The House on the Cliff

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “If they are the kidnapers, I wonder what will happen to Jones now,” Frank said gravely. “They tried to kill him once.”

  “Maybe they’ll just hold him prisoner,” Mr. Hardy stated thoughtfully. “They were probably afraid he’d tell all he knew, and couldn’t afford to leave him at the farmhouse.”

  When they got back to the Kanes’, they found the farmer and his wife somewhat recovered from their harrowing experience. Mrs. Kane was busy straightening up the kitchen.

  “We couldn’t catch them,” Frank reported sadly.

  “Well, those hoodlums had a high-powered car and they weren’t wastin’ any time. I could see ’em from the window as they went down the lane,” the farmer remarked, frowning angrily at the recollection.

  “Please tell us exactly what happened, Mr. Kane,” Joe urged.

  “Well, Mabel and I were here in the kitchen,” the man began. “Mabel was washin’ the supper dishes when this fellow came to the door. He was a tall chap with a long, thin face.”

  “He asked us if we were looking after the man that was almost drowned earlier,” the farmer’s wife took up the tale. “When we said we were, the fellow told us that Mr. Jones was his brother and he had come to take him away.”

  “I got suspicious,” Mr. Kane broke in. “He didn’t look nothin’ like Jones. I asked him where he lived.”

  “At that,” Mrs. Kane said, “he walked in the house with another fellow right at his heels. They grabbed my husband. Henry put up an awful good fight but he was outnumbered. When I tried to help, a third man appeared from nowhere and held me back.”

  “They dragged us into the livin’ room, tied us to those chairs, and put the gags in our mouths,” the farmer continued. “Then we heard ’em goin’ into Jones’s room. Pretty soon they carried him out to a car where a fourth fellow was sittin’ at the wheel.”

  “Did Jones put up a fight when they took him away?” Frank asked.

  “He tried to. He hollered for help, but of course I couldn’t do anythin’ and he was too weak to struggle much.”

  “This whole affair is very peculiar,” Mr. Hardy observed. “Perhaps Jones is mixed up in the smuggling going on around here. But who were those four men, I wonder?”

  Mrs. Kane shook her head. “All I know is, we’re sure glad you and your sons came out tonight. There’s no telling how long we’d have been tied up before somebody found us!”

  “We’re glad, too, that we got here,” Frank replied.

  “You folks say your name’s Hardy?” said the farmer. “Any relation to Fenton Hardy?”

  “Right here.” The detective smiled.

  “Pleasure to know you!” exclaimed Kane heartily, putting out his hand. “If anyone can get to the bottom of this business, you can.”

  “I’ll certainly try,” the boys’ father promised.

  The Hardys bade the farmer and his wife good-by. They promised to call again at the Kane farm as soon as they had any further information, and Mr. Kane, in turn, said he would notify them if he found any trace of Jones or his kidnapers.

  When they returned home the boys followed their father into his study.

  “What do you make of all this, Dad?” Joe asked.

  Mr. Hardy sat down at his desk. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair a few moments without speaking.

  “I have only one theory,” he said at last. “The kidnapers probably are Snattman’s friends. That means you boys may have uncovered the fact that there is a whole gang of smugglers around here.”

  The brothers were pleased with their progress. “What do we do next, Dad?” Joe asked eagerly.

  “I want to evaluate this case from every angle,” their father replied. “I’ll think about it and talk to you later.” With this the boys had to be content for the rest of the week end.

  When the brothers came downstairs Monday morning, Mrs. Hardy was putting their breakfast on the table.

  In answer to the boys’ inquiries, she replied, “Your father went out early this morning in his car. He didn’t say when he would return. But your dad didn’t take a bag with him, so he’ll probably be back today.” Mrs. Hardy was accustomed to her husband’s comings and goings at odd hours in connection with his profession and she had learned not to ask questions.

  Frank and Joe were disappointed. They had looked forward to resuming a discussion of the case with their father.

