The Secret Warning

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “And the answer lies aboard the sunken freighter?” put in Frank.

  “Right—with the engine-room telegraph and tachometer,” Mr. Hardy answered. “If the telegraph shows ‘Stop’ and the tachometer reads ‘Zero,’ the Katawa was not at fault. If they indicate full speed ahead, it’s a different story—a difference worth several million dollars.”

  Joe gave a low whistle. “Some difference!”

  Suddenly Frank snapped his fingers. “That mention of diving reminds me, Dad—in all the excitement about the pirate map, we clean forgot to tell you about the visitor you had this morning!” He quickly described Gus Bock’s appearance at the Hardy home and the threat which the diver had uttered before leaving.

  Mr. Hardy took the news calmly. “I think I have the answer to that.” He explained that Transmarine Underwriters had asked him to run a security check on several competing diving companies before letting the contract to salvage the Katawa.

  “Gus Bock,” the sleuth went on, “is chief diver for an outfit called the Simon Salvage Company. They tried hard to get the contract, even put in a ridiculously low bid. But the company has a shady reputation. They’ve been involved in outright fights and several other unsavory incidents on salvage jobs, so I advised against them.”

  Instead, Mr. Hardy told the boys, he had recommended that the contract go to the Crux Diving Company. As a result, Gus Bock was no doubt out for revenge.

  “How about what happened tonight?” Chet said, looking around the table uneasily. “Do you think Bock or Simon Salvage was behind that explosion in the ravine?”

  “It’s a cinch the map was just bait to lure us there,” Joe declared.

  “I agree,” said Fenton Hardy. “The real question is who sent it—and who has been posing as Red Rogers’ ghost.”

  “What’s our next move, Dad?” Frank asked.

  “Come daylight, we’ll search the island for clues to the person who tried to kill us. After that, we’d all better return to the mainland. I have to get back to work with Sam Radley, tracing that tip on the Pharaoh’s head.”

  Next morning, while Chet Morton and Mr. Hardy were preparing breakfast, Frank and Joe started up the winding stairway of the tower to check the lamp room for possible traces of the person who had sent the red warning signals.

  As they neared the top, Frank suddenly halted and pointed to the wall. “Take a look at that, Joe!”

  A message—faded and almost illegible—had been scrawled in pencil on the whitewashed surface of the stone. It said:I’ve seen Rogers again. No mistake this time. He’s come back and he’s trying to drive me out of my mind. Heaven help me!

  R. H. Tang 4/17/45

  CHAPTER VII

  The Midnight Wrecker

  “TANG!” Joe gasped. “The lighthouse keeper who went out of his mind!”

  “I wonder,” Frank said slowly, “if he was suffering from hallucinations.”

  Joe stared at his brother. “Are you implying that Tang wasn’t crazy?”

  “Suppose we told a doctor we’d seen the Jolly Roger ghost—a red-bearded spook in a black cloak. And not just here on Whalebone Island, but even back in Bayport. Would he call us crazy?”

  “The explosion last night wasn’t our imagination!” Joe said flatly.

  “Maybe. But that wouldn’t prove we had or hadn’t seen a ghost.”

  “Still,” Joe persisted, “Tang must have been examined before he could be declared insane.”

  “True, but the question is what really drove him out of his mind?” Frank argued. “Suppose you or I were cooped up in this tower alone for weeks and months, not another soul on the island —so far as we knew. Yet every time we went for a walk to stretch our legs, that spook kept popping out at us—especially at night. Maybe even inside the lighthouse. I’ll bet we’d be flipping our wigs too before long!”

  Joe frowned reflectively, then blurted out, “But, good night, Frank! All that was years ago. The person Tang saw couldn’t have been the same one we saw—”

  As Joe’s voice trailed off, Frank gave a wry chuckle. “You mean—or could it? That’s the same question I’m asking myself.”

  The lamp room had been empty ever since the Whalebone Light was taken out of service. The boys inspected it thoroughly, but found no clues to the signaler.

  “He must have used an ordinary bull’s-eye lantern. Let’s try the outside platform and see if—” Joe broke off with a gasp. “Hey, Frank!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Look there—out to sea!”

  Lying off the southern shore of the island was a small steamer. Larger than a tug, it was equipped with cargo booms.

  The two boys dashed to the floor below and outside to the railed platform around the light tower.

  “It’s not under way,” Joe observed. “What do you think it’s doing out there?”

  “Could be a fishing vessel,” Frank said doubtfully, “but it sure doesn’t look like one. Let’s get Dad.”

  On hearing the news, Mr. Hardy and Chet hurried topside. The detective broke out his powerful binoculars and focused on the mysterious vessel.

  “It’s a salvage ship!” Mr. Hardy said tensely. “It belongs to the Simon Salvage Company.”

  “Gus Bock’s outfit!” exclaimed Joe.

  Mr. Hardy passed the binoculars to the boys. Each of the three in turn examined the vessel. The name at its stern read:SIMON SALVOR

  NEW YORK

  On deck, a diver had apparently just suited up. Helpers were closing the glass ports of his helmet and checking the air hose and telephone cable. As Frank watched, the diver strode to the side of the ship and climbed down a ladder into the water.

  “That must be Bock himself,” Frank muttered. “But what’s he diving for there, Dad? You said the Katawa went down north of the island, didn’t you?”

  Mr. Hardy frowned. “That’s right. And I can’t figure Simon Salvage engaging in a diving operation just for the fun of it.”

  “I wonder when the ship arrived,” Joe mused, “We didn’t see it last night.”

  “Maybe it was on the other side of the island,” put in Chet. Suddenly a look of comprehension crossed his face. “Oh—oh! You think maybe somebody off that ship was the dynamiter last night?”

  “Sure, and also the one who flashed those red signals,” Joe replied.

  “It’s possible, all right,” Mr. Hardy agreed.

  “Dad, I have an idea!” Frank exclaimed.

  “Let’s hear it, son.”

  “When you go back to the mainland, why don’t we three stay on the island? We can watch the Simon Salvor and maybe find out what it’s up to—and also keep a lookout for the ‘ghost’!”

  Mr. Hardy looked troubled. He shook his head. “That would be dangerous, Frank. There’s no telling what might happen with a possible killer at large.”

  Frank and Joe pleaded earnestly. Mr. Hardy finally promised to wait until they searched the island before making a final decision.

  After breakfast they scoured the Whalebone crescent from tip to tip, but the ghostly dynamiter had apparently slipped away during the night. The detective was now half inclined to let the boys stay.

  When they approached the cove campsite at the end of their search, Fenton Hardy stopped short and blanched.

  “My camp’s been ransacked!”

  The four rushed forward. Scattered across the sand were the smashed fragments of what had been his transceiver.

  “Who—” Joe began, appalled. The sleeping bag was burned to a charred crisp. All food supplies were violently trampled.

  The detective’s boat, too, seemed to be gone. But suddenly Frank’s sharp eyes spotted the craft.

  “There it is!” he said, pointing offshore.

  The boat lay bottom-up in a few feet of water, a gaping hole in its hull!

  Fenton Hardy’s jaw tightened grimly. “That settles it,” he said. “You boys are not staying on the island. We’re going back in the Sleuth together—if our ghost hasn’t
wrecked that, too.”

  Anxiously they trekked back to the southern tip of the island. All four heaved sighs of relief when they found the sleek motorboat still safely hidden among the reeds.

  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

  Art 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 favori
te 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.”