The Mystery of Cabin Island

by Franklin W. Dixon

“Let’s look once more,” Frank suggested, and explained that Tad and his pal knew nothing of Hanleigh’s departure from the island.

  “And he certainly didn’t carry those heavy cartons across the ice!” Joe stated. All footprints had been obliterated by the wind-drifted snow, so their task was more difficult.

  “Chances are they’re hidden nearby,” Frank said. “We’ll go without snowshoes this time so we can kick up the drifts.”

  As soon as breakfast was over, they set out. First they searched in the snow which had piled against the cabin, but found nothing.

  “Hanleigh probably carried the boxes out the back,” said Frank, leading the way to the kitchen door. “Where is the nearest big drift?”

  The boys looked around. Joe pointed to a mound of snow banked high against a large spruce at the edge of the clearing.

  The four hurried over and began kicking into the drift. Suddenly Biff cried, “Ouch!”

  “What’s wrong?” asked Joe.

  “Stubbed my toe on the tree!” Biff answered. “Hey-no! It’s a can of fruit!”

  Chet dug eagerly into the snow and gave a whoop of joy. “Here’s the chow!”

  The boys carried the containers of food to the kitchen. “This time we unpack everything,” Chet declared. “Then it won’t be so easy for someone to cart off!”

  As Frank helped to remove the contents, his hand came upon a small brown notebook lying askew between two cans of beans. He plucked it out.

  “Look at this!”

  “Whose is it?”

  Frank thumbed through the damp pages, most of which were torn loose.

  “Could this be the notebook we saw Hanleigh using?” asked Joe.

  Frank examined a few more pages and gave a low whistle of surprise. “I doubt it. See here. The name on the inside cover is John Paul Sparewell!”

  “Sparewell!” Joe exclaimed.

  Biff shook his head, bewildered. “What was Sparewell doing here? Did he take our stuff? How many people are wandering around this island, anyway?”

  Frank placed the notebook on the table where they all could examine it and began turning more pages.

  “Wow! See this!” Biff exclaimed.

  One of the loose pages contained a crudely drawn map. “That’s Cabin Island!” the boys cried out In unison.

  Another entry concerned rental of a boat.

  “Whether or not Sparewell has been here recently, it looks as though he was coming to Cabin Island regularly at one time,” Joe remarked. “Just like Hanleigh is now!”

  On a page near the back of the notebook, the boys found a list of receipts for small sums. “Sparewell evidently had very little money,” Frank commented.

  “He had problems, though,” Joe observed. “Read the next item.”

  The scrawled script said, “Appointment with Dr. Bordan on Sat. My condition worse. Would appeal to J but am afraid.”

  “I wonder if J is for Jefferson,” Frank mused. “It sounds as though Sparewell was very ill. Perhaps he didn’t live long after making these notes.”

  “I don’t believe Sparewell was the one who dropped this notebook,” Joe reasoned. “He’d have frozen to death over here.” The boy frowned in perplexity as he turned to the last page. All four stared at it in astonishment.

  “What kind of lingo is that?” Biff gulped.

  The letters at the bottom of the page were:

  HJOSW SHRJWN HLSEWPA RPAO A, EWO WSWP APPO LSUL

  “A coded message!” Frank exclaimed.

  CHAPTER XII

  An Iceboat Clue

  “IT’s a coded message, all right!” Joe declared as the four boys continued to stare at the mysterious letters in the tattered notebook.

  “How will we ever figure it out?” Chet asked.

  “There are several methods of deciphering,” Frank replied. “Dad has told Joe and me something about it, and we’ve read a few of his books on cryptography.”

  “Can you make anything out of this message?” Biff asked.

  “Not right off,” Frank replied. “It’s some kind of substitution system, at any rate.”

  “The first thing to look for is transposition,” Joe explained. “All the letters of the actual text —what’s really meant—may be present, but reversed or scrambled.”

  “There must be countless possibilities,” remarked Biff, “once you start putting one letter in place of another.”

  “Yes, which makes deciphering very difficult,” Frank agreed. “But I remember several of the standard patterns. I’ll use some of the blank pages in the notebook and try them.”

  Frank worked for more than half an hour, while the others looked on and made various combinations of the letters he jotted down.

