Night of the Werewolf

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Well, I was out on a date with my girlfriend. I dropped her off at her house just after eleven-thirty and started driving home, when all of a sudden bang! I got a flat tire.” Bob related that after pulling off the road, he had gotten out and jacked up the car in order to change the wheel.

  “Then I heard a bloodcurdling wolf howl,” he went on. “I looked around and saw this snarling thing coming at me, all glowing like a ghost! Boy, I’m telling you, I dropped everything and took off!” Bob shook his head, still a bit jittery at the recollection. “I hope you don’t think I’m making all this up.”

  “Don’t worry, we believe you,” Frank assured him.

  He and Joe escorted Bob to his car. By now, the boy had recovered his nerve, and he finished changing his tire. Then he waved good-by to the Hardys, who hurried back in the direction Bob had indicated.

  “By now that critter could be a mile away,” Joe mumbled.

  “Maybe so, but let’s keep looking,” Frank urged. “It might howl again and give us an idea which way it’s gone.”

  The words were barely out of his mouth when the breezy nighttime silence was shattered by an echoing shotgun blast. It was immediately followed by another as the unseen gunner let go his second barrel!

  A startled look flashed between the Hardys. Without a word, they speeded up their pace, sprinting around a bend in the road just ahead.

  A farmhouse loomed in the moonlight not far away. As Frank and Joe approached it, an angry-looking farmer burst out of the driveway gate, clutching a shotgun in one hand. He wore an old coat flung over a pair of long underwear, and rubber boots. Evidently he had pulled on the first thing that came to hand before charging out of his house.

  “What happened?” Frank called out.

  “That doggone werewolf!” the farmer fumed. “I heard it attacking my livestock in the barn, so I grabbed my gun and went after it!”

  “You actually saw the creature?”

  “You bet I did! It musta heard me comin‘! Went boundin’ outa the barn just as I ran through the back door toward the yard. I gave it both barrels, but the thing got away!”

  “What did it look like?” Joe asked.

  “Big wolf-dog! And its fur glowed fiery white. I’m not jokin‘, boys!”

  Frank nodded. “We believe you. We just met another guy who saw it before it came here!”

  “Which way did it go?” put in the younger Hardy.

  “It leaped clear over this gate and went into them woods.” The farmer pointed across the road.

  Frank and Joe accompanied him as he probed about among the trees, lending their flashlights to the search. But the ghostly beast had disappeared. They finally said good night to the farmer and headed back to town.

  A number of people in Hawk River had been wakened by the distant wolf howls. None of them, however, had glimpsed the prowling creature itself.

  “I’ve a hunch that farmer was the last one to see it tonight,” Frank remarked to his brother.

  “Same here,” Joe agreed. “Let’s go and find out what Chet has to report.”

  As they approached the driveway of the Tabor estate, their ears were assailed by a strange, grating noise.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Joe asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” Frank replied. “But let’s hope we’re wrong. ”

  Unfortunately they were not. The sound they had heard proved to be low, rumbling snores. Chet was slumped sound asleep in his snug tree perch, with his chin on his chest.

  “Wake up, Strongheart!” said Joe, reaching up to tug the stout boy’s ankle.

  Chet twitched nervously and awoke with a violent start that almost sent him tumbling out of the tree into the arms of the Hardy boys.

  “Wh-what happened?” he stuttered, clutching at the branch for support.

  “Don’t panic, the battle’s over.” Frank grinned. He and Joe related the night’s sensational events.

  “I don’t suppose you’d know whether John Tabor sneaked out of the house?” Joe inquired.

  “We-e-ell, actually no, I don‘t,” Chet confessed shamefacedly. “But I sure didn’t see any sign of him before I dozed off.”

  “Which was probably seconds after we left,” said Frank. “I think we’d better wake up the Tabors.”

  Chet swung himself out of the tree and accompanied his pals up to the front door of the house. Frank decided not to ring the bell, hoping a knock or two might be less alarming.

  Soon Karel Tabor himself appeared at the door. “Come in, boys,” he said. “Is anything wrong?”

