“Joe ran into trouble,” Frank said in a tense whisper.
Minutes later they spotted the two guards prodding Joe toward a group of small buildings set deep in a grove and almost hidden from view. One of the men kicked open the door of the nearest building and Joe was thrust into a lighted room.
“We’ve got to free him!” Frank said. “This gang will stop at nothing!”
Radley restrained him. “Hold it, Frank,” he said sternly. “Look what happened to Joe. The thing to do is to outwit these men.”
“You’re right,” Frank replied. “Tell you what,” he said, noticing that the sky was lightening. “Tony, Chet, and Biff will be waiting offshore. Suppose you swim out to the Sleuth and try to follow the dory with the aliens in it. See where it goes. Then bring help back here. In the meantime, I’ll try to think up a way to free Joe and maybe pick up more evidence.”
His companion nodded and left at once. Frank waited until he heard the familiar roar of the Sleuth’s engine as it took off at high speed, before he started his own work. Moving swiftly and cautiously, he edged in close to the building where Joe was imprisoned.
Through a closed window he saw that his brother had been bound to a chair. A coil of rope and a knife lay on a nearby table.
As he watched helplessly, the two middle-aged guards began cuffing Joe’s face. Quickly Frank moved to another window which was open. He heard one of the guards say:
“This kid just won’t talk. Put the gag back in.”
“I don’t buy his story,” the other man said as he replaced the gag, “that he came to Windward to swim all by himself in the middle of the night. He’s a spy. We ought to check the area to see if there are any pals of his lurking around.”
Frank ducked around the corner just in time. For, an instant later, the door of the cabin burst open and the two men rushed out. Frank, desperately realizing he must conceal himself, dodged behind a tree.
One of the guards announced he would circle the cabin. Frank held his breath, as the man passed without noticing him. The other zigzagged through the woods between the house and the beach, looking for trespassers, but shortly returned to report there was no evidence of other intruders.
The two men re-entered the house. Frank returned to the open window. There was no possible way he could move in on Joe’s captors without being seen.
A few minutes later one of the guards said, “Keep an eye on our prisoner while I go to eat breakfast. I’ll spell you later, after I’ve talked to Cap. I’ve got a hunch about this kid!”
Frank wondered what he meant by the last statement, then smiled triumphantly. This was his chance to free Joe!
He ducked into hiding again as the guard came out, closed the door behind him, and walked toward one of the other buildings. Frank waited until the man had entered the cabin, which stood about a hundred yards away, then quietly moved to the door of Joe’s prison and slowly turned the knob. The door was unlocked!
Picking up a piece of shale from the path, Frank threw it at a windowpane. When the piece of rock crashed through, Joe’s guard whirled away from the boy’s side and dashed to the window. At the same time, Frank flattened himself against the door, his hand on the knob. As the guard gingerly leaned out the shattered window, Frank eased open the door and entered the room, his bare feet making no sound.
With lightning speed Frank whipped the gag from Joe’s mouth with one hand, and with the other grabbed a knife from the table and slashed at the rope which bound Joe’s hands.
This was barely accomplished when the man at the window pulled his head in. Before he could turn, Frank gripped him around the throat, stuffed the gag in his mouth, and caught one of his arms in a judo hold. Then he threw him to the floor. Joe quickly bound the guard with the rope that had seconds before secured him.
The prisoner glared at the Hardys as they consulted in low tones. “I sure messed this deal up,” Joe remarked ruefully. “Thanks for turning the tables.”
Frank grinned understandingly. “I’ll keep a lookout in this room while you investigate the rest of the cabin,” he said. “If that other guard heard the glass breaking, he’ll come to see what happened.”
Joe picked up a flashlight from the table in order to explore the dark rooms beyond. Frank posted himself at the door. In a few seconds Joe was back at his brother’s side.
“There are two more rooms in this building,” Joe reported. “One’s locked and—what do you know?—in the other there are five carrier pigeons in cages!”
