The Hooded Hawk Mystery

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Frank, you’ve been hurt!” Joe cried. He gripped his brother around the shoulders and gently lowered him to the ground. As Frank looked up at him, Joe noticed that his brother was clutching a small pouch.

  “Where did you get this?” Joe asked.

  Frank blinked, looked down at the pouch as if seeing it for the first time, and muttered, “Don’t know. Maybe the fellow who attacked me dropped it. Guess I picked it up.” He sank back, exhausted.

  Joe opened the small pouch and saw that it contained several reddish-brown nuts. He had never seen any like them and concluded they might be a good clue to the identity of the boys’ assailant.

  Right now, Joe faced a dilemma. Should he go for help and leave Frank and Chet? But he discarded the idea at once. Their enemy might return. He had to get both boys away as soon as possible!

  “Suppose you rest for a few minutes, Frank,” he suggested. “Then we’ll take off.”

  Frank closed his eyes. He opened them ten minutes later, declaring he felt much better. Joe was seated beside him, gazing at the pouch.

  “It’s possible that we’re close to the smugglers’ hideout, Frank,” he remarked.

  A few minutes later Frank said that he felt strong enough to start back. Joe helped him up, and they moved off slowly in the lengthening shadows toward the spot where Chet waited. Because of the dusk and the condition of the two boys, further sleuthing was out of the question for the time being.

  ‘But we’ll pick up the trail first thing in the morning,” Frank said with determination.

  As they walked on, they discussed their experiences of the afternoon. When they reached the spot where Joe had left Chet, the Hardys did not see him.

  “I hope he wasn’t attacked again,” Joe cried out.

  “No such thing,” came a voice so close to them that the Hardys jumped.

  The next instant, Chet’s perspiring head emerged from his splotched dark-green shirt, which blended well with the underbrush. The stout boy got up from his hiding place, grinning.

  Frank and Joe roared with laughter. As their mirth subsided, Chet explained that he had felt too weak to fight anyone, even with the clublike stick Joe had given him. When he thought someone was coming, he had ducked into the bushes and put the shirt over his head as camouflage.

  “But I guess it was my imagination,” he said. “Haven’t heard a thing since. Let’s go!”

  The boys made their way back to the trail and headed for the Morton farm. All the young guests had left except Callie. She and Iola were seated with Mr. and Mrs. Morton near the falcon’s perch, keeping a close watch on the valuable bird.

  At sight of Chet and Frank, the whole group ran forward. Mr. Morton asked, “What happened?”

  “Got banged up a bit,” Chet replied. “But there’s nothing wrong with us that some food and a night’s sleep won’t cure.”

  “You bet,” Frank spoke up, also trying to make light of their ordeal. “Anything left from the fish fry?”

  “Come and get it!” Iola said.

  While they were eating, the boys told the others of their strange experiences in the woods. Chet’s father said that he would try to find out if Mr. Smith had posted the warning signs and why.

  “Tomorrow we’ll go back and investigate the place, anyway,” Joe declared.

  The Mortons and Callie begged the boys to be on their guard.

  The following day was a cold and dreary one for August, but after breakfast Frank declared he felt well enough to further investigate the woods near the Morton farm. He proposed that they take Ahmed along on their exploration.

  “If we do run into a group of Indians, his knowledge will come in mighty handy.”

  Joe agreed. “I’ll phone him. You get the car.”

  Ahmed, amazed to hear about the incident with the goshawk and the attacks on the boys, was eager to go. The boys asked Mrs. Hardy to keep an eye on the falcon, then set off in the convertible to pick up Ahmed at his bungalow. The rug dealer was hardly seated when he said tensely:

  “If you have really found the hideout of these despicable smugglers and can bring them to justice, India will never be able to repay you.”

  Remembering the small pouch he had found in the woods, Frank pulled it out of his pocket and handed it to Ahmed. “I picked this up in the woods yesterday. Do you think it might be a clue?”

