The Yellow Feather Mystery

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Joe asked breathlessly, “Did he say where he got the paper?”

  The detective shook his head. “No, that never came up. I told him I was leaving town for a week—that I’d help him when I returned. He gave me the sheet of paper and urged that I get on the case as soon as possible.”

  “Same thing Greg asked us,” Frank said.

  Mr. Hardy smiled. “I see no reason why we couldn’t combine our sleuthing. You can work on the case while I’m away.”

  The boys nodded.

  “Before I leave, though,” the detective went on, “I’ll get off a telegram to the FBI, asking if they have any listing of a criminal known as the Yellow Feather.”

  “In the meantime, we can try to find out who he is,” Frank said.

  “And also the significance of the paper with the cutouts,” Joe added.

  “But remember,” their father said, “the courts will take care of the legal aspects of the inheritance, pending the appearance of a will. You won’t have to worry about that.”

  It was decided that the following day Frank and Joe would inform Greg Woodson and Henry Kurt of the Hardys’ decision to work together.

  Next morning, as the boys sped along in their convertible with Frank at the wheel, they discussed what the reaction would be to their announcement about the Hardys combining their sleuthing.

  “I wonder how Greg and Kurt will take the news,” Joe remarked.

  “It’s my guess that Greg will be a good sport about it,” Frank replied, “but Kurt might not like the idea.”

  “We know Greg’s story,” said Joe. “Let’s tackle Kurt first and see what he has to say.”

  Reaching the site of Woodson Academy, Frank turned into the winding driveway. Ahead of them in the snow-covered landscape stood a long colonial-type brick building partially covered with ivy. From it rose a circular bell tower.

  Frank parked in front of the main entrance and the boys hopped out. A student just coming out of the building gave directions to the headmaster’s office.

  The door was opened by a slender, graying man, who carried himself very erect, with an almost military bearing. His dark eyes were keen and he wore a well-trimmed pointed goatee.

  As soon as introductions had been exchanged, Henry Kurt said crisply, “Have you boys brought me a message from your father?”

  “Yes. He asked us to speak to you and Greg Woodson together,” Frank replied.

  “Greg and me? Together?”

  “Yes,” Frank answered. “We find you’re both interested in the same mystery.”

  A trace of annoyance crossed the man’s face. “Umph! Well, if that’s what your father wants ... certainly. Just a moment.”

  Kurt sent a messenger to the Academy’s guest room to summon Greg. Then he said, “I understand that your father is an alumnus of our school.”

  “He is,” Frank replied. “And he’s very much concerned about what happens to Woodson Academy.”

  “Naturally,” Kurt remarked. “That’s why I believe we can work together.”

  It took only a few minutes for Greg Woodson to join them. The young man looked puzzled at seeing the Hardys in the headmaster’s office but greeted them pleasantly. Frank, as spokesman, explained the boys’ mission. Both Kurt and Greg showed an immediate antagonism toward each other.

  To break the tension, Greg said, “It’s all right with me if Frank and Joe work for both of us. The quicker this mystery is solved the better.”

  Kurt surveyed the young detectives icily, but finally he said in a flat tone, “I suppose if your father thinks you’re capable of handling an affair as important as this I’ll have to trust his judgment.”

  “Dad knows what he’s doing, Mr. Kurt,” Frank replied. “Now, would you mind clearing up one point?”

  “What is it?”

  “We’ve been wondering where you got the sheet of paper you left with Dad last night—the one with the rectangular cutouts.”

  “It was given to me by Elias Woodson just before he died. He didn’t have time to tell me what the cutouts meant. So I took it to your father to decipher.”

  “Why did you wait so long?” Joe asked.

  “I’ve been busy reorganizing the school,” Kurt reminded them. “I want to talk to you boys alone. Greg, would you please step outside?”

  The young man looked annoyed but left. Then Kurt leaned forward confidentially.

  “I thought it best not to upset Greg about what I’m going to tell you,” he said. “Greg’s a nice enough fellow, but he has no head for business. His grandfather knew that. At one time Elias Woodson planned to leave the school to him but changed his mind.”