  “I guess we’re left on our own again to try finding out something about those smugglers,” Frank remarked, and Joe agreed.

  Later, when they reached Bayport High School, the brothers saw Iola Morton standing on the front steps. With pretty, dark-haired Iola was her best friend Callie Shaw. Callie, a blond, vivacious, brown-eyed girl, was Frank’s favorite among all the girls in his class.

  “How are the ghost hunters this morning?” she asked with a mischievous smile. “Iola told me about your adventures on Saturday.”

  “Chet was really scared,” Iola chimed in. “I think somebody played a good joke on all of you.”

  “Well, whoever it was had better return the telescope eyepieces and our motorcycle tools,” Joe said defiantly.

  But as the day wore on and none of their class-mates teased them or brought up the subject, the Hardys became convinced that the “ghost” had been serious and not just playing pranks.

  “It was no joke,” Joe said to Frank on the way home. “If any of the fellows at school had done it, they’d have been kidding us plenty by now.”

  “Right,” Frank agreed. “Joe, do you think the smugglers had anything to do with what happened at the Pollitt place?”

  “That’s a thought!” exclaimed Joe. “That house on the cliff would be a great hide-out. If the smugglers could make the house appear to be haunted, everyone would stay away.”

  “I wish Dad would get home, so we could take up this idea with him,” Frank said thoughtfully.

  But Mr. Hardy did not come home that day. He had often been away for varying lengths of time without sending word, but on this occasion, since he had not taken a bag, the boys felt uneasy.

  “Let’s not worry Mother about this,” Frank said. “But if Dad’s not back by Wednesday—at the latest—I think we should do some inquiring. Maybe Pretzel Pete will be able to help us.”

  Joe agreed. Wednesday was the start of their summer vacation and they could give full time to trying to locate their father.

  On Tuesday afternoon the mystery of Mr. Hardy’s absence took a strange turn. Frank and Joe came home from school to find their mother seated in the living room, carefully examining a note that she evidently just had received.

  “Come here, boys,” Mrs. Hardy said in an apprehensive tone. “Look at this and tell me what you think.” She handed the note to Frank.

  “What is it?” he asked quickly. “Word from Dad?”

  “It’s supposed to be.”

  The boys read the note. It was typed on a torn sheet of paper and the signature looked like Fenton Hardy’s. It read:

  I won’t be home for several days. Don’t worry. Fenton.

  That was all. There was nothing to indicate where the detective was; nothing to show when the note had been written.

  “When did you get this, Mother?” asked Frank.

  “It came in the afternoon mail. It was addressed to me, and the envelope had a Bayport postmark.”

  “Why are you worried?” Joe asked. “At least we’ve heard from Dad.”

  “But I’m not sure he sent the note.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your father and I have an agreement. Whenever he writes me, he puts a secret sign beneath his signature. Fenton was always afraid that someone would forge his name to a letter or note, and perhaps get papers or information that he shouldn’t have.”

  Frank picked up the note again. “There’s no sign here. Just Dad’s signature.”

  “It may be his signature. If not, it’s a very good forgery.” Mrs. Hardy was plainly worried.

  “If Dad did
n’t write this note,” Joe asked, “who did and why?”

  “Your father has many enemies-criminals whom he has been instrumental in sending to prison. If there has been foul play, the note might have been sent to keep us from being suspicious and delay any search.”

  “Foul play!” exclaimed Frank in alarm. “Then you think something has happened to Dad?”

  CHAPTER VII

  The Hidden Trail

  JOE put an arm around his mother. “Frank and I will start a search for Dad first thing tomorrow,” her son said reassuringly.

  Next morning, as the boys were dressing, Joe asked, “Where shall we start, Frank?”

  “Down at the waterfront. Let’s try to find Pretzel Pete and ask him if Dad talked to him on Monday. He may give us a lead.”

  “Good idea.”

  The brothers reached the Bayport waterfront early. It was the scene of great activity. A tanker was unloading barrels of oil, and longshoremen were trundling them to waiting trucks.

