The Hooded Hawk Mystery

by Franklin W. Dixon

  They were told in each case that the company would check and let them know.

  “Now all we can do is wait,” Frank said.

  The next day the boys stayed at home all morning, but no telephone calls came from the paper manufacturers. At lunchtime Joe said, “While we’re waiting, let’s investigate that man Gene Moran told us about yesterday—the one who might be a ship’s captain.”

  “Okay. How about trying the Bayport waterfront again? Maybe the owner of that restaurant where we saw Ragu can give us a clue.”

  The Hardys drove to the docks and headed for the eating place. When they questioned the proprietor about a tall, cruel-looking sea captain, he grinned and shouted to two men who were busily eating steaks at a table in a far corner of the room.

  “These boys are looking for a tall, cruel-looking captain, men. Either one of you like to take the job?”

  “What’s it for?” asked one. Then laughing loudly, he said, “A high school play?”

  Chagrined, the Hardys headed for the door. To their amazement they heard the restaurant man remark, “The Hardy boys. Their pop’s a big-time detective.”

  “Hey, Zeke! We’ll have to watch our step!”

  Raucous laughter followed as the boys left. They visited other spots along the waterfront but saw no likely suspect. Finally they paused near a small fishing craft. A jovial-looking man called down to them from the upper deck:

  “Are you the lads who are huntin’ for a cruel-lookin’ skipper?”

  “How’d you hear about it?” asked Joe.

  “Joke’s all up and down the waterfront,” the man told them. “Just the same, if I was lookin’ for a fellow of that stripe, I’d check with Captain Flont of the Daisy K.”

  The Daisy K again, the Hardys thought excitedly.

  “Was Captain Flont’s boat out at sea yesterday?” Frank queried.

  “No. She was tied to her bollards all day. I can swear to that, since I didn’t leave port either.”

  “Was the captain aboard the Daisy K?” Joe asked.

  “Not until late in the evening.”

  The Hardys thanked the man and hurried to the anchorage of the Daisy K. As they drew closer, they spotted Captain Flont in the deckhouse. Ragu was lounging on the rear deck.

  Frank and Joe halted at the gangway, and with nautical courtesy, Frank called, “Ahoy, the Daisy K. May we come aboard?”

  Captain Flont leaned out the window and said harshly, “If you’ve got business with us, come aboard. But make it snappy!”

  When the boys stepped onto the deck, Ragu looked up with an insolent stare. They peered at him intently in return, but the mate did not flinch.

  As Captain Flont approached the Hardys, Frank decided that the best way to obtain information was through a ruse. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “We’re trying to locate a couple of our friends who were going fishing with you yesterday.”

  “We didn’t go fishing yesterday,” Captain Flont replied quickly.

  “Oh, then maybe you were the captain who was in Smith’s woods yesterday,” Joe broke in.

  Flont scowled. “I wasn’t in any woods. Now get off this ship!”

  The Hardys held their ground. “How about your man Ragu?” Frank asked. “Was he there?”

  At this, Ragu stalked up behind them. “I was with Captain Flont yesterday,” he growled. “We were on ship’s business.”

  “Now you have your answers,” the skipper shouted. “Get off my ship!”

  Frank and Joe did not move quickly enough to suit the captain. His shout had aroused the other two crew members, who came up from below. They gripped the unwanted callers by the elbows and rushed them off the vessel. The boys were thrown forcibly onto the dock.

  As the sailors returned to the gangplank, Frank and Joe heard one of them mutter, “It’s lucky they didn’t show up for the moonlight ride!”

  The Hardys brushed themselves off and walked back to their car. As Frank drove off he said wryly, “We found out one thing—those men sure don’t want us around.”

  Joe nodded. “It’s strange that it takes a captain, a mate, and two crew members to run a fifty-foot fishing cruiser. What do you think that fellow meant about a moonlight ride?”

  “I don’t know, but we ought to find out if he meant tonight. There’ll be a full moon. Let’s take the Sleuth out and keep an eye on the Daisy K.”

