Terror at High Tide

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “But where’s the passageway?” Joe asked. “Maybe he just meant this closet.”

  “Maybe,” Alicia said, sounding disappointed. “I found the button to open the panel from the outside, but I couldn’t find any button or passageway once I was inside.”

  Frank backed up to give himself more room. He thought the closet was getting pretty stuffy. As he stepped against the back wall, he felt something give way under his shoe—like a button being pressed, he thought.

  At that moment Frank felt the wall shake. He caught his breath, his senses on alert. He couldn’t believe it, but the wall actually started to slide open behind him.

  “Hey, guys,” he whispered, poking his hand through the empty space where the wall had been. “I think we’ve found our passageway.”

  “Are you sure?” Alicia said.

  “Let’s check it out.” With his fingers brushing the walls, Frank stepped into a musty dark tunnel that seemed about two feet wide. He felt his way for ten paces or so, then the tunnel turned a corner to the left. Still feeling along the walls, Frank suddenly stepped into thin air with one foot.

  “Whoa!” he cried as he struggled to keep his balance. “Stop, everybody. The floor’s gone.” Frank bent down and felt the hole with his hand. About six inches down, he touched a step. “C’mon, guys—there are stairs here.”

  Frank began the treacherous descent down the dark stairway, not knowing where it would lead. “Let’s hope these stairs aren’t sabotaged, like at the Corn Mill,” he said.

  “Stop, Frank,” Callie whispered. “This is scary enough as it is. Don’t remind us of sabotage.”

  The stairs leveled off into another corridor—this one with a slippery dirt floor and dank air smelling of mildew. As Frank moved forward, cobwebs brushed against his face and something—he guessed it was just a spider—scuttled down his neck.

  “I kind of hope your dad isn’t in here, Alicia,” Joe said from the back of the line. “This place is more like a prison than a basement.”

  “What’s that?” Callie asked. Everyone paused, listening to a scratching noise at the back of the tunnel.

  “I hope it’s not Roberto behind us,” Alicia said.

  “It’s probably a rat,” Frank whispered as he heard a high-pitched squeak. “But let’s not wait around to find out. Here are more stairs—going up this time.” He started up a steep flight of dirt stairs.

  “Yuck, Frank,” Callie said, making a spitting sound. “You just gave me a mouthful of dirt.”

  “Sorry,” Frank said. He bumped his head on something flat and hard above him. What in the world? he thought—I hope this isn’t a dead end. Pushing up hard with the palm of his hand, he felt the obstruction give way. “Hold on a second, guys,” he announced with excitement. “It’s a trapdoor.”

  Frank pushed the door up and open, then poked his head out. A blast of cool night air greeted him. Clouds covered the moon, but Frank saw that they were under the gazebo in Scarlatti’s backyard. A light was on in the house—Scarlatti’s upstairs bedroom, Frank guessed.

  Frank climbed out, followed by Callie, Alicia, and Joe. In the dim light cast by the house, Frank could just make out their faces streaked with dirt and cobwebs.

  “Even though we didn’t find Dad, I’m still considering Roberto our number-one suspect,” Alicia declared.

  “That reminds me,” Joe said. He reached into his pocket, took out the cuff link, and handed it to Alicia. “Could this cuff link be your dad’s?”

  “I don’t recognize it,” Alicia said, peering at it closely. “It looks like an anchor, but I can barely see it in the dark.”

  “It has the initials EP on it,” Joe said, taking the cuff link from Alicia. He told Alicia about finding it in the cranberry bog while they were chasing the mystery man.

  “I’m pretty sure Dad was wearing a shirt with regular button cuffs the night he disappeared,” Alicia said. “I don’t think he even has any shirts that need cuff links. Could it belong to the kidnapper?”

  Joe shrugged. “I’d like to ask Scarlatti about it. Even though it’s late, he shouldn’t mind answering questions that might help us find a missing person.” Joe grinned. “If he’s innocent, that is.”

  “We’ll wait for you in the Jeep,” Frank said. “Four people at his door at this hour would be enough to make anyone clam up.”

  “I’ll bet it’s going to rain,” Alicia commented, glancing toward the sky. “I’ll put the top on the Jeep.”