  Ahmed’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the bag and its contents. Then he said cryptically, “I believe this is indeed a clue in your search. These are betel nuts. Only lower-caste Indians chew them.” Ahmed turned to Frank. “The person who attacked you and your friend may be one of the smuggled men or a servant to an Indian of wealth.”

  The Hardys looked at each other. The kidnapped Tava, perhaps? He was indeed one of great wealth. They wondered whether to tell Ahmed of Tava’s disappearance, but decided not to do so unless it became necessary. “At least we should ask Mr. Delhi’s permission first,” they reflected.

  A short time later Frank turned the car into the Morton driveway and Chet joined them at the barn. The foursome set out for the woods, taking a different route from the trail they had followed the previous day which Frank thought was closer. But a new obstacle presented itself—a long, impenetrable wall of vines and branches.

  Ahmed paused and studied the barrier carefully. “These vines and branches,” he said, “have been woven together by master craftsmen. Whoever had this constructed is indeed anxious to keep out strangers.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Frank. “Have you, Ahmed?”

  “You have heard tales of the beaters who go out to stir up the tiger and the wild boar? They often use this weaving technique to make sure the animals will not escape while the hunter is moving in with his elephant, or the pig-sticker with his lance.”

  “What we need is a machete!” Joe remarked.

  Ahmed and the three boys picked up stout pieces of fallen tree limbs and started to beat their way through. Now and then they stopped to listen for sounds that might indicate trouble. But apparently they were alone in the woods.

  Presently a disturbing thought came to Frank. “It looks,” he said, “as though we may have frightened our attackers away from the woods permanently.”

  Joe nodded but made no comment. Finally the searchers broke through the thick mesh of vines, spotted a fairly well-marked trail, and went ahead.

  They walked for some time, searching carefully for clues, but saw nothing suspicious. Presently the foliage began to thin out. Frank held up a hand for silence. Then, dropping to his knees, he crawled forward.

  “There’s a hunting lodge ahead,” he whispered. “And smoke is coming from the chimney.”

  Chet explained that Mr. Smith had built the lodge to entertain his friends during the hunting season, but that he never used it in the summer.

  For several minutes Ahmed and the boys observed the lodge. Then Frank said:

  “It looks deserted, though someone must have built a fire recently. Let’s see what we can find out. But be careful!”

  Did the lodge conceal dangerous smugglers—or the kidnappers? the Hardys wondered.

  CHAPTER VIII

  A Strange Lead

  THE searchers warily circled the hunting lodge, but they came upon no one, nor was there any sign of activity inside. Still cautious, however, Frank whispered:

  “Keep an eye on me, will you, while I get close enough to look through the windows?”

  Frank hurried forward, zigzagging so that he would be an elusive target. At last he reached a corner of the low, wide veranda which ran around three sides of the building. Crossing to a large window, he looked into a handsomely furnished living room with a log fire burning. The room was unoccupied.

  Frank moved stealthily from window to window. There were several rooms in the lodge, all well furnished. The bedrooms and kitchen showed evidence of a hasty exit of several people. Dirty dishes were piled high in the sink, and bureau drawers were open.

  Frank signaled
to the others and they came forward. Moments later all were inside the lodge, looking for clues to the vanished occupants.

  Joe, who was more interested in where the occupants had gone, went through the kitchen and out to the back yard. At the edge of the woods he discovered a spring which flowed into a small creek. In the muddy earth around it were a number of footprints.

  “Hey, come here!” he called. Ahmed, Frank, and Chet joined him. “Let’s see where these tracks go.”

  “And look!” cried Chet, pointing in turn to several bright-red splotches on the ground.

  “Looks like blood!” Joe exclaimed.

  “Dried blood would be dark,” Frank said. “That is brilliant red.”

  “This is a real clue,” said Ahmed. “A user of betel nuts spits a bright-red fluid.”

  Their hopes raised by these latest discoveries, the searchers dashed into the woods, following the footprints Joe had discovered. When that trail ended, the boys spotted crushed leaves and broken twigs that marked the recent flight of several people. Red splotches made by the betel-nut user were here and there.

