What Happened at Midnight

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Frank darted to the telephone and called Chet. “I’m sure I’ve latched onto an important lead,” he told his chum. “I’ll need your help.”

  “I’m ready to go any time you say.”

  “Okay! I’ll be right over!”

  CHAPTER VI

  Fogged In

  FRANK leaped into the convertible and headed for the Morton farm. He began piecing together the details of Aunt Gertrude’s story about the fair-haired man at Gresham. He had said, “Hardy!”

  “I’m sure he didn’t mean Aunt Gertrude. He could have meant Dad or Joe!”

  Then the man had made a reference to caves! There were many to be found in the cliffs which formed the north shore of Barmet Bay. Was Joe being held in one of them? Frank smiled, recalling his aunt’s indignation at being called an “old whaler” by the big fair-haired man.

  “He might not have been referring to whales at all,” Frank thought. “There’s a small, flat-hulled motorboat known as a motor whaler. Maybe that’s what he had in mind.”

  Frank told himself that using such a term would be unusual for any person unless he was familiar with boats. The young sleuth was certain that he had a real lead at last!

  As Frank drew up before the Morton house, Chet came down the steps on a run. “What’s up?” he asked eagerly.

  Frank repeated Aunt Gertrude’s story of the man mentioning the name Hardy and making the mysterious reference to whaler and caves.

  Chet whistled, then suddenly his eyes widened. “You mean Joe might be a prisoner in a shore cave?”

  “Exactly!” Frank answered. “And I’ll search every one of them if I have to!”

  “I’m with you! How about the other fellows? Let’s get Biff and Jerry to come along. They’d be mad as hornets if they weren’t in on the search.”

  “Okay!” Frank replied. “We’ll use the Sleuth.” This was the Hardys’ sleek motorboat.

  “Let’s go!” Chet said briskly. Then the ever-present problem of food occurred to him. “If you’ll wait a few minutes I’ll ask Mom to fix up a lunch for us. We may get hungry. At least you may, but I’m sure I will.”

  Both boys dashed into the house. While Mrs. Morton was making up a package of sandwiches and cake, Frank reached Jerry and Biff by telephone and gave them an inkling of what was afoot. They were eager to help and promised to be at the Hardy boathouse within twenty minutes.

  In a short time Chet was ready and scrambled into the convertible beside Frank. At the boathouse Jerry and Biff were waiting for them. Biff was a tall, lanky blond whose perpetual good humor was indicated by the slight tilt to the outer corners of his lips. Jerry, medium height and dark, was wiry and more serious. Both boys were agog with curiosity.

  “What’s the clue?” Jerry asked, and Frank gave the details as he unlocked the door of the boathouse.

  The boys quickly unmoored the Sleuth and jumped aboard. The engine sputtered spasmodically a few times, then burst into a roar. Frank opened the throttle and the craft shot into the bay, gradually increasing speed.

  “If we don’t find Joe, then what?” Jerry asked.

  Frank answered promptly, “Go down the coast tomorrow. There are a few caves along the beach. You fellows game?”

  “You bet,” they chorused.

  There were clouds in the sky and far off toward the open water at the distant end of the bay was a hint of fog. Frank eyed the mist doubtfully. It would take some time to make a close search of the caves on the north shore, and if fog came up, a hunt would be difficult. Chet, thinking the same thing, mentioned it aloud.

  “We’ll just have to hope for the best,” Biff spoke up.

  As they zipped along, the boys talked over Miss Hardy’s encounter with the fair-haired man.

  “He may be tall,” said Biff, “but he sure sounds short on brains!”

  “He’ll need all the brains he has if we get on his trail,” Chet affirmed.

  “But why would he be mixed up in Joe’s disappearance?” said Biff. “Surely he wouldn’t kidnap Joe just because Chet stepped on him.”

  “There’s something deeper behind it,” Frank said, thinking of the secret radio, “but I’m not at liberty to tell you fellows. Sorry.”

  The Sleuth sped on toward the north shore and gradually drew closer to the high cliffs that rose sheer from the waters of the bay. The fog was coming up the bay now in a high, menacing gray wall.

  Chet grimaced. “We’re not going to make it. That fog will be on us before we get within a quarter of a mile of the caves.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Frank said. “But I hate to give up now that we’ve come this far.”

  “I’ve had a few experiences in fog out on this bay,” Biff Hooper remarked, “and I don’t want to repeat ‘em if it can be helped. You never know when some other boat is going to come along and run you down. You can’t see it until the boat’s right on top of you. Let one of those big ships wallop you and you’re done for!”

  “A horn isn’t much good,” said Jerry, “because the fog seems to make the sound come from a different direction than the true one.”

  The fog swirled down on the boys, hiding the shore from view. It enveloped them so completely they could scarcely see more than a few yards ahead. Frank had already turned on his yellow fog light and suddenly they saw a small tug a short distance up the bay. The craft was heading toward the city, but now it vanished. Frank reduced speed and pressed the horn. No sound!

  “This,” said Jerry, “is bad. If it weren’t for Joe, I’d say go home. I wonder how long the pea soup will last.”

  No one ventured a guess. Frank said tensely, “Watch for that tug, fellows. My horn won’t blow.”

  As the Sleuth groped blindly through the clammy mist, Frank thought he heard the faint throb of the tug’s engines. His light did not pick up the craft and it was impossible to estimate its distance or direction.

  Then came the blast of the tug’s whistle, low and mournful through the heavy fog. It seemed to be far to the right, and Frank hoped to avoid it by going straight ahead.

  When the whistle sounded again, it was louder and seemed to come from a point just to their left. It was drawing closer!

  “That old tug must have traveled about two miles clean across the bay in half a minute,” Chet remarked. “Frank, 1-look out!”

