw his mistake. “I—I’m terribly sorry,” he stuttered. “I thought you were someone else.”

  “Hmmph!” The man grunted. “Next time don’t grab people before you see who they are!”

  Apparently mollified by Joe’s apology, he strode off. The younger Hardy plodded back dejectedly toward the restaurant. Crossing the street, he encountered his brother.

  “Any luck?” Frank inquired.

  “Yes, all of it bad!” Joe said wryly and related his two brief adventures. As if to rub in his humiliation, he saw that the man with the cane had disappeared. “I’ll bet that blind beggar was just a phony!” Joe blurted. “Nest probably planted him there to slow us down, in case we came after him.”

  “Very likely,” Frank agreed. “Nest’s name is phony, too, for that matter.”

  “Sure, from the name of that old wooden mansion where you spotted him, Eagle’s Nest!”

  “Well, never mind, Joe. We can’t win‘em all. Let’s go back and finish our hamburgers.”

  But another letdown was in store. When they returned to the restaurant, they saw that their table had already been cleared. The rest of their meal was probably in the garbage by now.

  Even Frank was disgusted. “Want to order something else?” he asked his brother.

  “Forget it. I just lost my appetite.”

  Frank decided to use the phone booth again. He called Chelsea Builders and asked Karel Tabor’s secretary for the name and address of the client for whom the firm was restoring Eagle’s Nest.

  Frank jotted down the information she gave him, then hung up and turned to Joe. “Let’s look him up when we get a chance. He might be able to give us a lead on Mr. Nest.”

  “Good hunch. But what’ll we do right now?”

  “Call Zachary Upton and ask for an interview. Not here, though. Let’s go to a place where I can carry on a phone conversation without all this babble and clatter of dishes.”

  In the lobby of an office building down the street, they found a pay telephone in a quiet, secluded corner. Joe leafed through the Manhattan directory for Upton Associates, and Frank dialed the number. Luckily the head of the firm had not yet gone to lunch, and by quiet persistence, Frank finally got through to him.

  “My name’s Frank Hardy, Mr. Upton,” he began. “My father is Fenton Hardy, the detective. You may have heard of him.”

  “Well, what is it you want?” the rumbling bass voice challenged.

  “My brother Joe and I would like a chance to talk to you, as soon as possible.”

  “What about?”

  “A case which our father’s investigating. It involves Chelsea Builders.”

 
; “Nothing doing,” the architect replied grumpily. “We have no contact with that firm.”

  “You may still be able to help us, sir.”

  “I said nothing doing!”

  “Very well,” Frank said, and on a sudden impulse added, “Then may I speak to your son Lew?”

  There was a slight pause, and Frank sensed that Zachary Upton had been taken aback by the sudden mention of his son’s name. “He’s not here,” Upton finally responded.

  “Can you tell us how to get in touch with him?”

  “This isn’t a secretarial bureau—I’m running a firm of architects!”

  Frank decided to apply a little pressure. His voice hardened. “It’s very important that we speak to Bubbles,” he said, emphasizing the nickname slightly. “We want to question him about a burglary that occurred at Chelsea Builders last night. The safe was cracked.”

  Frank could hear a faint gasp at the other end of the line. “A s-safecracking, you say?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Upton. My brother and I went there this morning and examined the scene of the burglary. We discovered a clue that may link your son to the crime. Now, we’d like to give him a chance to explain. However, if you prefer, we can simply call the police and let them follow up.”

  “No, er, don’t do that just yet!” Zachary Upton said hastily. “If you’ll call back in half an hour, I’ll do my best to arrange an interview with my son.”

  “Fine. Thank you, sir,” Frank said politely. Hanging up he turned to his brother with a dry grin. “That changed his tune in a hurry!”

  While waiting to phone back, the Hardys returned to the skyscraper from which Joe had taken his terrifying tumble the night before. The construction crew were still on their lunch break, as the two young sleuths had hoped, so they were able to have a brief chat with their friend, Hank Eagle.

  Joe described their frustrating meeting with the so-called Mr. Nest. As he mentioned the man’s strange remark about the tomahawk, Frank saw Hank’s eyes flicker, as if he were startled but trying not to show any sign of recognition.

  “Any idea what the man was talking about?” the older Hardy boy inquired casually.

  Hank Eagle shrugged. “None.”

  For the rest of the conversation he seemed rather taciturn and withdrawn, masking whatever was going on in his head behind a deadpan face.

  “Did you notice how Hank clammed up all of a sudden when you asked him about that tomahawk?” Joe remarked to his brother later as they walked away from the construction site.

  “I’ll say I did,” Frank replied. “He knows more than he’s telling us, that’s for sure.”

  “But why? You don’t suppose he’s in cahoots with Mr. Nest?”

  Frank shook his head. “That doesn’t stack up with what we know about Hank, not with our previous opinion of him, anyhow. I’ve got a hunch about why Mr. Nest set up a meeting with us and tossed out that crack about the tomahawk.”

  “Why?”

  “He wanted to find out from our expressions if we knew anything about it. When he saw our blank faces, he realized we didn‘t, and that’s all he was interested in. So he took off and left us sitting there like dummies.”

  “That figures, all right,” Joe agreed.

  At a nearby drugstore, Frank made another call to Upton Associates. This time Zachary Upton was much less hostile. He was still vague and uncertain about arranging a meeting between the Hardys and his son. However, he agreed readily to see the boys himself and discuss the matter further.

  “I’d like to keep this confidential,” he added. “Could we meet somewhere away from my office?”

  “You name the time and place, Mr. Upton,” Frank said.

