The Secret of Skull Mountain

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Frank shouted, “Okay!” A moment later the Sleuth sped away from the boathouse and roared in pursuit of the other craft.

  Joe went back to the shed and examined the motorcycle carefully. There was a leather pouch attached to the seat, but it contained only a pair of goggles and a few greasy rags.

  Then he noticed that the vehicle bore the familiar red-and-black license plate issued by an adjoining state.

  “Well, that’s something to go on!” Joe told himself. He memorized the number. “This is a clue Dad can help me track down,” he thought.

  Joe returned to the convertible and headed for home. He was pleased to find his father there, and told him of the new developments.

  Fenton Hardy telephoned the Motor Vehicle Bureau that had issued the motorcycle license plate. When he hung up, the detective told his son, “Looks as if you’d better check on a Timothy Kimball of Brookside.”

  “Brookside!” Joe exclaimed. “That’s just across the state line! I could drive there in an hour. Kimball might be the man in the speedboat—the one called Sweeper,” he added.

  “Don’t make too many rapid deductions, son,” his father cautioned. “Remember, the motorcycle may have been borrowed by a friend of Kimball —or it might even have been stolen.”

  Joe had to admit his father was right. “But I have no other lead to go on,” he pointed out.

  “Follow it up, certainly,” said the detective, “but I think it would be wise to find out all you can about Kimball before you see him. The facts will help you size him up.”

  Mr. Hardy thought a moment, then went on, “Barney Matson, the city editor of the Brookside News, is an old friend of mine. If anyone can give you information, he can. Here, I’ll write a little note to Barney.” The detective scribbled something on a piece of paper. “Give him my regards.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” Joe said gratefully.

  Traffic was light, and Joe entered the office of the Brookside daily newspaper less than an hour later. The city editor sat alone at a long table. He beamed when Joe presented Fenton Hardy’s note and explained his mission.

  “Your dad was right. I can tell you some things about both Kimballs—father and son,” Mr. Matson said, inviting Joe to be seated next to him.

  The city editor said that the elder Kimball was president of a local construction firm. “He has a fairly solid reputation—personally and in his business. But his son—” The editor broke off and shook his head.

  “What’s the son’s name?” Joe asked.

  “Timothy Kimball Jr. He’s a handsome fellow, must be about thirty-one now. He’s a bad apple, although old Kimball seldom admits that.”

  The city editor went on to say that the son had been irresponsible in his school days, and had been accused of vandalism.

  “The father always used his influence to get the boy out of jams. Later, young Kimball took up with some shady characters. The police have suspected him of several jobs in the last few years. But they never can pin anything on him.”

  Mr. Matson was interrupted by a man from the copy desk and said he would have to get back to work. Joe thanked the editor for his help, and asked for the address of the Kimball Company. As he was leaving, Mr. Matson said, “Watch your step, Joe. Old Kimball’s a tiger when he’s mad!”

  It was a short drive to the construction firm. When Joe was admitted to the handsomely furnished office of the president, the gray-haired, ruddy-cheeked man rose from his chair, walked around his large desk, and extended his hand to the youth.

  “My receptionist tells me you’re Joe Hardy,” Mr. Kimball said. “Aren’t you Fenton Hardy’s son?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  The man’s manner was friendly, but Joe thought he looked uneasy as he asked, “Fenton Hardy, the detective?”

  Joe nodded. Mr. Kimball motioned him to take a seat, and again sat down behind his imposing desk. “What brings you to see me, young man?” he asked after a moment. His hands began to fidget with a letter opener.

  “Mr. Kimball, I found a motorcycle in Bayport registered in your name. I have a hunch it was stolen.” Joe thought it best to reveal his suspicions little by little, taking his cues from the company president’s reactions.

  Mr. Kimball looked straight at Joe as he spoke. “I own a motorcycle,” he admitted. “It’s used by the company to carry messages from this office to field engineers. Now what makes you think it’s been stolen?”

  “I don’t know for sure that it’s been stolen. But the man I saw riding the motorcycle was familiar to me,” Joe replied. “I had seen him before in rather suspicious circumstances.”