  “I’m stymied,” Frank admitted finally.

  Biff frowned. “How did Hanleigh get hold of this notebook? Does he know Sparewell?”

  “Hanleigh might have swiped it,” Joe said.

  The Hardys pondered their next move. Joe suggested they take the iceboat model and the photo of the turbaned prowler to Mr. Jefferson for possible identification.

  “And on the way show Amos Grice the picture, too,” Frank added.

  A stop at the Hardy home also was included in the day’s plans, in case the boys’ father had any more information on the “alley cat.”

  Chet heaved a huge sigh. “Which means Biff and I stand guard here.”

  Joe grinned. “How’d you guess?”

  After a quick lunch the Hardys put on their parkas and boots. I’m taking the camera along,” Joe said. ”It may come in handy again.”

  The Hardys climbed into the Sea Gull and headed for Surfside. At the dock, Joe tied up while Frank braked and slackened sail. Then they strode off to the general store.

  Amos Grice, seated by the stove, slapped his knee when Frank and Joe walked in. “Glad to see you two. Thief steal your food again?”

  “No, sir,” Frank said. “We came to show you this.” He handed the snapshot to Mr. Grice. The storekeeper stared at it, then handed the picture back without comment.

  “Mr. Grice,” Joe inquired, “is this the man who asked you about Mr. Jefferson’s medals?”

  Amos Grice drew his lips into a thin, firm line.

  “Yep. It’s him. But there’s some spooky busi ness goin’ on, and I don’t want any part of it.”

  “Did this man say something to frighten you?” Joe persisted. “Did he threaten you?”

  Mr. Grice looked grim. “No. But I’m not mixin’ in with any scary masqueraders.”

  The Hardys could see that the storekeeper would say no more on the subject. They thanked him and returned to the Sea Gull. A brisk wind sped them toward Bayport. They tied up outside their boathouse and drove home.

  Mrs. Hardy greeted her red-cheeked sons with big hugs, while Aunt Gertrude looked on apprehensively, as if trying to find something wrong with her nephews. Noting their excellent health, she turned her worrries to their companions.

  “Has something terrible happened to Chet or Biff?”

  “No. Why, Aunty?” Joe asked.

  “That sudden snowstorm. I was scared stiff for you boys. Some trees blew down over here.”

  Frank grinned. “We weathered it—howling banshee and all.”

  “A what?” Mrs. Hardy asked, and her sons told of the whistling bottle.

  “Well, I’m relieved to know that’s all the trouble you ran into,” Mrs. Hardy said.

  “Oh, there was more,” Joe said. “By the way, where’s Dad?”

  “Out of town. But he left a message. It’s in a sealed envelope on his desk.”

  Frank and Joe hastened to their father’s study, found the envelope addressed to them, and tore it open. Inside was a terse note telling his sons that fingerprints found by the police in Mr. Jefferson’s ransacked house were those of Hanleigh. They had been identified by the FBI in Washington, where the federal agency had a record of interstate frauds involving Hanleigh several years before. The local police were looking for him.


  “Aha! A con man. We might have known,” mumbled Joe.

  The message went on to warn the boys again to be cautious and ended, “Just as in fishing through the ice, you have to be patient. I’m confident that you’ll land this big one.”

  Frank and Joe were more excited about the case than ever. With a quick “good-by” to their mother and Aunt Gertrude, they hastened into their car and drove directly to Mr. Jefferson’s place.

  “Frank and Joe!” the elderly gentleman exclaimed when he answered the doorbell. “Nice to see you! Let me take your jackets—my housekeeper is still away. Come right in. I hope you are enjoying your trip.”

  “We’re having a fine vacation,” said Frank as they took seats. “We wanted to ask you about a few things.” Frank handed over the snapshot. “Have you ever seen this fellow?”

  Mr. Jefferson stared at it in perplexity. “What in the world!” he exclaimed. “I’ve never seen any such individual! Did you take this photograph on Cabin Island?”

  “Yes, sir,” Joe replied, and explained about the camera with the telescopic lens. The Hardys also told how they had observed Hanleigh examining the fireplace, and of overhearing Ike and Tad’s conversation in the boathouse.