  At home the boys found a telegram from one of the paper mills. Frank read it and said:

  “Joe, did you ever hear of the Mediterranean Steamship Line? The records of this paper company show that the fouled anchor stationery was made for them and is used on all their ships. It was sold through the London office.”

  Joe said he had never heard of the line, but went to one of his father’s bookcases and brought back a book containing ships’ registries. He thumbed through it, then stopped at one page.

  “Here it is,” he announced. “Some of their ships ply between New York and the Middle East. I’ll check recent arrivals and departures.”

  “Good idea.”

  As Joe scanned the shipping news in the Bayport Times, he said, “Here’s an item on one—the Continental. She arrived in New York early this week. Her normal course would have taken her close to the coast at Bayport. Say, do you think the Continental might be the ship that’s bringing aliens to the United States?”

  “Could be,” Frank said. “But it might just be a ship on which one of the gang was traveling.”

  Determined to track down every possible clue, Frank called the Mediterranean Line’s New York office. He explained that the Hardys were detectives, working on a government case, and asked for a list of Indian passengers on recent voyages to New York. The passenger agent assured him that it would be mailed at once, together with any other helpful information the line could give.

  “With that cooperation, it sounds as if the company’s on the up and up,” Frank remarked.

  Just as the moon was rising that evening, Frank and Joe headed for the Sleuth, which was still moored at the dock they had left it the night of the fire. They paused to note the progress of repairs on their boathouse.

  “It’ll be at least two weeks before we can take the Sleuth back,” Frank commented.

  The boys were thrown onto the dock

  “Yes, and the firebug hasn’t been caught yet,” Joe said as Frank took the wheel.

  Soon they were speeding out of Bayport harbor. There were a number of islands near the inlet where they could wait for their quarry. Frank chose one that lay in shadows, cut the motor, and turned off their running lights.

  “I feel like one of those falcons ‘waiting on’ until its prey comes along,” Joe said, grinning.

  In the moonlight the boys could see boats moving up and down the harbor, but all of them were pleasure craft. Finally, however, Frank whispered:

  “There’s a boat with the Daisy K’s lines.”

  Both boys positively identified Captain Flont’s craft as it chugged past them. They gave it a reasonable lead, then started after it. The chase continued for about five miles, then the Daisy K slowed down. Frank cut his engine.

  A few minutes later a large motor dory appeared beyond the fishing boat and pulled alongside. A rope ladder clattered over the rail of Flont’s ship and two men scrambled down the rungs into the dory.

  As the smaller boat pulled away toward the open sea, the Daisy K started up again, turned in a wide arc, and headed back toward Bayport.

  “We’ve got to find out where that dory’s going!” Joe said.

  The Sleuth took up the chase!

  CHAPTER X

  Hunting a Hawk

  THE Hardys had been following the mysterious dory for some time when the Sleuth’s motor began to sputter and the craft lost way.

  Joe, seated on the forward deck as lookout, whirled around and asked, “What’s the matter?”

  “Sounds as if we’re out of gas,” Frank replied.

  “Impossible,” Joe said. “The gauge read ful
l when I checked at the dock.”

  Frank unscrewed the tank cap and beamed his flashlight inside. “I have news for you, Joe,” he said. “It still reads full, but there isn’t a drop of gas in the tank!”

  The Hardys examined the gauge and discovered that it was jammed.

  “This didn’t jam by itself,” Frank declared. “Someone tampered with it!”

  “Someone from the Daisy K!” Joe guessed.

  By this time the motor dory was out of sight. In disgust the boys brought out the emergency fuel can and emptied its contents into the tank. Since there was little hope now of locating the dory with their limited gas supply, the Hardys headed for home. While Frank fixed the gauge, they speculated about where the dory had come from. Perhaps from a ship waiting at sea? The boys could see no lights to indicate any vessel, however, and concluded that the dory might be planning to meet a passing ship later.

  “I wonder who those two men were who climbed off the Daisy K,” Frank said thoughtfully.

  Joe shrugged. “I guess our only hope of solving that is to keep the Daisy K’s crew under close observation,” he commented. “When we get back to town, let’s ask one of Dad’s operatives to watch them.”