  Mr. Kimball stared at his hands, which still fumbled with the letter opener. “What does he look like?” he asked softly.

  “A dark-haired young man, tall and thin,” Joe told him. “He was wearing a tan jacket.”

  The paper knife fell from the man’s fingers and his mouth twitched. “I’ll see if there’s a messenger in our employ who answers that description,” he said, picking up the telephone.

  When Mr. Kimball began to speak, he turned away from Joe and shielded his lips with his hand. The young detective strained to hear what the company president was saying, but he could understand only a few words. As Mr. Kimball put down the telephone, Joe noted that he was gripping it so tightly his knuckles were white. But when the man swung around, his face was bland.

  “He’s trying to cover up,” Joe thought.

  “There is such a man working for us,” Mr. Kimball said pleasantly. “But you’re mistaken about the motorcycle being stolen. The young man was sent to Bayport on an errand by my plant foreman.”

  Mr. Kimball gave a little laugh. “You must have confused him with someone else. My foreman tells me he has a fine record.”

  “I see,” said Joe. Then he asked, “Would you mind telling me the man’s name?”

  Mr. Kimball shook his head firmly. “I don’t think that would be proper.” He glanced at a small clock on his desk, then rose. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment.”

  Joe stood up also. He turned as if to leave, then asked suddenly, “Mr. Kimball, may I see a picture of your son?”

  The gray-haired man stared at him. “What for?” he asked angrily.

  “I have reason to believe he is the man I saw on the motorcycle,” Joe told him quietly.

  Mr. Kimball’s face reddened and he took a step toward the boy. “Get out of here!” he ordered, his voice shaking. “I had an idea your father sent you to question me. Now I’m sure of it! What my son does is nobody’s business but his and mine!” He raised his fist threateningly. “Get out!”

  Joe returned to the car. He was sorry for Mr. Kimball, and sympathized with the man’s loyalty to his son.

  “But all the same,” Joe said to himself, “I’ll bet Timothy Kimball Jr. is the thug called Sweeper!”

  Back in Bayport, Joe was surprised to find that Frank had not returned home. Mr. Hardy, too, was away on an investigation.

  “This house is worse than a railroad station!” Aunt Gertrude complained. “People racing in and out any time they please, expecting Laura and me to run a twenty-four-hour restaurant service!”

  Joe hugged his aunt affectionately. “Nobody minds making a stopover at this station as long as you’re honoring the meal tickets!”

  “A stopover!” Aunt Gertrude sniffed. “Your friend Chet Morton seems to think our dining-room table is the end of the line. We have to plan my grocery lists around that boy’s appetite!”

  “Chet!” exclaimed Joe. He was suddenly reminded of the articles they had planted in the reservoir. It would soon be time to set up a watch in the bay to determine whether the objects had been carried there by an underground stream. Chet could help him carry out the project.

  Joe called the stout boy, who agreed to meet him at the dock in fifteen minutes. When the young detective drove up, he noticed that the motorcycle was not in the shed. He parked and hurried over to Chet, who was leaning against the boathouse.r />
  “The Sleuth’s not here,” Chet reported.

  Joe felt a chill of apprehension. He looked anxiously toward the bay.

  “What’s the matter?” asked his friend.

  Quickly Joe explained that Frank had taken the speedboat and followed the thin man. “But if Sweeper came back and picked up the motorcycle, why didn’t Frank return too?”

  Chet straightened up. “I don’t know,” he said uneasily. “It sure doesn’t look good.”

  CHAPTER X

  The Deserted Boat

  “I’VE GOT TO find Frank!” Joe said tensely. “This guy Sweeper is an ugly customer.”

  “What do you think happened?” asked Chet, looking worried.

  “I don’t know.” Joe bit his lip and thought for a moment. “I’d like to borrow a boat and start combing the bay and the coves right now, but there must be a quicker way.”

  Both boys thought of what might be happening to Frank while they were powerless to help him.

  “We’ve got to do something,” said Chet.

  “I know! Listen, Chet, you go out in the skiff and look for the floats we planted in the reservoir. Meanwhile, I’ll go to police headquarters. Maybe they’ve had news of Frank.”

