“Why not try leaving here without letting anyone see you?” she suggested. “Stay at Chet’s house tonight and start from there in the early morn ing.”
Frank and Joe liked their mother’s plan. They telephoned Chet, and also Biff Hooper and Tony Prito. The latter two promised to meet them at the Morton farm right after breakfast.
“Chet sure sounded low,” Frank commented. “I guess his dad and uncle were pretty sore when they heard what happened.”
“Iola told me he’s got to work on the farm all summer long to pay for the stuff if it’s not found,” Joe said.
Frank chuckled. “That’ll take off the pounds.”
Frank and Joe packed their equipment in the trunk of Mr. Hardy’s car. After dark they got in and lay on the floor of the rear seat, then their father drove to the Mortons’. The boys did not show their heads until they were at the farm.
“If anybody is looking for us, they won’t know whether we’ve left the house or not,” Joe remarked.
They unloaded the gear and the detective turned the car around. Wishing his sons good luck, he said he was going to Washington for further checking on the stolen-currency case.
After a hearty breakfast the next morning, Chet, Frank, and Joe went out on the porch to wait for Biff and Tony. They had been sitting there only a few minutes when they saw a man, carrying a bulging bag, coming up the driveway. He was fairly tall, had light-colored hair, and shrewd-looking eyes.
“I’m selling insect repellent,” the stranger began. “The most wonderful stuff in the world. Use it on the farm or anywhere. Kills flies, moths, mosquitoes.”
Chet became interested. “We could use some of that for our camping trip.”
The man smiled. “Camping trip, eh? Then you’ll want a lot of my repellent. Plenty of flies in the woods. Where you going?”
“To North ...”
Joe’s elbow jabbed into his friend’s ribs. Chet was telling the stranger too much!
“North—uh—uh—North Carolina. That is, someday,” Chet stammered.
“How much do you want?” the salesman asked.
“None, I guess,” Chet replied glumly, embarrassed about the blunder he had made.
“As you please,” the man said.
He picked up his bag and walked down the drive. As he shuffled off toward the next farmhouse, Joe grasped Frank’s arm.
“I don’t like this,” he said. “If that man were a real salesman, he would have given us a high pressure sales talk.”
“You’re right. He might have been the one who followed me from the News office. He’s about the same size and blond. That man was sent here to learn something. We’ll have to be mighty careful on our trip.”
“I’m only sorry Chet practically told him where we are going,” Joe declared.
In a few minutes Biff Hooper and Tony Prito arrived.
The boys were told about the new developments in the mystery and the recent episode of the pseudosalesman.
“I’ve a hunch we’ll see him again,” Joe said. “He may even follow us to North Woods.”
“We’ll be ready for him,” Tony vowed.
After piling their camping equipment in Chet’s car, the boys climbed in. The jalopy snorted and started off down the road.
When they neared the North Woods area, Frank said, “Let’s park at the farmhouse where I made the telephone call. Then we can start the hike to the woods from there.”
This agreed upon, Chet turned onto the lonely dirt road. When they arrived at the farmhouse, the woman gladly let them leave the car behind the barn. The boys took out their gear and after a cold drink of water at the pump started their trek toward North Woods.
As they passed the deserted house where Frank had been held captive, the boy’s spine tingled. Had the thugs planned to leave him there to die he wondered. Or would they have freed him after the ransom had been collected?
The campers walked another mile, then headed into the woods at the point where they thought Chet’s stolen stuff might have been carried in. Upon reaching the brook where the suspect’s footprints had ended, they stopped to confer on which way to proceed. The trees and underbrush stretched for miles, wild and apparently uninhabited.
“Well, you detectives,” Tony said, “where in this jungle did that thief go?”
Frank was sure they would have taken the path of least resistance into the forest. After all, the canoe would be an unwieldy thing to carry in dense woodland.
“Okay,” Tony said with a grin. “You find it.”