Frank was excited at this news. “That clinches it. We’ve come to the right place. Let’s go see if we can find out if Cap is who I think he is.”
The boys checked the bonds on their prisoner, then rolled him under one of the bunks which lined two walls, and left the cabin. As they approached the building which the other guard had entered, Frank pointed out a high radio aerial that rose from the roof. “They have a powerful set,” he said.
Both boys peered cautiously in a window, and noted that it must be the building where the guards and the aliens ate their meals. At one end was an old-fashioned cooking stove. Two long dining tables, capable of seating a large number of people, stood at the other side of the big room.
Seated at a smaller table which stood against the far wall was the guard. In front of him was a short-wave sending-and-receiving radio. Over it, he was sending the startling message:
“We’ve captured a spy. From your description, I think he’s one of those Hardy boys!”
Frank and Joe gulped. The news was out! But no more must be sent!
Joe sprang through the doorway and threw himself at the man, knocking him away from the instrument and clipping him soundly on the jaw. The man sprawled on the floor, unconscious.
With the mike switch released, the transmitter was cut off. Frank, who had followed his brother into the room, instantly turned on the receiver. The cold, hard voice of Captain Flont was saying:
“We’re being followed! I’m going to open fire!”
Terror in their eyes, Frank’s and Joe’s hearts sank.
“The Sleuth!” both boys thought. “It must be the Sleuth that Captain Flont has spotted!”
CHAPTER XVII
An Escaped Prisoner
A FEELING of hopelessness swept over Frank and Joe. There was no way to warn their friends that Captain Flont intended to fire on them!
Frank paced up and down the cabin, clenching his fists. Then, suddenly, he thought of a way in which Captain Flont might be tricked.
Grabbing a paper napkin from one of the dining tables, Frank wrapped it around the mouthpiece of the short-wave microphone. Perhaps the napkin would muffle his voice enough to prevent its being recognized. He pressed the mike switch.
“Flont! Don’t shoot! Orders from the boss!”
Frank clicked on the receiver but there was no answer. He kept repeating “Come in, Flont.” Still no reply. As Joe looked on tensely, Frank continued this call intermittently for ten minutes. Finally, receiving no response from the captain, he gave up.
“Maybe Flont had turned off his set before I started sending the order,” Frank said, worried. “Or he may have recognized my voice.”
“You tried the only thing possible,” Joe said. “Besides, even though there wasn’t any answer, Flont might have heard it and been fooled. All we can do is hope.”
Joe suggested that he hurry across to the other side of the island and contact the local police. “In the meantime, you stand by the radio, just in case Flont should call in again.”
“Okay,” Frank agreed. “But let’s tie this fellow up first.”
They bound the captive’s ankles and arms, and put a gag in his mouth. Joe found a pair of shoes and a sweater, put them on, and started off.
He located a rocky trail and followed it a couple of miles, until he came out of the woods. Finally, nearly an hour after leaving the smugglers’ cabin, Joe spotted a farmhouse and dashed up to it.
Fortunately the residents were awake. They l
istened with some skepticism to the boy’s story. But they permitted Joe to use their phone and offered to drive him to the chief of police in Venus Village.
But Joe could not get through to either Chief Collig or his mother at the Bayport Hotel, due to the inadequate service between the island and Bayport. After several attempts, however, he finally contacted the Coast Guard. The young detective was told that men would be sent out at once to apprehend Captain Flont and learn what had happened to the Sleuth.
On the drive to town the farmer remarked, “This is the first time I remember anything happening around here which needed the police. Chief Barton’s appointment was kind of an honorary one.”
When the farmer stopped at the police chief’s home in Venus Village, Joe thanked him for the lift, then rang the bell.
Chief Barton was a man past middle age, with a paunch and a good-natured smile.
“Well, what brings you around here so early in the morning, stranger?” the man asked.
“I’m Joe Hardy from Bayport. My brother and I have located the hideout of a ring of smugglers here on Venus Island. We’ve got two of them tied up. We’d like you to come and make the arrests.”