  At another dock a passenger ship was tied up. Porters hurried about, carrying luggage and packages to a line of taxicabs.

  Many sailors strolled along the busy street. Some stepped into restaurants, others into amusement galleries.

  “I wonder where Pretzel Pete is,” Frank mused. He and Joe had walked four blocks without catching sight of the man.

  “Maybe he’s not wearing his uniform,” Joe surmised. “You know, the one Dad described.”

  “Let’s turn and go back the other way beyond the tanker,” Frank suggested.

  The boys reversed their direction and made their way through the milling throng for six more blocks.

  Suddenly Joe chuckled. “Here comes our man.

  Strolling toward them and hawking the product he had for sale came a comical-looking individual He wore a white cotton suit with a very loose-fitting coat Around his neck was a vivid red silk handkerchief, embroidered with anchors.

  The vendor’s trousers had been narrowed at the cuff with bicycle clips to keep them from trailing on the ground, with the result that there was a continuous series of wrinkles from the edge of his coat to his ankles.

  The man wore a white hat which came down to his ears. On the wide brown band the name Pretzel Pete was embroidered in white letters.

  “Boy, that’s some gear!” Frank murmured.

  Pretzel Pete’s garb was bizarre, but he had an open, honest face. He stopped calling “Pretzels! Hot pretzels! Best in the land!” and smiled at the Hardys. He set down the large metal food warmer he carried. From the top of it rose three short aerials, each ringed with a dozen pretzels.

  “You like them hot, or do you prefer them cold?” he asked the brothers.

  Joe grinned. “If they’re good, I can eat them any way.” Then he whispered, “We’re Mr. Fenton Hardy’s sons. We’d like to talk to you.”

  At that moment a group of sailors brushed past. Pretzel Pete did not reply until they were out of earshot, then he said to the boys, “Come into this warehouse.”

  The brothers followed him down the street a short distance and through a doorway into an enormous room which at the moment was practically empty.

  “You’ve brought a message from your pop?” the vendor asked.

  Quickly Frank explained to him that their father seemed to be missing. “We thought you might have heard this.”

  “Yes, I did,” Pretzel Pete answered. “But I didn’t think nothing about it. I always thought detectives disappeared—sometimes in order to fool people they were after.”

  “They sometimes do,” Joe told him. “But this time seems to be different. Dad said he often came down here to get information from you—because you always give him good tips—and we wondered if you had seen him lately.”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Monday morning.”

  “Dad has been gone ever since.”

  “Hmm.” The man frowned, picked up a pretzel from one of the aerials, and began to munch on it. “Help yourselves, fellows.”

  Frank and Joe each took one of the pretzels. They had just bitten into the delicious salted rings when Pete continued, “Now you got me worried. Your pop’s a fine man and I wouldn’t want to see anything happen to him. I’ll tell you a place you might look for him.”

  Pretzel Pete said that he had picked up a bit of information that led him to think an East Indian sailor named Ali Singh might be engaged in some smuggling. The vendor did not know what ship he sailed on, but he understood that the man had come ashore for a secret meeting of some gang.

  “This here meeting,” Pretzel Pete explained, “was being held out in the country somewhere off the shore road. It was to be in a deserted farm house on Hillcrest something or other. I don’t remember whether it was ‘road’ or ‘street’ or what.”

  “Was this last Monday?” Frank asked eagerly.

  “Oh, no,” the vendor answered. “This was about three weeks ago, but when I told your pop he seemed real interested and said he guessed he’d go out there and look around.”

  Joe broke in, “Dad must have thought the rest of the gang might be living there. Maybe they’re holding him a prisoner!”

  “Oh, I hope not,” Pretzel Pete said worriedly. “But you fellows had better get right out there and take a look.”

  “We certainly will,” Frank told the man.

  The brothers thanked Pretzel Pete for the information, then hurried home. Mrs. Hardy was not there, so they did not have a chance to tell her about their plans.

  “We’ll leave a note,” Frank decided and quickly wrote one.