The boys resumed the trek, with Frank and Joe in the lead. After they had pressed forward for an hour, Chet stopped and flung his pack to the ground. “Say, fellows, do you know where you’re going?” he puffed.
“Sure,” said Frank. “In the direction the thieves took.”
“How do you know?”
“By this.” Frank had just spotted what might be a clue.
He bent down beside a rough rock, twice the size of a man’s head. Somebody apparently had stepped on it and slipped, making a deep heel impression in the moss beside it.
Frank whipped a magnifying glass from his pack and examined the rock. It revealed minute shreds of leather where the uneven surface of the boulder had abraded the shoe.
“I think we’re on the right track,” he said. “Come on, Chet.”
An hour later the boys stopped for lunch. Then after a rest they moved on again, following a mountain stream. They were on the alert the rest of the afternoon, but found no further evidence that the thieves had preceded them. More than once the Hardys had to reassure their friends that they were on the right track. It was the only halfway open route by which heavily laden men could have penetrated the densely forested area.
Finally they decided to make camp. Tony prepared a satisfying hot meal of beans and bacon.
As the boys ate it, Chet gave a huge sigh. “I’m afraid that stolen stuff’s gone forever.” he said. “Listen, fellows, you haven’t any plans for the summer. How about giving me a hand at the farm to help pay for it?”
“Never milked a cow in my life,” was Tony’s excuse.
“Pitching hay makes me sneeze something awful,” said Biff. He shifted his long legs and yawned.
“Doctor says bouncing on a tractor is bad for my heart,” Joe piped up.
Chet refused to laugh. “Then you simply got to find that stuff!” he declared.
“We?” Frank chortled. “We’re only helping you.”
Chet grunted, took an extra helping of beans, and announced he was hitting the sack early. All the boys, tired from their long trek, crawled into their sleeping bags within half an hour after eat ing.
In the middle of the night the campers awoke suddenly. Some noise had aroused them. They listened. In the distance an animal howled.
But there had been another sound, too.
A wailing siren!
CHAPTER VIII
The Night Prowler
THE campers sat bolt upright as the siren wailed again, its mournful tone fading in the distance.
“That’s the same sound we heard over the ocean, Joe!” Frank said in a hoarse whisper.
Instinctively both boys had looked up, associating the sound with a helicopter. But there was no aircraft overhead.
“Hey, what’s up?” Chet called.
The boys listened, but the mysterious wailing sound was not repeated.
“You’re sure it was the same sound you heard just before you found the money?” Biff asked.
“It sure was,” Joe declared.
Propped on their elbows, the five boys speculated about the source of the noise and what might happen next. Suddenly the howling of the animal they had heard a few minutes before began again. It seemed to be nearer now.
“It’s a wild dog!” Chet cried out. “He’s smelled us. He might bring his whole pack here!”
Biff suggested building a fire to frighten off the animal.
“But that’ll focus attention on us,” Frank objected
. “If the siren has anything to do with the money, my kidnappers might spot us.”
The others agreed and waited in the dark. Presently the howling animal became quiet, so the boys settled themselves once more in their sleeping bags.
The next morning while having breakfast, they talked about the disturbance of the previous night.
“Say, it’s eight o’clock,” Biff interrupted, glancing at his watch. “Think I’ll listen to the news. We might learn something that will explain that siren.”
He reached into his pack, drew out a transistor radio, and tuned in the Bayport station. The voice of the announcer was excited, telling of the disappearance of a plane. The pilot, Jack Wayne, had taken off from Bayport the night before. A short time later he had contacted the airport by radio.
“I’m in trouble!” he had cried. “Hijackers!” Nothing more had been heard from him.
“It’s thought he may have crashed on the ocean or in the woodlands beyond Bayport,” the announcer said. “The Coast Guard has been alerted, and State Police have started a search.”
The Hardys looked at each other, dismayed. Jack Wayne! The pilot who had taken them up only the day before yesterday.