  Five minutes later Joe approached the Jeep, shaking his head. “That was a bust,” he announced as he hopped into the front seat next to Frank. “Scarlatti wasn’t too happy to see me, especially when I told him I was investigating Mr. Geovanis’s disappearance. He said he hasn’t seen Mr. Geovanis since their argument at the museum, but he’s sure Mr. Geovanis is fine. He was just about to close the door in my face when I showed him the cuff link.”

  “What did he do then?” Frank asked.

  “He told me he’d never seen it before. He said it was the kind of cuff link a ship’s officer might wear for a formal party, and he thought EP probably does stand for the Ebony Pearl.”

  “A ship’s officer?” Frank said. He thought for a moment, then added, “I’d like to search that cranberry bog again—even if we have to go there tonight. Mr. Geovanis needs help, and it can’t wait until tomorrow.”

  “I have an idea,” Alicia said. “A friend of mine named Bud Cortez works the night shift at the airport. He’s a helicopter pilot. He might be willing to take us up in his helicopter and turn on the searchlight. That would be faster and safer than searching on the ground.”

  “Count me out, please,” Callie murmured as rain suddenly spattered the Jeep’s windshield. A gust of wind whipped the branches of a maple tree in Scarlatti’s yard, while the bushes beside his front porch tossed around in a frenzy. “It’s not a great night for helicopters,” she added.

  “Okay, Callie,” Alicia said, “we’ll drop you at home. But you really don’t need to worry. Bud’s a pro.”

  • • •

  It was past ten when Frank, Joe, and Alicia followed Bud Cortez onto the tarmac at the airport. By now it was raining hard. Joe heard ominous rumbles of thunder in the distance.

  “It’s okay to fly a helicopter in this weather, but I usually don’t recommend going out unless it’s a real emergency,” Bud said. He was a slight, dark-haired man in his early twenties. “And I think this qualifies as an emergency,” he added, glancing at Alicia.

  Joe climbed into the front seat next to Bud, then Frank and Alicia got into the rear seats. Bud flicked some switches on the instrument panel while the others buckled themselves in tightly. The rotor blades started to whirr, making a chopping sound. The helicopter rocked for a moment on the tarmac, then lifted off the ground toward the roiling storm clouds.

  “I’ll keep this baby away from those clouds,” Bud said reassuringly as they chopped through the stormy sky. “I like to provide you with every comfort.” As he spoke, a gust of wind shook the helicopter, and rain slanted down on the windshield. Joe could still see the lights of the island twinkling below them.

  “How will the visibility be when we turn on the searchlight?” Joe asked.

  “Fine,” Bud said. “Helicopters can keep pretty low, so our view shouldn’t be obscured by clouds. As long as it doesn’t start raining any harder, we’ll be okay.”

  Soon the helicopter was hovering over the cranberry bog the Hardys had visited earlier. “The Cartwright house is across the road to the left,” Bud announced. Glancing out Bud’s window, Joe saw a huge gray-shingled house on a bluff overlooking the harbor. Bud flicked on the searchlight, and a blinding stream of light poured from the base of the helicopter, lighting up the ground. “I’m going to search the bog and the nearby trees,” Bud explained.

  Joe studied the landscape below, scouting for signs of a shack or shed of some kind where Mr. Geovanis could be.

  “I don’t see anything down there, guys,” Bud said, sh
aking his head. “But let’s check out the trees on the eastern side of the bog.”

  A splash of rain hit the windshield hard. The helicopter bumped wildly in the wind, tilting dangerously to one side. Joe’s heart pounded.

  Bud grunted as he pressed the tail rotor, trying to bring the chopper under control. “Got it!” he cried.

  A bolt of lightning streaked in front of them. “That’s too close,” Bud said as a deafening clap of thunder filled their ears. “It’s wild out here. I’m taking us back. We can check out that stand of trees tomorrow.”

  Joe held his breath as the helicopter veered back over the moors, jolting through air pockets. This is way too bumpy even for me, Joe thought, gripping his armrests.

  “I’m going to take a slight detour and circle around over the ocean,” Bud announced, “so we won’t be landing against the wind.”

  In a few minutes they were over the ocean. The helicopter dipped in another gust of wind. “Aren’t we a little close to the water?” Joe asked. “Another few feet and we’ll be water skiing.”