  The foursome followed the trail to the edge of a rock-filled brook. There it was lost. Frank and Joe knelt at various points along the opposite bank, looking for some sign to indicate where the fleeing group had come out. But they found nothing and concluded that the fugitives had gone far downstream.

  Convinced that there was no way of picking up the trail beyond the stream, Frank suggested that they all return to the lodge and try to find some clues to the occupants’ identities.

  In the rambling log structure each of the quartet took one of the bedrooms. There were visible fingerprints everywhere but not one clear set.

  Suddenly Ahmed called out, “In here, boys! Look what I’ve found.”

  The others ran to a bedroom which was furnished more luxuriously than the others. Ahmed was holding a dark-brown object the size of a robin’s egg. It looked like a salt shaker, was delicately carved, and had a number of colored bands for decoration. The initials T.N. were engraved on the bottom.

  “What is it?” Frank asked, puzzled.

  “A sandalwood scent box,” Ahmed replied slowly.

  “And the initials could stand for Tava Nayyar!” Frank cried.

  “This must have been his ‘prison’!” Joe said.

  Frank nodded, then said, “I guess now we’d better tell the others about Tava.”

  Completely astounded, Ahmed and Chet listened to the story of the kidnapped Indian and the Hardys’ suspicion that he had been held here.

  “But where have they taken him?” Chet asked.

  “Wherever Tava’s been taken,” said Frank, “you can be sure the place won’t be so easy to find as this one was. His captors will see to that and will make it dangerous for anyone trying to find him.”

  “Then what’s next?” Chet asked.

  “I guess we’d better follow up the pigeon angle for further clues,” Frank replied as all of them sat down to rest before starting back through the forest. “I haven’t seen any signs of cotes around here. I thought for a while that maybe pigeons were kept here, both as food for the goshawk and as carriers for the smugglers. But I guess that the pet goshawk was given other food.”

  Chet sighed, “Let’s go home. I’m hungry.” He went into the kitchen, helped himself to a box of crackers, and passed them around.

  Both Frank and Joe felt that the lodge and grounds should be guarded, in case Tava’s kidnappers returned. As soon as they reached Chet’s home they would phone Mr. Hardy’s operative, Sam Radley, to take on this job.

  Radley and the boys worked closely together. He admired Frank and Joe’s sleuthing abilities, and encouraged them in every way he could.

  Feeling rested, Ahmed and the boys started back through the forest. Several hundred paces later Frank spied a movement in the bushes and halted his companions.

  “Who’s there?” Frank called out.

  No response. When he repeated his call, a boy about twelve years old stepped into the open.

  “It’s me, Gene Moran,” the youngster said.

  Relieved, the three sleuths pushed forward to meet the boy, who lived near the Hardys. Joe asked what he was doing in the woods.

  “Looking for tree toads for my Boy Scout merit badge,” Gene replied.

  Chet grinned. “Find any?”

  “Sure, a whole pocketful,” the boy said, laughing.

  “By the way,” Frank put in, “did you see anyone else in these woods today besides us?”

  “Yes, a bunch of dark-skinned people. They looked sort of like your friend.” Gene bobbed his head at Ahmed.

  “Where?”

  Gene pointed in a southwesterly direction. “They were in a big hurry. Say, one fellow—about the same age as you, Frank—had a pet bird on his right wrist. And it had a funny cap pulled over its head.”

  “Were any of the people wearing foreign clothing?” Joe queried.

  “No. They all had on regular American suits.”

  “Did they have a leader?”

  Gene thought for a moment. “Guess you’d call the lightest one the leader. He was tall and cruel-looking. Wore a cap like a ship’s captain and a dark-blue coat. Bet he is a captain, because I heard one of the other men ask him, ‘Cap, got the stones?’ ”

  Stones! Frank’s and Joe’s eyes flashed. Elated, they thanked Gene for his information. The boy looked at them curiously. “You working on a case?”

  “That’s right.” Joe winked at Frank. “We’re after a couple of toads ourselves. Big ones.”

  Gene grinned. “Hope you catch ’em.”

  “And good luck on your merit badge,” said Frank.