  “The police informed me it was he who broke into my house,” Mr. Jefferson said indignantly. “The rascal! He should be punished.”

  The boys promised to do their utmost to apprehend him, and Frank told Mr. Jefferson of finding the carved iceboat.

  Their host’s voice trembled with excitement. “Johnny used to make iceboat models!” he exclaimed.

  “Oh, oh!” Joe said s eepishly. “Frank, I forgot to bring the model. It’s still on the mantel.”

  “I must see it,” Mr. Jefferson said.

  “Can you come to the island with us?” Frank asked.

  “By all means!”

  The three set off in the convertible for the boathouse. When he saw the Sea Gull, Mr. Jefferson looked apprehensive. “I’ve never been in one of these contraptions. I understand they move rather swiftly.”

  “We’ll put a rope seat belt on you and we’ll be careful,” Joe assured him. He gave the elderly gentleman a spare helmet and goggles from the boathouse, then helped him aboard.

  After a few moments of uneasiness at the speed of the Sea Gull and the nearness of the ice which flew beneath them, Mr. Jefferson appeared to relax and enjoy his ride. By the time they swept up to Cabin Island he was almost enthusiastic. “I never made better time in a motorboat!” He laughed.

  When the three entered the cabin, Frank introduced Chet and Biff. Mr. Jefferson took a long, slow look around the room, then spotted the carved iceboat on the mantel. At once he hurried over to see it.

  “Johnny made this!” he said with certainty, lifting the boat and running his fingers over its polished surface. “I’m convinced he did this carving recently. It’s by far his finest.”

  “Did Johnny teach himself woodworking?” Chet asked in admiration.

  “Yes,” Mr. Jefferson replied proudly. “The boy became intrigued with iceboats when he was very small. He used to spend hours watching them on the bay, and frequently went to the local boat shop to see how the iceboats were made. Johnny would come home and carve until late at night.”

  Next, the Hardys showed Mr. Jefferson the notebook containing the mysterious code and explained how they had found it. The man studied the book, shaking his head in amazement. “This is the first I’ve heard of Sparewell in two years!” he declared. “The cipher is a complete puzzle to me, but the book is exactly like him—methodical to the last detail.”

  “Why would Sparewell make a map of Cabin Island?” Frank queried.

  “I can’t imagine what interest he might have had in the island.” With a sigh the old man pushed the book away. “I’m weary,” he said. “I’d better return.”

  Once more the Hardys and Mr. Jefferson set off in the Sea Gull toward Bayport.

  Suddenly Joe shouted, “Look out!” Frank glanced about and saw another iceboat skimming straight for them. Its two occupants wore woolen face masks, giving them a grotesque appearance.

  With swift teamwork the Hardys swung the Sea Gull out of the collision path.

  “It’s the Hawk!” Joe gasped.

  Mr. Jefferson gave a hoarse cry. “Here they come again!”

  As the other iceboat swooped alongside, one of the men lifted a short stout log from his lap and hurled it at the speeding Sea Gull.

  Thud! It was a square hit on the bow. With a sickening swerve, the Sea Gull capsized. The temporary seat belts gave way. The Hardys and their passenger were flung across the ice!

  CHAPTER XIII

  The Fleeing Ghost

  THE trio skidded across the glassy surface, with arms and legs flailing, until they came to a halt several yards from the overturned Sea Gull.

  The Hardys had the breath knocked out of them but had suffered no injuries. Mr. Jefferson, however, lay motionless. Greatly concerned, the boys jumped up and hurried to the elderly man’s side.

  “He’s unconscious!” Frank said, and pointed to a swelling lump on Mr. Jefferson’s temple.

  Joe ran to the Sea Gull and returned with a blanket, in which they quickly wrapped the man. Frank chafed his wrists until Mr. Jefferson began to stir and moan. “We’re going to crash!” he whispered.

  “No, Mr. Jefferson,” Frank said in a reassuring tone. “The iceboat turned over, but we’re all safe.”

  Their passenger raised his head and looked around. “Will you help me up, boys?” he asked. “I’m sure I haven’t broken anything.”

  Carefully the brothers assisted him to stand. “Take it easy,” Joe cautioned. “You had a bad spill.”

  “I’m all right. Just a bit shaky.”