  The Hardys were astonished at the statement. This certainly complicated matters.

  “When did Mr. Woodson make this decision?” Frank asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know exactly,” Kurt answered. “But soon after I’d come to work here, he recognized my ability and decided to bequeath it to me.”

  Frank and Joe looked at each other. A feeling of distrust was building in their minds.

  “I’m worried about two things,” Kurt continued. “First, the will of Elias Woodson has not been found. This hampers my efforts. And second, a mysterious character who uses a yellow feather as an insigne constantly threatened old Mr. Woodson, and now me, with both bodily harm and the burning of the school. Recently he sent me notes claiming that the school rightfully belongs to him!”

  “This makes a three-cornered puzzle,” Frank thought. He kept silent, however, as did Joe, waiting for Kurt to continue.

  “One more thing,” Kurt said. “I have filed application to become administrator of the estate since there is practically nothing in it but the school.”

  “How do you know that, Mr. Kurt?” Frank asked.

  “From Elias Woodson himself,” the headmaster quickly replied.

  Frank and Joe looked quizzically at each other. Greg Woodson would not be happy to hear of this development!

  “You may call Greg in now,” Kurt said. “Tell him whatever you think best.”

  Joe went to get Greg, who returned and said to Kurt, “I think I’d prefer to talk to the Hardys alone, too. Frank and Joe, will you come to my room?”

  “That seems fair enough,” Frank agreed.

  He and Joe excused themselves and went upstairs with Woodson to the school’s guest room. It was located in the center of the building among the students’ dormitories. Greg closed the door and the three sat down.

  “Greg,” Frank began, “how long before your grandfather died did he mention willing you the school?”

  “At Christmas time. He spent the day with me. Why?”

  “Because two other people are claiming the place belongs to them,” Frank replied.

  “What!” Greg exclaimed. “Who are they?”

  “Kurt himself and the Yellow Feather!”

  Greg’s face whitened, then as the color returned he almost shouted, “The nerve of them! Woodson Academy belongs to me!”

  Frank explained what Kurt had told him and Joe, adding that it now was imperative that they find the will, and also locate the Yellow Feather.

  “It’s going to be mighty uncomfortable staying here under the circumstances,” Greg remarked. “But Kurt can’t drive me away.”

  “He won’t be easy to get along with,” Joe prophesied. “Is he popular with the students?”

  “He’s a strict disciplinarian, the boys tell me,” Greg replied. “He has his favorites, and most of the students know it. He spends a lot of time playing around with various inventions, too.”

  “Inventions!” Joe exclaimed.

  “Yes. I hear he’s a whiz at spring propulsion.”

  Greg was about to go on when Frank silently rose to his feet and held a finger to his lips. He had heard a floorboard creak in the hall. With a bound he reached the door and yanked it open.

  An indistinct figure fled down the hall. Frank dashed out, but as he did, he tripped over an invisible obstruction and crashed to the f
loor!

  CHAPTER III

  A Surly Student

  RUSHING out of the room, Joe and Greg stumbled headlong over Frank, who lay diagonally across the passageway.

  Joe jumped up immediately. “Greg, give Frank a hand,” he cried. “I’ll go after that snooper.” With that he sprinted down the hall.

  Greg picked himself up, then helped Frank, who had been momentarily stunned. “Wow!” He grinned. “You guys bounced on me as if I was an air mattress!”

  “Sorry about that,” Greg said. “But—”

  At that moment Joe reappeared. “The fellow got away!” he reported bitterly. “Not a trace of him. You all right, Frank?”

  “Sure. I wonder what I tripped on.”

  Joe dropped to his knees. Running his fingers along the floor near the wall, his hand struck a length of wire. Pulling it taut, he discovered that it was knotted to a hook in the baseboard.

  Stepping to the far wall of the corridor, Joe stooped down. There was a similar hook half pulled out of the wooden border. Evidently the wire had been attached to it.