“Smugglers on Venus Island!” The chief roared with laughter. “Who you trying to kid, son?”
“It’s true,” Joe insisted, trying not to show annoyance. “The Coast Guard and the immigration authorities have been trying to track them down for months. The State Department’s interested, too!”
“How does the State Department figure in this?” the officer asked curiously.
“These smugglers are also kidnappers,” Joe said. “They’re holding a young Indian captive.”
The man finally seemed to realize the seriousness of the situation and said, “Well, no one can say that Chief Barton doesn’t tend to business. I’ll phone my deputy and we’ll be right with you. Just sit down in the parlor.”
It seemed an eternity to Joe while Barton made the contact with his deputy and dressed. But at last the chief brought in a tall, lanky man whom he introduced as Al Richards. The deputy studied Joe for a moment, then commented:
“So you’re one of the Hardy boys, eh? I’ve heard about you fellows down around Bayport. What’s this wild-goose chase we’re going on?”
“Smugglers!” Joe said tersely. “And let’s get going before it’s too late.”
The three drove part way back to the smugglers’ hideout in a jeep. They stopped about a mile from the cabins, and Joe led the men the rest of the way on foot. A fork in the path brought them to the first cabin.
Frank, who had found shoes and a shirt, heard them coming and went to meet the group. He said he certainly was glad to see the police, and reported that no radio messages had been received.
“One of the smugglers is in here,” he told the men as they paused at the cabin door.
“Well,” drawled Deputy Richards, “we’re ready for him. Let’s see what a smuggler looks like.”
They opened the door and Joe walked across to the bunk. He knelt down to pull out the trussed-up man.
The prisoner was not there!
“He’s gone!” Joe cried.
“Gone!” echoed Frank. “But how?”
Deputy Richards remarked laconically, “Told you this would be a wild-goose chase!”
The chief shook his head slowly and shrugged, eying the Hardys dubiously. Frank and Joe were staring at each other, blaming themselves for the prisoner’s getaway. Apparently they had not tied him securely enough.
But perhaps he had not had time to go far, the boys thought. In fact, he might still be in the building! They dashed into the adjoining room. The escaped man was not there and only three of the pigeons were left in the cages.
Frank tried the door to the next room—the one Joe had reported locked. It was unlocked now.
As the door swung open a wholly unexpected scene met their eyes. Joe cried out, “Here he is!” and Frank yelled, “Stop!”
The police chief and his deputy rushed in. At an open window stood the man who had been the Hardys’ prisoner. He was releasing two carrier pigeons.
Joe, noticing there were capsules on the birds’ legs, leaped forward to stop their flight. But he was too late!
“Here he is!” Joe cried out
“Where are those messages going?” he demanded, but the man made no reply.
Frank spotted a large perch in a corner. On it rested a hooded hawk. Certain that the falcon was their own, he picked up a heavy leather gauntlet from a window sill. Quickly donning the glove, Frank took the bird on his wrist. As he removed the hood, Frank spoke softly to her. The hawk recognized him instantly and uttered a joyful keer, keer.
Frank turned to the police officers and said, “Here is support for our story. This is a prize hunting hawk, and it was stolen from our home in Bayport.”
“Arrest this man!” Joe said. “He’s in cahoots with the thief and he’s one of the smugglers.”
Chief Barton made no move to take the man into custody. Instead, he stared at the smuggler. “Why, John Cullen, what’s going on?” he asked.
Frank was puzzled by the chief’s friendliness, but he did not take time to ask questions. He was afraid that the pigeons might be carrying messages which would alert the men holding Tava Nayyar. If so, harm might come to the youth. Frank hurried outside with the falcon and unhooded her.
Looking up, he saw that the carrier pigeons were circling above the cabin, picking up their directional beam preparatory to making a beeline flight to their destination.
Frank turned the falcon loose. To his dismay, she responded sluggishly. Her reactions were considerably slowed down as a result of being imprisoned for so long. There was nothing the impatient young detective could do to hasten matters. He must wait until she regained her keenness.