  “We’ll get you back to the cabin where it’s warm just as fast as we can,” Frank promised. “You’re in no shape for a run to Bayport.” He and Joe righted the Sea Gull and saw with relief that the mast was not damaged.

  “The runner plank’s a little out of alignment,” Frank noted.

  “That won’t delay us,” Joe said. “The bow’s scraped, too, but there’s nothing we can’t fix.”

  Frank eyed the improvised seat belts which had torn loose. “They couldn’t take the strain,” he remarked. The boys retied the ropes.

  “That’ll have to do for now,” Joe said. “We were lucky this accident wasn’t worse,” he added as the boys helped Mr. Jefferson into the cockpit.

  “I’d like to report those ruffians,” the elderly man fumed, “but we couldn’t see their faces.”

  Frank said grimly, “We know the owners of the boat. They covered up the name, but I’d recognize the Hawk anywhere.”

  “That’s no help, though,” Joe added glumly. “We still can’t prove Ike and Tad were the ones who attacked us.”

  In a few moments the Sea Gull was skimming toward Cabin Island. As they approached the boathouse, Joe suddenly pointed. “Frank!” he cried out. “Do you see what I see?”

  “Yes! The ghost!”

  The mysterious white-robed figure was halfway up to the cabin. It was proceeding stealthily through the bushes and pines that grew thickly on the incline. As Mr. Jefferson stared ahead startled, Joe grasped the camera to which the telescopic lens was still attached. “I’m going to take another shot of that fellow.”

  His brother restrained him. “Wait! You’ll only get his back. Let’s sneak up close to him and see if we can snap him face view.”

  “Good idea,” Mr. Jefferson said approvingly. “You boys go ahead. I’ll wait in the boat.”

  A moment later the Hardys braked the craft and tied it to a tree alongside the boathouse. Silently they hurried up the wooded slope until they were a short distance behind the ghostlike figure.

  A sudden idea struck Frank. He took out his police whistle and showed it to his brother. “Maybe this’ll help us nab him,” he whispered.

  Joe nodded. “Got you.” Cautiously the two advanced toward the prowler, who had now sto
pped and was peering out at the cabin from behind a tree. When the boys were a couple of yards away they paused also. Frank gave a signal, and as Joe raised the camera, blew a shrill blast on the whistle.

  The “ghost” whirled about, and Joe snapped the picture. Frank blew several more blasts in rapid succession, and the robed figure bolted across the slope. At the same instant, Chet and Biff burst from the cabin and looked around wildly.

  “Catch him!” Frank cried as he and Joe broke into a run.

  All four boys bounded after the ghostly form, who darted nimbly in and out of the trees like a frightened deer. Dusk was beginning to fall and it was not long before the boys lost sight of the white robe against the snow.

  They paused for breath, straining their eyes to pierce the gathering gloom. Then Frank barely made out the fleeing figure at the bottom of the hill. The pursuers plunged downward, but by the time they reached the spot, the “ghost” had vanished. There was not a sign of him on the ice.

  Doggedly the boys continued to search along the shoreline, but had no luck. At last Joe said glumly, “No use going any farther. It’s too dark to see.”

  Frank agreed. “We’d better get back and pick up Mr. Jefferson.”

  On the way to the boathouse, the Hardys told Biff and Chet of the accident to the Sea Gull, deliberately caused by the Hawk.

  Biff knotted his fists angrily. “I’d sure like to give those two guys a good stiff wallop.”

  “Of course we don’t know for sure that they were Ike and Tad,” Joe pointed out.

  “Who else?” Chet groaned. “Some relaxing vacation this is!”

  The young sleuths reached the Sea Gull and found Mr. Jefferson waiting anxiously for news. “Afraid the ‘ghost’ escaped again, sir,” Frank said regretfully, helping the old gentleman from the boat.

  As the group walked slowly up the hill, Mr. Jefferson shook his head, plainly disturbed. “Something very sinister is happening here. I certainly want to find out who is responsible, and what his motive is, but I do not want you boys getting into danger on my account.”

  “We’ll keep on our guard,” Joe assured him. “But we’re all determined to see this mystery through.”

  “You can bet on that!” Biff declared stoutly.