  “Hey, Bud. What’s that?” Frank shouted.

  Whirling across the ocean, coming straight at them, was a huge watery funnel.

  “Now, this is something I did not count on,” Bud said. “It’s a waterspout! In plain English, a waterspout is a tornado over water. We’ve got to get out of here—and fast.”

  12 Trespassers Beware

  * * *

  “Hang on!” Bud shouted. He stepped on the tail rotor hard and the helicopter veered right, away from the storm.

  Just as Bud turned, the waterspout changed course, whirling directly at them. “It’s coming again!” Frank yelled. Spray hit the helicopter like bullets as the storm came closer.

  “No way!” Bud cried out. Once again he steered the helicopter hard to the right, heading toward land. “Now let’s go. Engines—full throttle.”

  The engines roared as the helicopter flew over the coast as fast as Bud could make it go. Looking out the rear window, Frank saw the waterspout make a ninety-degree turn about a hundred feet behind them. “Bud,” he said with excitement, “it’s heading back out to sea.”

  Bud let out a low whistle. “Thanks, Frank. I like that news. That’s where it belongs.”

  As the helicopter flew back to the airport, rain continued to pelt the windshield, but, Joe noticed, the wind was letting up a bit.

  “The worst of the storm is over,” Bud announced. “Still, we shouldn’t stay out any longer. It’s pretty choppy, and the heavy rain limits the visibility.”

  “That’s okay,” Frank said. “We got a good look at the cranberry bog. It didn’t seem as though anything was there.”

  “I wish we’d had time to search the trees to the east,” Bud said. “That’s worth a look tomorrow.”

  “On foot,” Alicia said firmly. “I’ve had enough helicopter riding for now, thank you.”

  Back at the airport Bud brought the helicopter down for a smooth landing on the tarmac. After climbing out of the helicopter, the Hardys and Alicia thanked their brave pilot.

  “Callie wanted us to let her know when we were back,” Frank said once they were all back in the Jeep. “No matter how late.”

  “Callie said I could spend the night with her,” Alicia said from the backseat. “I’m way too scared to spend the night at home alone.”

  Frank pulled the Jeep into a parking space across the street from Callie’s apartment on Ash Street.

  “Hey, guys!” Callie shouted, leaning out of her second-floor window. “Come on up for a soda. I want to hear about what you found.”

  “Just for a few minutes,” Frank told her. “Then I’ve got to get some shut-eye.”

  Once upstairs, Frank, Joe, and Alicia filled Callie in about the helicopter ride. Callie’s eyes widened as she heard the details of the waterspout. “I’m glad you guys are okay,” she told them.

  “You can say that again,” Alicia said, settling herself into a chair. “I wish I could say the same for Dad.” She paused, then added, “I wish I knew more about the manuscript he’s writing. I’ll bet there’s some information in it that would give us a clue about what’s going on. But I can’t get into his safe-deposit box until Monday, when the bank opens.”

  Frank studied Alicia. “I think we should go to the police. Your father’s been missing for a day, and the police could get the bank to open for us since it’s an emergency.”

  “No way, guys,” Alicia said, shaking her head. “The note from the kidnapper told me not to go to the police. I’m afraid for Dad’s safety if I do. Remember, I’m not even supposed to be talking to you.”

  “Alicia,” Joe said, “the police can do some secret investigating. The kidnapper wouldn’t even know. It’s silly not to get their help—the situation’s pretty serious.”

  Alicia plunked down her soda can hard on the floor, spilling some drops on her hand. “No! You may be trying to help, but I don’t want to endanger Dad. Please don’t go to the police—at least not yet.”

  As Alicia began to wipe her hand with a napkin, Frank, Joe, and Callie all exchanged glances.

  “Okay, Alicia,” Joe said reluctantly. “We won’t go to the police—yet.”

  Alicia looked at him, her eyes glowing with relief. “Thanks, Joe. I didn’t mean to get so mad.” Her eyes swept over her three friends. “I really do appreciate your help. All you guys.”