  “The werewolf’s on the prowl again, Mr. Tabor,” Frank explained. “I hope you won’t misunderstand our reason for coming here, but it might be a good idea to check if John’s home in bed.”

  “Good thinking,” the architect nodded. “I’m glad you came. Assuming John is upstairs, sound asleep, you fellows will be able to bear witness that he has nothing to do with this werewolf scare!”

  Despite his words, the boys could tell from Mr. Tabor’s expression and voice that he was far from confident that this was the case. He invited the Hardys and Chet to sit down while he went up to look in his son’s room,

  When he returned a few moments later, the young detectives knew at a glance that the news was bad.

  “John’s bed hasn’t been slept in,” the architect announced in a husky voice.

  “That still doesn’t prove he’s the werewolf,” Frank said, hoping to provide some comfort. “Have you any idea where he might have gone?”

  “None.” Mr. Tabor shook his head gloomily, not trusting himself to say any more for fear his voice might tremble.

  “In that case, I’d like to wait here with Joe and Chet till he shows up,” Frank suggested. “If our presence in the house won’t bother you?”

  “Not at all! Do stay, by all means. I’ll be glad of any help you can give us.”

  Mr. Tabor asked Pocahontas to make coffee, and she went off with a glowering expression, shaking her head and mumbling to herself in Mohawk.

  Presently Alena came down in her robe and slippers, having heard her father and the boys chatting in low voices.

  “Is something wrong?” she inquired anxiously. An alarming thought flashed through her mind. “Dad,” she added, “Has anything happened to John?”

  Karel Tabor took his daughter’s hand into his own. “He seems to have gone off somewhere, my dear,” he said, “and the so-called werewolf just paid another visit to Hawk River.”

  “Oh, no!” Alena’s face showed her distresss. “Isn’t there anything we can do?”

  “Nothing, except wait for John to come home.”

  “We don’t mean to intrude,” Frank said uncomfortably, “but we’d like to be on hand to question your brother when he does return.”

  “Of course, please stay!” Alena replied. “Dad and I appreciate having you here to help.”

  The atmosphere eased somewhat when Pocahontas brought in the coffee. The group chatted as well as they could under the circumstances, and the Hardys reported what had happened during their nocturnal expedition in and beyond the village.

  As their vigil lengthened and time dragged by, everyone’s spirits drooped. The boys found it hard to keep their eyes open. However, they snapped wide awake when, soon after three o‘clock, footsteps were heard outside and the front door opened.

  “It’s John!” Alena cried in relief. She sprang up from her chair and hurled herself into her brother’s arms.

  If she expected an equally cordial response, she was doomed to disappointment. Instead of greeting his sister with a smiling remark, John merely stared at her, his face blank and expressionless. He did not return the embrace, either.

  “Where on earth have you been, Son?” his father demanded.

  “Where have I been?” John echoed. Dull-eyed, he raised one hand and scratched his head slowly. “Search me. I haven’t the faintest idea. In fact, I don’t even know where I am now.”

  7

  Forest Ca
stle

  “John! Don’t you recognize your own home?” Alena shook her brother impatiently. “Why did you go out tonight? Tell us where you’ve been!”

  The young architect did not reply. He shrugged off her questions in silence and started toward the stairway leading up to the second floor. But Alena grabbed him by the arm.

  “Dad, something’s wrong with him!” she cried. “He’s acting so weirdly. Oughtn’t we call a doctor?”

  Karel Tabor hesitated before replying. “No, I don’t think so. Whatever’s wrong with John, he’ll probably sleep it off. Calling a doctor would only provoke scandal and gossip. Don’t you think so, boys?”

  “I’m afraid you’re right.” Frank nodded. “It might even lead to accusations that your son was responsible for tonight’s werewolf scare, if the news ever leaked out.”

  “John is awfully drowsy and heavy-lidded,” Joe pointed out. He had risen from the sofa with his brother to examine young Tabor more closely. “I’ll bet he’ll drop off to sleep and tomorrow he won’t even remember all this.”