  Chet agreed and twenty minutes later Joe had told his story in Chief Collig’s office.

  “No,” said the stern-faced man. “We’ve heard nothing.

  Joe’s heart sank. “I thought maybe the harbor police or the Coast Guard might have found out if something—well, really bad had happened.”

  Chief Collig shook his head. “This is not like you, Joe.” He had known both the Hardys for years and respected the boys’ ability as much as their father’s “You don’t usually worry until you’re sure there’s something to worry about.”

  “But this time I have a hunch,” Joe protested.

  “You realize that Frank may still be chasing Kimball and someone else might have taken the motorcycle.”

  “I thought of that,” Joe admitted.

  The chief said he would alert his men to look for the motorcycle. Later would be time enough to alert the Coast Guard and harbor police.

  “Your brother can usually take care of himself,” Chief Collig added with a smile. “Go home and wait. He may turn up.”

  But at nightfall Frank was still missing. Chet telephoned to say that he had found no sign of the wooden objects in the bay. “And the Sleuth isn’t back yet,” he added anxiously. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Thanks, I don’t think so,” Joe replied. “Luckily Mother and Aunt Gertrude have gone out to dinner and a concert, so I don’t have to worry them yet.”

  Fenton Hardy arrived home about ten o’clock. “Hello, son,” he said briskly. “You’ll be interested to know that it’s possible our wayward plumber is still in Bayport!”

  The detective went on to say that he had been to the railroad station, bus terminal, and airport, “No one remembers seeing him so he may still be here. Unless, of course, he left by car. And, another thing,” he continued as he took off his jacket and hung it in the hall closet, “I’ve traced that telegram from Chicago. It’s from a member of a small but powerful crime syndicate.” Mr. Hardy’s voice crackled with anticipation. “I’ve had leads on the outfit now and then, but this time I may be able to clean up the whole gang. The telegraph office has given Chicago police a clue to the syndicate headquarters. As soon as they—”

  “Dad,” Joe broke in anxiously.

  Mr. Hardy turned and noticed the worried look On Joe’s face. “Is anything wrong?”

  “I’m afraid so, Dad.” He told about Frank’s disappearance.

  Fenton Hardy was alarmed. “We’ll go right now to search the bay!” he declared.

  “Frank can’t have gone very far in the Sleuth,” Joe said, “because he didn’t have a full tank of fuel.”

  “I’ll ask the harbor police to take us out in their helicopter,” his father said,

  A two-hour search over Barmet Bay and its coves failed to reveal any sign of the missing boy or of the Sleuth. Then the helicopter headed out over deeper water. Every ship in the harbor was signaled, every flickering light and unusual sound investigated. There was no trace of Frank. The pilot looked grim and said nothing, but the police sergeant beside him spoke up. “I’m afraid we’re in for some weather. We can’t stay up much longer.”

  “I understand,” said Mr. Hardy. “How much time do we have?”

  The sergeant looked doubtful. “Don’t know. We’ll play it by ear.”

  The Hardys could feel the wind buffeting the light craft with increasing force. The sky was black and starless.

  Suddenly the radio in the helicopter crackled and began squawking a message. Joe and his father strained to make out the words over the noise of the motor.

  The pilot listened intently and replied “Roger!”

  “What did they say?” Joe asked anxiously.

  “Headquarters has had a report from an airliner of wreckage on the coast at Land’s End. We’ll buzz out there and investigate.”

  Joe did not dare look at his father. Both had the same fear.

  In tense silence they stared out the windows of the craft, straining their eyes to see through the darkness.

  “Land’s End!” said the sergeant finally. He pointed ahead at a long, dark spit of rocks which thrust out into the sea. White spray dashed high around it.

  Moments later the helicopter’s searchlight picked out a large fragment of a boat wedged among the rocks. There was no sign of life anywhere.

  “It’s a speedboat, all right,” the sergeant said.

  Joe’s throat tightened. “I can’t see if it’s the Sleuth,” he said.

  “Can you go lower?” Mr. Hardy asked the pilot.

  “I can’t set ’er down,” the man replied. “The water’s too rough. I’ll go as close as I can.” He dropped the whirlybird down and kept the light trained on the wreckage.