  “Very well, then. How about two-thirty this afternoon, at the boat pond in Central Park?” The architect added directions, in case the Hardys were not familiar with the layout of the park, and a description of himself.

  “We’ll be there,” Frank promised and hung up.

  The boys had left their car overnight in a parking garage, so after some window-shopping on Fifth Avenue, they took a bus north and went into Central Park at the East 72nd Street entrance.

  The pond at which they were to meet Upton lay just a short stroll away. The architect was easily identifiable from the description of himself that he had given Frank, a big, shaggy bear of a man with a closely trimmed dark beard streaked with gray.

  Several toy boats were being sailed on the pond. As the boys approached, they realized that Upton was playing with one of them, steering it by means of an electronic remote-control device which he held in one hand.

  “Mr. Upton?” said Frank.

  The bearded man turned to look at the two youths. “Hm, eh, yes. You must be Frank and Joe Hardy.”

  “Yes, sir. Let’s get right to the point, if you don’t mind.”

  “Whatever you say, son.”

  “First of all, we’d like to learn more about your relationship with Chelsea Builders. And then we want to know how soon we can talk to your son.”

  “Well, now, that’s a fairly big order. Just what did you mean by that first question? Are you implying that Upton Associates or I may have something to do with that burglary you mentioned?”

  Frank attempted to reply diplomatically. But Upton paid little attention. He seemed more interested in steering his toy boat across the water, and the Hardys had the odd impression that he was stalling for time.

  Suddenly, as his boat reached the opposite side of the pond, they saw a young man stoop and snatch it up. Frank and Joe thought he slipped something into the little craft, but he acted so quickly and unexpectedly that neither could be sure.

  As suddenly as he had picked up the boat, the youth put it back in the water. Then he turned and darted off among some trees.

  Upton was already steering the boat back to their own side of the pond. As soon as it came within reach, he stooped down and plucked out a rolled-up slip of paper, which he handed to the Hardys.

  “That young man you saw just now was my son Lew,” he informed them.

  Frank hastily unrolled the note. It bore a message scrawled in ink:

  Mob job! Tell your father to watch out or we’re both dead men/

  14

  The Mustached Stranger

  The Hardy boys gasped as they read the strange warning that Lew Upton had sent them in the toy boat. Frank shot a puzzled glance at the bearded architect, who stood by watching them somberly.

  “What’s this all about, Mr. Upton?” he asked.

  The man shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I assumed you’d know. The message is meant for you.”

  He explained that, ever since getting out of prison a few weeks ago, his son had been living by himself, apparently somewhere in the city, but avoiding contact with his family.

  “Lew said it was better that way for all of us, that he didn’t want any of his underworld troubles brushing off on his mother and me,” Zachary Upton went on. “However, he would call us every so often, and he gave me a number where I could reach him in case of emergency. That’s how I got in touch with him after you called today.”

  Upton related that his son had sounded very disturbed when he heard that the Hardys wanted to talk to him about the Chelsea Builders’ burglary. “He told me that it was important to get a message to you fast, but he didn’t want to be seen with any of us. That’s why we arranged this toy boat gimmick.”

  Despite his gruff front, Upton was obviously very much worried about Lew’s safety, especially in light of the first two words in the message. Mob job implied that some gangster setup was behind the safecracking.

  Frank and Joe were also concerned about their father, although they knew he was usually well able to protect himself from criminals. But for the moment, neither the Hardy boys nor Zachary Upton could guess what had prompted the message.

  The two young sleuths said good-by to the architect and retrieved their car from the parking garage. Soon they were heading homeward.

  Arriving in Bayp
ort, they learned that Fenton Hardy had not yet returned, so they decided to stay overnight before starting for the Adirondacks again.

  “Maybe we’d better let Chet know our plans,” Joe suggested.

  “Good idea,” said Frank and called the cottage. Before leaving Hawk River, the Hardys had cautioned their stout chum to speak cagily over the phone for fear of their conversation being overheard by the gossipy local operator. Keeping this in mind, Chet managed to let Frank know by his remarks that he had kept a midnight vigil outside the Tabor house, but that nothing unusual had happened.

  “Okay, Chet,” Frank replied. “Same deal tonight. We’ll see you tomorrow. We want to talk to Dad, so we’re going to stick around in case he shows up this evening. Meanwhile, take care of yourself.”

  “You think I won’t?”

  Frank chuckled and hung up.

  Before dinner, the boys drove to Wild World, an animal park outside Bayport. They asked their elderly friend, Pop Carter, who operated the establishment, if they could borrow a tranquilizer dart gun.

  “We may need it to capture a werewolf, Pop,” Frank explained.

  “If anyone else had told me that,” Pop replied, “I’d suspect that he was crazy. But with you Hardys I’m ready to believe anything!” He gave them the gun, and the brothers returned home.

  By the following morning, there was still no word from their father. Hiding their own worried feelings, the boys did their best to reassure their mother and Aunt Gertrude. Soon they were on their way once more to the Adirondacks.

  En route, the Hardys detoured to the Catskill Mountain area to visit the Pine Manor Rest Home. They asked at the reception desk if they could speak to the doctor who had treated John Tabor.

  The receptionist smiled in surprise. “That’s a coincidence!” she remarked. “Another visitor came in fifteen minutes ago asking the same thing. He’s with Dr. Benton right now.”

  Frank and Joe sat down to await their turn, wondering who the visitor could be. When the receptionist finally escorted them down a hallway, they saw a man with a thick black mustache coming out of the doctor’s office. The Hardys were curious if he was the person who had inquired about the young architect and his nervous breakdown.