At that moment Chief Barton and Deputy Richards came out of the cabin with John Cullen and Joe. In an angry tone the chief of police said to the Hardys:
“If your whole story’s as phony as this part of it, I’m afraid we can’t help you.”
“What do you mean?” Joe demanded.
“This so-called smuggler, Mr. Cullen, is one of the leading citizens on the island, though he has only lived here a couple of years. He’s a pigeon fancier and has been racing birds for a year or more. His cote’s on the mainland.”
The Hardys were not impressed. Turning to Cullen, Joe asked suspiciously:
“How do you account for our stolen falcon being in your cabin?”
“My assistant got furiously angry about the whole deal, I’m afraid,” the man replied suavely.
“What deal?” Joe probed.
“He knew that a number of my best pigeons had been killed by a hunting hawk. Someone told him that your falcon was responsible.”
Frank’s and Joe’s minds were racing. Suddenly a thought came to them. Nanab! He had doubtless brought the falcon to the island!
“Go on!” Frank said icily to Cullen.
“My assistant brought the bird here, so that I could use it as evidence in my damage suit against you,” the man concluded triumphantly.
It was obvious that both Chief Barton and Deputy Richards believed the story and were about to reproach the boys when Joe challenged Cullen with:
“That sounds smooth enough. Now try to explain why the other man we captured was talking by short-wave to a boat with smuggled aliens on it.”
“You’re crazy,” Cullen retorted. “Chief Barton, these boys are the ones who ought to be arrested!”
All this time Frank had not taken his eyes off the falcon. She had finally aroused from her lethargy and was now winging after the two pigeons. The hawk was still some distance from the birds, who were lining out for the mainland. Completely confident of the falcon’s skill, Frank remarked:
“Chief Barton, maybe our hunting hawk will prove to you that Mr. Cullen is not merely racing pigeons. She may prove he is aiding smugglers and kidnappers!”
All eyes turned toward the three birds i
n the morning sky.
CHAPTER XVIII
The Falcon’s Victory
THE falcon was only a tiny speck in the sky. The pigeons were out over the water but well below the climbing hawk. Frank turned to Joe and said:
“I guess this is what those old-time falconers called a ‘ringing flight.’ I’m going to the beach to watch it.” The others followed him.
At the height of her pitch, the falcon plunged toward the pigeons in a long, angling stoop. Faster and faster she dropped—until the onlookers saw only a blur of moving wings. At a speed approaching a hundred and eighty miles an hour the hawk struck one of the pigeons. It plummeted into the water.
The peregrine mounted from her stoop and gave chase to the remaining pigeon.
Frank shouted, “Joe, take this and watch Cullen!” He thrust the hawk’s hood into Joe’s hand, kicked off his shoes, and ran into the surf. He set off at a strong, fast crawl toward the floating pigeon and soon reached it.
As Frank swam toward the beach with it, he glanced up. The second pigeon had reversed its course and was heading toward the brushy cover of the island. With awe and admiration he and Joe watched their falcon overtake her prey in a tail chase and bind to it in mid-air. In a long glide Miss Peregrine came to rest with her quarry in her talons.
“Good girl!” Joe cried. He ran forward and picked up the pigeon.
At that moment Frank came out of the surf and joined Joe. John Cullen cried angrily, “Leave those birds alone! They’re my property!” With a vicious lunge he grabbed for both of them.
To the boys’ dismay Chief Barton said, “I guess he’s right, fellows. Let him have the birds.”
Frank and Joe were nonplussed. “I’ll give them to you, Chief, but not to this man,” Frank said firmly.
Frank quickly flipped the capsule off the leg of the pigeon he was holding, while Joe removed the one on the other bird. Cullen tried to snatch the capsules, screaming in a hysterical voice that this was thievery and against the law. He demanded that the policemen do something.
The Hooded Hawk Mystery Page 10