“If Wayne came down in these woods,” Frank said soberly, “I’m afraid he’s in bad shape.”
The campers decided to combine looking for him with hunting for the articles stolen from the Morton truck. They listened to the rest of the broadcast while packing up, but there was no other news of particular interest to the boys.
Frank and Joe suggested that they proceed in the direction from which the siren sound had come, and the five set off. As they scrambled along through the dense thickets, the boys talked about the disturbing broadcast.
“A stowaway might have knocked Wayne out,” Frank suggested. “But you’ve given me an idea, Chet. Maybe Wayne didn’t crash. He may have been kidnapped!”
Nevertheless, all the boys watched for signs of an accident as they pressed deeper into the path less woodland. Talk ceased when they began ascending a rugged slope. Perspiration drenched the shirts of the hikers by the time they reached the ridge. Chet was puffing, and his face was as red as a beet.
“Let’s rest here awhile, fellows, and look over the valley,” he suggested.
“Maybe we can spot something if we climb one of the trees,” said Tony.
He walked toward an old fir, which towered like a sentinel.
“Stand on my shoulders and catch the first branch,” Biff offered.
He leaned over to help him, and Tony soon was on his way up the tree. When he reached the top he shaded his eyes with one hand.
“Swell view,” he called. “I can see all the way to the bay.”
“Any sign of Jack’s plane?” Joe called up.
“Or of the thieves who stole my stuff?” Chet shouted.
The reply was negative to both questions, but Tony continued to gaze around him in every di rection. Suddenly he cried out:
“I see something shiny way off there.” He pointed deeper into the forest. “Maybe it’s part of the lost plane.”
The youth climbed down and led the way over swampy ground and through a tangle of tamaracks in the direction of the gleaming object. After an hour’s hike, he said:
“I guess I’ve found it. It’s not a plane. It’s a pond.”
The boys followed Tony through a clump of thick brush. Beyond it in the sun lay a good-sized body of water.
“Oh, brother,” exclaimed Chet, “could I use a swim right now!”
The other boys agreed and stripped off their clothes.
“Race you across the pond, Frank,” Joe called, taking a shallow dive.
He beat his brother to the far side by only one length. They pulled up on the bank and sat down.
Frank, looking about him, noticed the remains of a campfire nearby. He got up and walked over to it. There were several backbones of fish. Someone had cooked and eaten there recently!
“I wonder if it was one of the gang we’re after,” he said excitedly. “Say, here are some good footprints!”
The young detectives tried to follow them, but the going was too painful on their bare feet.
“Let’s come back when we have shoes on,” Joe suggested.
They swam back to the other shore and reported their discovery.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Chet. “But gosh, I’m awful tired. Can’t we wait awhile before we chase that guy?”
The Hardys offered to follow the trail of the footprints while the others did some fishing. Immediately after lunch Joe and Frank resumed their search for the unknown fisherman. His marks were plainly visible in the soft ground near the pond, but as soon as the earth grew hard, they ended.
“Let’s continue in the same direction,” Frank suggested. “The fellow may have a cabin up ahead.”
They went on for a quarter of a mile but found nothing, and decided that the man must have changed his course. Frank thought it might be a good idea for all of the campers to remain in the vicinity of the pond for a while.
“That man will probably come back,” he added.
The Hardys rejoined their friends. At sunset they moved camp across the pond, out of sight of the stranger’s old campfire.
The boys enjoyed Tony’s catch of sunfish, then listened to the radio. There was no word of the missing Jack Wayne, the newscaster said. Presently Chet began to yawn loudly, and all decided that it was time to turn in.
“Don’t sleep too soundly,” Frank told his brother. “Keep one eye open for visitors.”
Joe nodded. It was not long before the heavy breathing of the other three boys blended with the sounds of the woodland night. Frank and Joe dozed fitfully. An hour later Frank leaned over and nudged his brother.