  Joe’s heart sank. The broken boat looked like the Sleuth. Then suddenly a huge wave crashed over the wreck and part of it broke free. As the wood swirled in the surf, Joe spotted letters on it.

  With a surge of relief he exclaimed, “No! It’s not ours! Her name’s the Mary Anne.”

  Mr. Hardy gave a sigh of relief.

  “Mary Anne!” exclaimed the sergeant. “So we found her at last! That’s the speedboat which was swept away from her moorings in the last big storm we had. Luckily there was nobody aboard.”

  The pilot reported the discovery into his radio as he turned the helicopter back toward the bay. The Hardys resumed their watch, but in vain.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the pilot told Mr. Hardy at last. “I’m afraid it doesn’t look good.”

  “And we can’t keep this ‘bird’ out much longer,” the sergeant said. “The storm’s getting worse.” He suggested that they search again in daylight and Mr. Hardy said they would.

  “Let’s try just one more place,” Joe pleaded. “Merriam Island.”

  The sergeant looked skeptical. “If your brother were there,” he said, “the lighthouse keeper would have radioed the shore.”

  “Frank may be there without the keeper’s knowledge,” Joe persisted. “He could be lying hurt somewhere on the island.”

  The pilot and sergeant exchanged looks. “It’s not much out of the way,” Joe urged.

  “Okay,” the pilot conceded. “But we’ve got to make it snappy.”

  He headed seaward again and soon the searchers sighted the windswept, wave-lashed mass of rocks directly ahead of them. The helicopter came down on its pontoons in the shelter of a rock cove. Joe jumped into the shallow water and waded to the narrow, sandy beach. “Look!” he shouted.

  The revolving beam of the lighthouse’s powerful navigation light had exposed the white hull of the Sleuth! The speedboat lay alongside a tiny dock. Joe made his way toward it.

  A grizzled, white-haired old man wearing a turtleneck sweater leaned down over the rail of the tall lighthouse’s circular runway.
He put a megaphone to his lips.

  “Who are ye? What do ye want?” he shouted.

  “I’m looking for my brother!” Joe yelled.

  The lighthouse keeper shook his head. “What?” he roared.

  Joe cupped his hands so that his voice would carry over the pounding surf. “I’m looking for my brother!” he shouted again.

  “He’s not here!” the keeper yelled. “There’s nobody on this island but me!”

  “He must be here!” Joe shouted. “His boat is moored at the dock!”

  He pointed to the boat, and saw the keeper look in that direction. Then the old man shrugged. “Not here!” he repeated, and went inside the lighthouse.

  Joe turned to see his father, who had waded to him. “I don’t like this at all,” Mr. Hardy said.

  “Dad, maybe Frank went away on another boat!” Joe suggested. “If he did, he may have left a note!”

  The two waded over to the Sleuth and examined it carefully. In the cockpit they found Frank’s shoes and jacket. The gas tank registered empty. Quickly Joe searched the places he thought Frank might have hidden a note.

  “Here’s something!” he exclaimed.

  Jammed into the short-wave set was a folded piece of white paper! While Mr. Hardy held a flashlight, Joe opened the note. It was from Frank!

  The police sergeant came over to them. “Are you almost finished here, sir?” he asked the detective anxiously.

  “Officer, my son and I will return to Bayport in the speedboat, if you can lend us some of your spare gasoline!”

  “We’ll be glad to,” the sergeant answered, “but that’s likely to be a dangerous trip.”

  “My son is a skilled pilot,” Mr. Hardy said calmly. “Besides, this way we might spot a clue to Frank’s whereabouts which we missed from the air.”

  “We’ll be okay,” said Joe. “The Sleuth’s ridden out some rough seas before now.”

  The sergeant went back to the helicopter and returned with containers of fuel for the Sleuth.

  “Thanks very much for your assistance,” Mr. Hardy told the sergeant. “I’ll let you know if we find Frank.”

  The officer wished them luck, touched his cap, and waded out to the police craft. Joe and his father watched the whirlybird as it rose from the water, then headed toward Bayport, its lights blinking in the darkness.