  “Probably not,” Frank agreed, opening John’s eyelids more widely with his thumb and forefinger in order to check his pupils. “From what Dad’s told us about such things, I don’t think he’s been drugged, but he looks as if he’s in a trance!”

  John stood limply now, staring off into the distance, utterly indifferent to, or not even aware of, what was going on around him.

  The Hardys helped his father lead him upstairs and put him to bed.

  Next morning at their cabin, Frank and Joe were awakened by a radio call. They had taken a special transceiver with them to ensure communications with Bayport and their father in case of an emergency. Now a red light was flashing on the set, and a repeated buzz was coming from the loudspeaker.

  Joe leaped out of bed and switched on the mike and scrambler. The tuning dial had already been set to the agreed-on frequency.

  “H-2 here. Come in please. Do you read me?”

  “Loud and clear. F-H calling.”

  “Hi, Dad. What’s up?”

  Fenton Hardy replied that he had returned to Bayport the previous night, only to find the boys gone. “I was interested to hear about your werewolf case,” he went on.

  Joe filled him in quickly and added, “Mr. Tabor says he’s met you at his company office.”

  “That’s right,” the famous detective replied. “I’m investigating a case for Federal Insurance Underwriters. It involves three buildings that were designed by Karel Tabor, with the actual construction work supervised by his firm, Chelsea Builders. All three have suffered recent disasters.”

  “Wow! That’s pretty unusual, isn’t it?”

  “So the insurance underwriters think. They feel it stretches coincidences a bit far.”

  “Exactly what sort of disasters were they?”

  “A fire, a gas explosion, and an apparent structural collapse.”

  “Hm, interesting.” Joe frowned thoughtfully. “Still, all three occurrences could be due to accidents, couldn’t they, Dad?”

  “Maybe, or to poor design or sabotage, or even a plain old jinx. It’s my job to find out.”

  “Any leads yet?”

  “Nothing sufficient to act on. But while you fellows are up in the Adirondacks region, there’s something you can do for me.”

  “Sure, Dad. Just name it.”

  Mr. Hardy explained that Karel Tabor was known to be working on two new projects at the moment. One was the design of a Manhattan skyscraper. The other was the restoration of an historic timbered mansion not far from Hawk River, dating back to Revolutionary days.

  The private investigator gave the exact location and continued, “I’d like you and Frank to drive there and look around. See if you can spot any clues or signs of possible trouble. If anything’s about to go wrong, the insurance company would like to know beforehand, not after it’s too late.”

  “We’ll check it out,” Joe promised.

  “Good,” Mr. Hardy replied. “Incidentally, don’t mention any of this to Karel Tabor.”

  “Understood, Dad. We won’t say a word.” The younger Hardy boy hesitated a moment before asking, “If there is anything crooked about those three building disasters, do you really think Mr. Tabor could be mixed up in it?”

  “Too early to tell, Joe. At this moment I wouldn’t even speculate as to why an architect or builder might want to damage his own work. But until we know more, I guess my answer would have to be yes. Tabor is under a certain amount of suspicion.”

  So far, the Hardys and Chet had tended to sympathize with Mr. Tabor’s werewolf trouble and his son’s seeming involvement in the weird mystery. The possibility that the architect might be implicated in anything unethical or criminal shocked all three boys.

  As soon as breakfast was over, Frank and Joe started out in their car, leaving Chet behind to hold down the fort. After stopping for gas at Hawk River, they drove north on Route 30.

  The old timbered mansion of which their father had spoken was perched on a steep, wooded hill overlooking Indian Lake. Hardhatted workmen were busy restoring it, while a number of tourists and local people stood by, watching idly.

  Frank pulled off the road into a convenient parking spot. Then he and Joe got out and approached the work site.

  “What a huge mansion up here in the wilderness!” Joe muttered.

  “Sure is,” Frank agreed. “Looks as if it’s been mouldering away for a while, too. I bet they’ll have quite a job restoring it.”

  The immense, weatherbeaten house was constructed of hand-hewn timbers, some of them visibly rotted. But the structure had obviously been built by an oldtime master craftsman.