  “Jeff Kane’s in town,” Frank suggested.

  When the boys reached Bayport, Frank telephoned the detective. Kane readily agreed to take over the assignment.

  Early the next morning, after feeding the falcon, the boys took turns phoning the pet shops which they had not had time to call the day before. This time they were more successful. Two of the owners supplied them with the names of carrier pigeon fanciers. Some of these were in Bayport, while the others were a distance away.

  With Frank at the wheel of the convertible, the Hardys started on their quest. The first place was only a half mile from their home. The pigeon keeper, a young man about twenty-five, proved to be a squab breeder who kept a few carrier pigeons as a hobby. He showed them to Frank and Joe.

  “I enter these in cross-country races,” he said. “My birds have brought me several cups and ribbons,” he added, stroking one of the racers fondly.

  In reply to a question from Frank, the young man said he had never taken his birds out on the water and released them.

  “In fact, I don’t know anyone around here who would have reason to,” he said, “because the contests are always from inland cities to the coast.”

  The Hardys thanked him for the information and went on their way. Both of the other local men proved to be above suspicion as well.

  The next name on their list was Reed Newton, who lived five miles away. When Frank and Joe reached his home, they found him to be a retired carpenter in late middle age, who had flown pigeons as a hobby for many years. He had a large cote and several breeding cages.

  “You raise more pigeons than you train and fly, don’t you, Mr. Newton?” Frank asked.

  “Oh, yes,” the fancier replied. “I sell them.” He smiled boyishly. “I may sound a bit vain, but my pigeons are becoming known all over the world.”

  “Has anyone purchased a large number of birds from you recently?”

  Reed Newton wrinkled his brow for some moments, then replied, “Not recently. But about two years ago I had a big order. A young man from India, named Bhagnav, bought a whole flock of pigeons.”

  “Bhagnav!” Joe exclaimed, but recovered quickly and added, “That’s an unusual name.”

  “Can you describe this man?” Frank asked.

  “Well, as I remember, he was a tall, slender, rather handsome fellow of about twenty-five. One thing I particularly remember was a scar at the base of his chin. It stood out clearly because it was a slightly lighter shade than the rest of his face.”

  Frank and Joe could hardly believe their good fortune in picking up this clue. Was the Bhagnav who had purchased the pigeons related to the Indian government official who was now using the name of Delhi?

  After the Hardys had left Mr. Newton, they speculated about the man named Bhagnav who had bought the pigeons.

  “It’s possible,” said Frank, “that he was an impostor who had planned this smuggling racket as far back as two years ago.”

  “Right. Figuring that if anyone uncovered the plot, the real Bhagnav would be blamed. We must phone Mr. Delhi about this as soon as we get home.”

  The drive to the farm of John Fenwick, the last pigeon fancier on the boys’ list, was long. On the way they stopped at a roadside restaurant to have lunch.

  When Joe spotted a sign with the name FENWICK. at the foot of a lane, he exclaimed:

  “What a weird setup for a pigeon fancier!”

  On the lawn inside the cyclone fence that lined the property were several perches. Each of them held a hooded hawk!

  “Fenwick must be breeding fighter pigeons!” Frank grinned as he turned into the drive.

  A pleasant-looking man in his middle thirties strode briskly from the back yard. He was dressed in rough clothing, had on a tight-fitting cap, and held two coils of nylon rope over his arm.

  “We’re looking for John Fenwick,” Frank announced.

  “That’s me,” the man said with a smile.

  “We’re interested in your pigeons,” Joe said.

  Mr. Fenwick laughed and remarked, “You’re about two years too late for that. As you can see from the perches on the lawn, I’ve switched my interest to falconry.”

  “We have a peregrine falcon,” Joe replied. “That’s the reason we came to talk to you. Our falcon brought down a pigeon and we were trying to find the owner so we could settle accounts.”

  “Fine attitude, son,” Mr. Fenwick declared. “Since you’re interested in the birds yourself, you might like to come along with me today. I’m going to Cliff Mountain to get a young hawk from an eyrie—that’s a nest—I’ve been observing.”