  “The eavesdropper rigged this up to ensure his getaway,” Joe reported.

  “Boy, it really worked!” Frank agreed.

  Greg spoke up. “Did you get a look at him?”

  “No,” Frank replied, “but just before I fell I noticed one thing. As he turned the corner I saw his belt—it was wide and studded with silver nailheads.”

  “That’s a good clue,” Joe observed. “We’ll track down every silver-studded belt in the place!”

  “There can’t be more than twenty-five students staying here between semesters,” Greg said. “It’ll be lunchtime soon and we can look them over.”

  While waiting for the luncheon bell, Frank said he would like to familiarize himself with the layout of the school.

  “I’ll show you around,” Greg offered.

  Before starting the tour, he notified Mrs. Teevan, the cook, that the Hardys would be his luncheon guests. Then he asked them to follow him.

  “The left wing of this building contains only bedrooms,” he said. “To the right of the center sections are the offices, classrooms, labs, and dining hall.”

  One end of the second-floor corridor opened into a large attractive library and study hall with windows along the north and south walls.

  As the group returned up the hallway, Greg paused before a locked door. “This was Grandfather’s study. I lost the key, so I can’t show it to you right now. I searched it, though, and found nothing.”

  The tour was interrupted by the bell in the tower pealing noontime.

  Singly and in pairs, the students straggled into the dining hall under the watchful eyes of the Hardys and Greg.

  “Oh, oh, here comes a guy with a silver-studded belt, and look who he is!” Joe exclaimed.

  “Benny Tass!” Frank murmured.

  To Greg, the name meant nothing. To the Hardys, however, Tass was a familiar Bayport visitor. A senior at the Academy, he spent a great deal of his free time in town with a group of older boys and fancied himself to be a big shot.

  When Benny spotted the Hardys he flushed and muttered an indistinct greeting.

  Frank spoke up. “Benny, that’s a good-looking belt you’re wearing.”

  “Do the studs go all the way around?” Joe asked, flipping up Tass’s coat.

  “Hey, cut that out!” Benny blustered.

  Frank stepped in front of Tass, blocking him.

  “We were interested in the belt,” he said, “because it looks just like one worn by somebody who was listening outside a certain door.”

  Benny fidgeted uneasily. “What door?”

  “The one to the guest room! I’m trying to locate the person who strung a wire across the hall and tripped me.”

  Tass tried to hide a smirk but was not successful.

  “Would you mind telling us,” Joe demanded, “what you’ve been doing for the past two hours?”

  “It’s none of your business!”

  With that, Tass elbowed past the trio and moved into the dining hall. Greg and the Hardys selected a table near the door and were soon enjoying a delicious lunch. When they had finished, Greg asked what the Hardys would like to do next.

  “Shadow Benny Tass,” Joe spoke up. “I’m not satisfied that he wasn’t the snooper.”

  “The job’s yours,” said Frank. “I want to keep tabs on Kurt and learn more about the campus.”

  To Joe’s disappointment, Benny spent most of the afternoon alone in his room. The only time he left it was to go to Kurt’s office. The bits of conversation Joe could hear concerned a request of the student to drop his chemistry course for the second semester.

  Frank learned nothing of importance either, but did get the layout of the school buildings clear in his mind—the field house and gymnasium, the riding stables, even the watchman’s shed.

  Just before six o’clock the Hardys started for home. On the bumpy snow-covered road, Frank became aware of another car behind him. Evidently the driver was in a hurry, for he blasted his horn continuously.

  “All right, take it easy,” Frank murmured, pulling as far to the right as he dared. “Wait till I find a place wide enough for you to get by.”

  But the other driver was too impatient. Roaring up, he started to pass with barely an inch of clearance. A second later he sideswiped Frank and there came the sound of ripping metal. The other car skidded slightly, righted itself, and raced off.

  The Hardy convertible, out of control for a moment, skidded along a few feet, then Frank brought it to a stop. He and Joe got out to examine the damage. Angrily the boys stared at the twisted, crushed left fender.

  “The idiot!” Joe cried. “That driver might have killed us!”