  As the boys clambered up the slope for a closer view, someone suddenly yelled in alarm. “Look out!” The Hardys turned just in time to see a long crane arm swinging overhead. A heavy balk of timber which it had been carrying was slipping out of its sling!

  The next instant something struck them from behind, and both boys pitched headlong on the ground. A split second later the timber balk crashed to earth, almost on the very spot where they had been standing!

  The Hardys picked themselves up breathlessly. When Joe saw what a narrow escape they had had, he let out a faint gasp.

  The man who had pushed them out of the way, a tall young construction worker, was standing on the other side of the fallen timber. “You two all right?” he called.

  “Yes, we’re okay,” said Frank, dusting himself off. “Thanks for the shove.” The thought flashed through his mind that what happened might have been no accident. Perhaps one of the workmen had recognized them, or someone had found out beforehand that Fenton Hardy was sending them to the site. But Frank quickly discarded the idea of an attempt on their lives when he saw the crew’s obvious concern over the matter and realized that the young workman had risked his own life to save them.

  “Sorry if we got in the way,” Frank apologized.

  “Wasn’t your fault,” the man replied. “That crane sling was improperly secured. Besides, the crew should have roped off this area to keep spectators out of danger.”

  He signaled the crane arm back into position and helped his mates put the balk of timber into its sling again. Then, after the load had been secured, it was hoisted over to the house to replace one of the rotted structural beams.

  Joe noticed the muscular young fellow’s bronzed hawklike features and long dark hair, tucked up under his steel hardhat. “Are you an Indian?” he asked curiously.

  “That’s right.” The workman grinned. “I’m Mohawk, and proud of it.”

  “You must be one of those ‘high-steel Mohawks’ we’ve read about,” said Frank.

  “Right again.” The Indian explained that he and many of his fellow tribesmen had been employed on numerous construction jobs in the New York area. Experience had shown they were especially well fitted for work on skyscrapers and bridges because their superb natural sense of balance enabled them to keep their footing on high girders.r />
  Thrusting out his hand, the Indian added, “My name’s Eagle, by the way, Hank Eagle.”

  “I’m Frank Hardy,” Frank said, returning the handshake. “And this is my brother Joe.”

  Hank Eagle’s face took on a pleasantly surprised expression. “Hey, don’t tell me you’re those two detectives, the sons of Fenton Hardy?”

  The boys nodded. “We are.”

  “Your father was at our company office not long ago, talking to my boss.”

  “You work for Chelsea Builders?” Joe asked.

  “Sure do,” said Hank. “Usually in New York City, but today I was sent out here to report on the progress of this job. Mr. Tabor knows this is my neck of the woods, and—well, I’m hoping to be an architect myself someday, if I can ever get my degree. But that takes a lot of night courses.”

  “Good for you,” Frank said. “Stick with it.”

  “You fellows doing any detective work right now?” the Mohawk inquired, giving them a shrewd glance.

  “Oh, in a way,” Joe replied cautiously, remembering his father’s admonition and trying to sound casual. “We were up here in the Adirondacks on vacation, and Dad’s been investigating those disasters that happened to three other architectural projects of Mr. Tabor‘s, so he asked us to drop up to Indian Lake to look for any signs of trouble.”

  “Confidentially,” Hank said, “that’s why my boss sent me here, too. I’m sure glad to know I’ve got a couple of smart guys like you backing me up.”

  He offered to show the boys the interior of the mansion, and Frank and Joe gladly accepted. The huge building had a high balcony jutting out from the upper floor. Its original wooden supports had rotted away, so it had been propped up with temporary piling until they could be replaced. The balcony offered a breath-taking view of the green forested hillside and the vast, crystal-blue lake spread out below.

  “Really beautiful!” Frank murmured, enjoying the scenery and inhaling the tangy mountain air. “Who ever built this place?”

  “A British Indian agent, some time before the Revolutionary War,” their Mohawk friend replied.

  “Over two hundred years ago!” Joe exclaimed.