“I’m sure I heard footsteps,” he whispered, looking around. “There they are again!”
A slight sound of crackling underbrush came to their ears. Suddenly a light flashed. It was trained directly on the Hardy boys.
“Who are you?” Frank shouted, leaping out of his bag and arousing the entire camp.
There was no answer. The light went out and retreating footsteps hurried off in the underbrush.
Frank put on his shoes, grabbed his flashlight, and darted after the intruder.
“Chet, Biff, Tony, watch camp! There may be others! Come on, Joe!” he shouted.
One thing was certain. The stranger knew his way in the dark. Soon he was so far ahead of the boys that they could no longer hear his sprinting footsteps.
“I hate to give up,” Frank said in disgust. “But we’d never find him now.”
They turned back, wondering if the intruder had been one of the thieves they were after, or only some hermit who did not want his hideout to be discovered.
Upon reaching camp, they found the others excited and worried. Biff had picked up a note the mysterious caller had dropped. It was evident that the purpose of his visit had been to leave a warning. The piece of dirty paper bore a message written in pencil:Get out of these woods. You’re in danger.
“Maybe we ought to leave,” Chet said.
The Hardys were convinced that the warning note proved that a person or persons in North Woods did not want the boys around. Unless the writer had something to hide, why would he object to their presence?
“We’ll stay,” said Frank.
“Let’s set up watches,” Joe suggested.
Since it was already one o’clock, each was assigned to an hour’s sentry duty. However, the rest of the night passed without incident.
At six they all arose. Frank, who had been on watch the past hour, said he had discovered a narrow, clear stream near the pond.
“Good drinking water,” he said.
Chet was sent off with the canteens while the others prepared breakfast. He had been gone only a few minutes when he let out a war whoop.
The boys dashed in the direction from which Chet’s shout had come. Chet was leaning far over an undercut in the bank, tugging at so
mething which they could not see.
The stout boy turned his head and motioned. “Come here quick! I’ve found the stolen canoe!”
CHAPTER IX
A Cry for Help
IN the tiny lagoon, almost hidden by the eelgrass at the water’s edge, floated a canoe.
“Are you sure it’s the same canoe?” Joe asked. Chet pointed to a deep nick in the varnished wood, saying Wells Hardware had knocked something off the original price because of the imperfection.
“Maybe the other stolen stuff isn’t far away,” Joe said enthusiastically.
“You mean the thief hid the canoe here?” Chet asked.
“It might have drifted down the river,” Joe suggested. “There aren’t any paddles in it.”
“Let’s go up the river after breakfast and take a look,” said Frank.
The Hardys fashioned two crude paddles. While Biff and Tony remained to watch the camp, the other three started up the river. Joe kneeled in the bow and Frank in the stern. Chet sat down in the middle facing Frank.
“Joe, you watch the left bank for signs of the thief,” Frank suggested as his crude paddle dipped into the shallow, rock-filled water. “I’ll take the right.”
“What about me?” Chet queried. “Don’t I look anywhere?”
“You’re ballast,” Joe needled. “All you do is sit tight.”
But Frank was more serious. “Watch the rear, Chet. See if anybody steps out of hiding after we go past.”
The three boys proceeded slowly upstream. All eyes strained for a glimpse of a human being, a hut, or any other place where the stolen rifles, tools, and camp equipment might be hidden.
For a long time there was silence except for the gurgling of the ripples around the rocks and the dipping of the paddles.
Then Joe let out a whistle. He indicated a lean to near the riverbank.
“Let’s investigate it,” he said, resting his paddle.
They landed and Chet held onto the canoe while Frank and Joe looked in the lean-to. A pair of hiking boots stood in one corner.
“They’re new,” Frank remarked as he exam ined them. “Say, here’s a long scratch.” The shiny leather on the right one had been deeply marred.
The Wailing Siren Mystery Page 4