  Once more the Hardys, Chet, and Ahmed headed for the Morton farm.

  “One thing I don’t understand,” said Chet. “Why didn’t Tava escape yesterday when he was evidently within sight of us?” Chet asked.

  Joe suggested that perhaps the youth was not being held against his will.

  “It could be,” said Frank, “that he has been given some phony story, believes it, and isn’t even trying to get away!”

  When they arrived at Chet’s house, Frank telephoned Sam Radley. He related all the happenings in the woods and described the location of the hunting lodge. Mr. Hardy’s operative assured him that he would start guarding the place at once.

  “But I doubt that those people will return,” he said.

  Iola insisted that the Hardys and Ahmed stay for lunch.

  “We don’t need a second invitation,” Joe said with a grin.

  When the meal was over, the Hardys drove Ahmed home. They thanked the rug dealer for his help. He bowed politely and replied:

  “It is you who are helping my friend Gaphur and my people. I shall be forever grateful to you.”

  Frank and Joe waved good-by, and the convertible moved away. As Frank turned into the Hardy driveway, Joe declared, “Boy, am I tired and hot! A shower will feel good!”

  “That goes for me, too,” Frank admitted. “About the liveliest thing I’m going to do the rest of today is make up a list of pigeon fanciers nearby and try to find out if one of them has lost any carrier pigeons recently.”

  Before locking the garage, they stopped to talk to the falcon. She was bobbing back and forth on her perch as though in welcome. Joe brushed his fingers along the bird’s back between the shoulders and on the feathers of her wings.

  “We sure deserted you today,” he remarked.

  After they had showered and put on clean clothes, Frank and Joe went to their father’s study and started to check the classified telephone directory for pet shops.

  “The owners ought to know something about pigeon fanciers,” Joe declared.

  They made a series of telephone calls which netted no information. There were only four listings left when Frank and Joe heard a noisy car coming down Elm Street.

  “Sounds like Chet’s jalopy,” Joe said, getting up to look out a window. “And it is!” he added.

&nbs
p; Usually the stout boy nursed along his prized possession as though it were made of solid gold. But today he was evidently in a hurry. He slammed on the brakes and rushed into the house and up the stairs so fast that he was out of breath for several moments.

  “Hey, Chet, somebody chasing you?” Joe quipped.

  Without replying, Chet held out his hand in which lay a capsule, similar to the one containing the rubies.

  “Where did you get this?” Frank asked quickly.

  Chet finally calmed down enough to speak. “I was standing outside the barn when I heard a plane. At the same time I spotted a pigeon overhead. Suddenly the pigeon flew directly toward the craft and crashed into its windshield.”

  “Wowt!” Joe said. “That must have been the end of the poor bird.”

  “It was,” Chet went on. “It plummeted right down into the middle of a field!”

  “And you found it?” Frank queried.

  Chet nodded. “This capsule was on its leg. Wait till you see what’s in it!”

  CHAPTER IX

  A Harsh Skipper

  ALTHOUGH Chet had opened the capsule when he had removed it from the pigeon, he would not reveal the contents to the Hardys. Instead, he waited as Frank removed the top.

  Inside was a tightly rolled bit of paper.

  Frank smoothed out the note. A message, printed in block letters, read:

  CAUGHT L ABOUT TO SQUEAL. HOLDING HERE.

  NO DELIVERIES UNTIL REPLACEMENT ARRIVES.

  Frank slapped Chet on the back. “Good work, pal. This may help to speed up our case.”

  As Chet beamed with pride, Frank turned to Joe. “I guess we’d better forget those pigeon fanciers for the time being and concentrate on this new clue.”

  “You bet!”

  They examined the paper to see if it held any further clues. Holding it to the light, Frank studied the watermark. It looked like a fouled anchor insigne with several other figures that might be porpoises or sea horses.

  “Look at this, fellows,” he said. “The next step is to see if we can trace the origin of the paper.”

  From a list in Mr. Hardy’s files, they selected the best-known paper manufacturers and called them asking if it belonged to a special customer.