  Frank and Joe were thrilled at this idea. Frank suggested that Mr. Fenwick put his gear in their car and let them drive him to Cliff Mountain. He accepted, and as they drove along he explained that he was particularly interested in peregrines.

  “I spotted one of their nests out on the mountain, and have been watching the tercel and the falcon. The eggs have been hatched now. There are four of them. I’ll take only one young hawk out of the eyrie and leave the rest to fly away and raise broods of their own. The parent birds will return next year to nest again.”

  When he and the boys arrived at Cliff Mountain, Frank parked the car and Mr. Fenwick led the way up the trail to the precipice that had given the mountain its name. The going was rugged, but the boys’ enthusiasm for hawking and adventure spurred them on.

  When they reached the edge of the shaly cliff, Mr. Fenwick tied a heavy rope around a sturdy oak which seemed to be growing out of the rocks. The loose end was dropped over the side of the cliff, its entire one hundred and twenty-five feet hanging down.

  “Usually,” Mr. Fenwick explained, “it’s a good idea to have a rope that will reach all the way to the bottom of the cliff. Then, if you can’t climb back to the top safely, you can at least get to the ground without injury. But this cliff is too high for that. No alternative but to come back up.”

  Mr. Fenwick went over the edge of the cliff. He lowered himself about sixty feet, then called to the boys:

  “There are three fledglings. One egg didn’t hatch.”

  The mother hawk was not in sight. But Mr. Fenwick wasn’t taking any chances and called up again, “Keep your eyes open for the mother. She’s likely to resist an invasion of her nest. I don’t want any trouble, if I can help it. I’ve been attacked before and it’s no fun.”

  In a few minues Mr. Fenwick announced that he had one of the young birds in his packsack and was coming up. He signaled to be lifted to the rim. As he came over the edge and the rest of the line was pulled up, Mr. Fenwick said:

  “Funny, I haven’t seen any sign of the tercel, either. Usually he’ll do the hunting for food for the young. Then the falcon will take the quarry from him in mid-air, pluck it, and feed the fledglings.”


  “Do you think someone might have shot the tercel and the falcon is getting the food?” Frank asked.

  “That’s possible,” Mr. Fenwick replied. “And she will have to do all the work herself until the young ones can fly.”

  Then the hawk hunter displayed the fledgling. The falcon’s tail and wing feathers were short because the bird was so young. Small tufts of down clung to them. The bird’s feet were a light greenish gray instead of brilliant orange like the adults’.

  Both Frank and Joe noticed how large the feet were. They were already fully grown, even though its feathers were still developing.

  The thing that amazed them most was that the young falcon was brownish black instead of blackish blue like their own hawk. Mr. Fenwick explained that the young birds never have the same plumage color and markings as the adults.

  “Next spring this bird will begin to molt—that is, drop her old feathers and grow new ones. Those will be adult plumage like your peregrine’s.”

  “Is that true for all hawks?” Joe asked.

  “Yes,” Mr. Fenwick replied as he put the fledgling back in the pack to begin the return journey.

  When they reached Mr. Fenwick’s home, the falconer extended a cordial invitation to return soon.

  Back at their own house, they found Sam Radley waiting. He was seated in the garden with Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude. The falcon sat on the perch beside them.

  As Radley began his report, the two women arose and went into the house.

  “No one returned to the hunting lodge and I doubt that anyone will, since they’ll figure it’s being watched. But as I was leaving Smith’s woods, I met Mr. Morton. He told me that Mr. Smith’s lawyer informed him that the property was leased for the summer to a dark-skinned man by the name of Sutter. I have a feeling he’s one of our Indian boys.”

  Frank and Joe agreed.

  At that moment a special-delivery letter arrived for the boys from the Mediterranean Line. It stated that no Indians had arrived on any of their vessels’ recent trips to New York.

  “This information may interest you, however,” the letter went on. “A couple of years ago there was an Indian member of the Continental’s crew named Bangalore. He jumped ship. This company is particularly disturbed, because the immigration authorities hold us responsible for such things.”