  Glancing at Alicia, Frank said, “I’ve been thinking. Your father disappeared right after he’d been quoted in the newspaper about the balloon from the Ebony Pearl, right? If EP on the cuff link stands for Ebony Pearl, I wonder what the connection is between the ship, the museum theft, and your father’s disappearance. And, according to Scarlatti, the balloon is a hoax. If that’s true, who made up the hoax—the kidnapper?”

  “I don’t know,” Alicia wailed, throwing up her hands. “Why would the kidnapper make up a hoax about the Ebony Pearl? Maybe it’s just a coincidence Dad disappeared the day the newspaper article came out.”

  Joe paced the floor. “Maybe instead of stealing your father’s manuscript and claiming it for himself, the kidnapper wants to prevent it from being published.” He paused, taking a swig of soda. “Maybe there’s something in it about the Ebony Pearl that the kidnapper wants to keep secret. Could something in the newspaper article have tipped him off?”

  “Maybe,” Frank said as he considered all the angles. “But we’re jumping to conclusions here. We don’t know for sure if the cuff link means anything or not. EP could just be someone’s initials, after all. We ought to do some research first thing tomorrow morning. Then I’d like to search the clump of trees we missed tonight.”

  “Any one of our suspects could be hiding Mr. Geovanis near those trees,” Joe said. “Ferrier’s dune buggy and the torn sailboard are still unexplained, Scarlatti has a major motive, and the trees are near Cartwright’s property.”

  “I took that sailboard down to the beach earlier today,” Alicia admitted. “I noticed that the sail was pretty frayed. I’m sure it just tore on its own.”

  “If you guys need to do any research at the Island News, let me know,” Callie offered. “Even though tomorrow’s Sunday, there’ll be people in the office putting together Monday’s paper.”

  “Thanks, Callie,” Frank said as he and Joe headed for the door. “See you both tomorrow.”

  • • •

  At nine o’clock the next morning, Joe was standing in the downstairs telephone nook at the Great White Whale, talking to Con Riley of the Bayport Police. Cradling the phone receiver between his shoulder and his ear, Joe held a pen in one hand and a notebook in the other.

  “We’re looking for background checks on three men, Con,” Joe said. “Roberto Scarlatti, Harrison Cartwright, and Jonah Ferrier. Anything you have on them would be much appreciated.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, Joe,” Con said. “Expect a call back in about an hour.”

  “Thanks, Con,” Joe said. “You’re a real pal.” Joe hung
up, then turned to Frank. “Maybe we should call the dune buggy dealer while we’re waiting to hear back from Con.”

  “Good idea. Ferrier’s secretary told us the dealer’s name: Freddie Applegate.” Frank pulled out a phone book from a shelf under the phone and leafed through the listings for the letter A. “Here it is—home and business. Since it’s Sunday, let’s try his home number first.”

  Frank dialed Applegate’s number. When Applegate answered, Frank introduced himself and told the dealer what he needed: the names of all the people who had bought blue dune buggies with red lobster insignias from him. After jotting down the information, Frank thanked Applegate and hung up.

  “So, what’s up?” Joe asked.

  “Applegate said that he only painted four blue dune buggies with those lobster designs,” Frank said. “He sold all of them—one to Jonah Ferrier and the other three to names I didn’t recognize. Applegate also mentioned that the dune buggies could then have been sold secondhand, but he wouldn’t have those records.”

  “We could try to chase the other three people down,” Joe suggested.

  “I’m getting tired of wild-goose chases,” Frank said. “Let’s head over to the Island News first. We might find some old clippings there about the Ebony Pearl. I have a nagging suspicion that the shipwreck somehow relates to the museum theft and the kidnapping, and if we can find more pieces of the puzzle—”

  “We might be able to crack this case,” Joe finished with a grin. “Come on—let’s do it.”

  Ten minutes later the Hardys were sitting in the library at the Island News, thanks to a quick call from Callie to the librarian okaying their visit. Huddling over the microfiche machine, Frank and Joe reviewed articles about the Ebony Pearl that had appeared in the Island News forty years earlier.

  “Man,” Joe said, “look at this. It says that all of the ship’s officers went down with the ship—the captain, plus the first and second mates, and the purser—”

  “That’s the rule when a ship sinks,” Frank cut in. “Passengers go first into the lifeboats. The captain is always the last to leave the ship.”