  Their hopes high, the brothers set off on their motorcycles on the search for their father. By now they were very familiar with the shore road but did not recall having seen any sign reading Hillcrest.

  “Suppose it’s not marked,” said Joe. “We’ll never find it.”

  Frank gripped his handle bars hard. “If Dad found it, we won’t give up until we do.”

  The motorcycles chugged past side road after side road. The farther away from Bayport the boys went, the farther apart these roads became. After a while they came to the Kanes’ farmhouse and were tempted to stop to see if they might know where Hillcrest was. But just then, a short distance ahead, Joe saw a small car suddenly turn into the shore road. It seemed to have come right out of a clump of bushes and trees.

  “Come on, Frank! Let’s investigate that place.”

  The boys pushed ahead, hoping to speak to the driver of the car. But he shot down the road in the opposite direction at terrific speed. When Frank and Joe reached the place from which he had just emerged, they saw that it was a road, though hardly noticeable to anyone passing by.

  “I’ll take a look and see where it goes,” Frank said, shutting off his motorcycle and walking up the grassy, rutted lane. Suddenly he called back, “We’re in luck, Joe. I see a homemade sign on a tree. It says Hillcrest Road.”

  Frank returned to his brother and the boys trundled their machines up among the trees to hide them. Then they set off afoot along the almost impassable woods road.

  “There aren’t any tire tracks,” Joe remarked. “I guess that fellow who drove out of here must have left his car down at the entrance.”

  Frank nodded, and then in a low tone suggested that they approach the deserted farmhouse very quietly, in case members of the gang were there. “In fact, I think it might be better if we didn’t stay on this road but went through the woods.”

  Joe agreed and silently the Hardys picked their way along among the trees and through the undergrowth. Five minutes later they came to a clearing in which stood a ramshackle farmhouse. It looked as if it had been abandoned for many years.

  The young sleuths stood motionless, observing the run-down building intently. There was not a sound of activity either inside or outside the place. After the boys had waited several minutes, Frank decided to find out whether or not anyone was around. Picking up a large stone, he heaved it with precision aim at the front door. It struck
with a resounding thud and dropped to the floor of the sagging porch.

  Frank’s action brought no response and finally he said to Joe, “I guess nobody’s home. Let’s look in.”

  “Right,” Joe agreed. “And if Dad’s a prisoner there, we’ll rescue him!”

  The boys walked across the clearing. There was no lock on the door, so they opened it and went inside. The place consisted of only four first-floor rooms. All were empty. A tiny cellar and a loft with a trap door reached by a ladder also proved to have no one in them.

  “I don’t know whether to be glad or sorry Dad’s not here,” said Frank. “It could mean he escaped from the gang if he was caught by them and is safely in hiding, but can’t send any word to us.”

  “Or it could mean he’s still a captive somewhere else,” Joe said. “Let’s look around here for clues.”

  The boys made a systematic search of the place. They found only one item which might prove to be helpful It was a torn piece of a turkish towel on which the word Polo appeared.

  “This could have come from some country club where they play polo,” Frank figured.

  “Or some stable where polo ponies are kept,” Joe suggested.

  Puzzled, Frank put the scrap in his pocket and the brothers walked down Hillcrest Road. They brought their motorcycles from behind the trees and climbed aboard.

  “What do you think we should do next?” Joe asked.

  “See Police Chief Collig in Bayport,” Frank replied. “I think we should show him this towel Maybe he can identify it.”

  Half an hour later they were seated in the chief’s office. The tall, burly man took a great interest in the Hardy boys and often worked with Fenton Hardy on his cases. Now Chief Collig gazed at the scrap of toweling for a full minute, then slapped his desk.

  “I have it!” he exclaimed. “That’s a piece of towel from the Marco Polo!”

  “What’s that?”

  “A passenger ship that ties up here once in a while.”

  Frank and Joe actually jumped in their chairs. Their thoughts went racing to Ali Singh, smugglers, a gang at the deserted farmhouse!