  “And did you see his passenger?” Frank exclaimed. “He sure looked like Henry Kurt!”

  “Good night!”

  “By the way,” Frank continued, pulling with all his strength to get the fender away from the wheel, “did you get that car’s license number?”

  “No,” Joe replied. “I kept watching where we’d end up.”

  “Same with me,” his brother said ruefully. “Maybe there’s another clue. I’m going to find that guy and make him pay for the damage!”

  “Look at this!” interrupted Joe, bending down in the glare of the headlights.

  Clearly outlined in the hard-packed snow were the tracks of the speeding car. One of them indicated that the left rear snow tire had a deep cut in it.

  “This is a good lead,” Joe stated.

  “You’re right,” Frank agreed. He pulled a pad and pencil from his pocket and made a sketch of the evidence.

  The boys drove the rest of the way home without incident. Upon arriving, they found a telephone message from Chet stating that he wanted them to meet him at Biff Hooper’s cabin up the river late the following morning.

  “We can’t let him down,” Frank said.

  Early the next day the boys took their car to a garage to be repaired. Then they set off to do several errands for their mother. They were walking briskly out of a hardware store when a familiar voice stopped them short.

  “Frank and Joe! It seems like ages since we last saw you!”

  Spinning around, the brothers faced two attractive girls.

  Frank smiled at the one who had called to them. “Hello, Callie!”

  “Hi, Iola!” Joe said, grinning.

  Callie Shaw and Iola Morton, Chet’s sister, were classmates of the Hardys at Bayport High. Iola, who had shoulder-length dark hair, a tilted nose, and twinkling eyes, dated Joe for school dances. Callie, blond and vivacious, always accompanied Frank.

  “You boys look as if you were on the trail of international spies—or something equally as dangerous!” Callie teased.

  “You’re right about the danger,” Joe replied, laughing. “As a matter of fact, we’re headed for the river to take a ride on Chet’s new propeller sled.”

  “Oh, that awful thing!” Iola exclaimed. “Better
tell that brother of mine to be careful or you’ll end up in the hospital.”

  “We have another reason for wanting all three of you to stay in one piece,” Callie added with a smile at Frank. “You’re invited to take us on a sleigh ride next week.”

  Frank winked at his brother. “Okay, girls. If we survive this afternoon’s ride we’ll go.”

  The boys said good-by and headed home. After a quick lunch they borrowed their father’s car and rode to the Hooper cabin. Rangy Biff, who had come with Chet, greeted them enthusiastically when they arrived.

  “See what this character’s done now,” he said. “Chet’s put snow runners on his propeller sled and wants to take us for a ride in the woods.”

  “Sure, it’s all set,” Chet told them as he revved up the motor. “Hop on!”

  The sled worked to perfection. Traveling along an old trail that curved and wound among the trees, it moved over the rolling countryside in an effortless glide. Suddenly Joe gripped Frank’s arm and pointed.

  “Look! Those tire tracks ahead!”

  Stretching out before them were the telltale marks of an automobile. Every few feet along the left track was the indication that one of the tires had a deep cut in it!

  Joe signaled Chet to stop and they all got off the sled, while Frank told the story of the wild driver the evening before.

  “The same track as that—” Frank was saying when Joe exclaimed:

  “And there’s the car, parked up ahead!”

  “And look who’s beside it,” Biff cried in amazement. “Benny Tass—with a rifle in his hands!”

  CHAPTER IV

  Unwanted Detectives

  “WHEW, I’m glad Benny isn’t pointing that gun at us!” Chet muttered.

  The boys’ surprise at seeing him with a rifle was nothing compared to the look of amazement on the face of Benny Tass when he saw them hurrying toward him. Hastily he tried to conceal the weapon, sliding it through a rear window of the car.

  “Well, Benny,” Frank greeted him, “this is very interesting. Why are you carrying a gun?”

  “What’s that to you?” the bully snapped.

  “It just happens that this property is posted against hunting!” Joe told him. “Look at all the signs around here.”