  As he spoke, the whistle sounded again. This time Biff straightened up in alarm. The tug seemed to be directly ahead.

  “How do you figure its position, Frank?”

  “I think the tug is mighty close. It’s hard to tell where the sound’s coming from. We’ll just have to go easy and hope we see it first.”

  Biff could hardly make out the stern of the Sleuth. “This is worse than a blackout,” he commented.

  Once more the whistle blew, this time so terrifyingly loud that the tug seemed to be only a few yards away. The boys could hear its engines. Still their light revealed nothing.

  “Up in front, Chet!” snapped Frank. “If you see it, sing out!”

  Chet scrambled onto the bow and peered into the gray gloom ahead. Suddenly he gave a yell of terror.

  “It’s bearing right down on us!”

  Even as he shouted, a heavy dark shadow loomed out of the fog. The Sleuth was about to be rammed!

  The tug was sweeping down on the boys. It was only a few yards away! The boys could see a man on deck, waving his arms wildly. The whistle shrieked.

  No time to lose! The engine of the Sleuth broke into a sudden clamor as Frank opened the throttle wide. At the same instant he swung the wheel hard to port. The motorboat swerved and shot directly across the bow of the larger boat.

  For a breathless second it seemed that nothing could save the boys. They waited for the jarring impact that seemed only seconds away!

  But the Sleuth had speed, and Frank handled his craft masterly. His boat shot clear!

  The tug went roaring astern. It had missed the Sleuth with less than a yard to spare! The Hardys’ boat was caught in the heavy swell and
pitched to and fro, but rode it out.

  Chet Morton broke the silence. “Wow, that was a close call!”

  Jerry Gilroy, who had been thrown off balance when the Sleuth altered its course so suddenly, scrambled to his feet, blinking. “I’ll say! Were we hit?”

  “We’re still here.” Biff grinned. Nevertheless, he had been badly frightened. “That’s the last time I’ll ever come out on the bay when there’s a fog brewing,” he announced solemnly. “That was too narrow a squeak!”

  Chet, now that the peril had passed, leaned down from the bow. He shook hands with the other three boys, then gravely clasped his own.

  “What’s that for?” Jerry asked.

  “Congratulating you—and myself on still being alive.” The others smiled weakly.

  Frank steered the Sleuth back to its previous course. Again the boat crept toward the north shore, invisible beyond the wall of mist. Frank did not dare venture close for fear of piling his craft onto the rocks at the foot of the cliffs. He cruised aimlessly back and forth, but within half an hour the fog began to lift. It thinned out, writhing and twisting like plumes of smoke.

  “The cliffs!” Chet cried in relief as the boys caught sight of the land rising sharply just ahead. They were less than two hundred yards off shore and already far down the bay, abreast of the caves.

  “We can make our search after all,” Frank said.

  He brought the Sleuth as near the base of the cliffs as he dared, skillfully avoiding the menacing black rocks that thrust above the water.

  Jerry, who had scrambled out on the bow, gestured toward an outcropping of rocks about a hundred yards away.

  “Here’s our first cave,” he announced.

  “I remember it,” said Frank. “Joe and I went into that one when we were on a car-theft case. It looks like a cave, but is only a few feet deep. No use looking here.”

  The searchers passed several shallow openings, but at last Chet gave a jubilant shout. “Here’re the deeper ones!”

  They had rounded a little promontory and the boys saw a ragged row of gaping holes in the face of the rock. Most were just a few feet above the waterline.

  Chet said, “I know them. Some are small but others are big enough for an elephant to walk through sideways.”

  Frank brought the Sleuth in still closer to the base of the two-hundred-foot-high cliffs.

  “Great place to hide someone,” Biff commented. “I bet there are hundreds of those caverns.”

  “We have our work cut out for us,” Frank agreed.

  Some distance on, he spotted the first of the larger holes in the rock. The cave was six feet wide and high above the water. Frank ran the boat in close enough so that by scrambling over its bow one could land on the tumbled heaps of rocks and boulders just beneath the opening.

  “Let’s take a look,” he said eagerly. “Jerry, will you hold the boat here?”

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  Within a few minutes the others were climbing up the boulders toward the cave mouth. Presently they vanished into the dark interior.

  CHAPTER VII

  The Escape

  JERRY held the nose of the Sleuth inshore and maneuvered so that the propeller remained in deep water. He waited impatiently for news of Joe.

  It did not take the others long to find that the big cave they had entered was unoccupied. They reappeared a few minutes later.

  “Did you find him?” Jerry called.

  “No luck,” Biff reported.

  Chet was discouraged and said so. “We’re working on the slimmest of clues,” he said. “The fair-haired man and his friends might not have meant the Shore Road caves. Don’t forget, there are hundreds of subterranean caverns between Gresham and Bayport.”

  “But the caves here are the best known,” Frank remarked. “Let’s look some more. I’ll cruise along the shore and pick out the more likely caves to hide a prisoner.”

  The motorboat edged its way along the face of the cliff. Whenever the boys noticed one of the larger openings that could be reached easily from the shore, Frank ran the boat in among the rocks. Then, while one boy stayed in the Sleuth, the others would scramble up to investigate the cave.

  The hours dragged by. Finally they navigated to a place where the cliff sloped and began to give way to sandy hills and wooded inclines.

  Biff gave a sigh. “Guess we’ll have to give up. There’s only one small opening left to investigate.”

  “But why would kidnappers go way up to that cave when there are so many that are easier to reach?” Chet protested. “They’d have to climb fifty feet up to the mouth.”

  “It isn’t so steep as it looks,” Frank remarked thoughtfully. “And I can see a sort of winding trail up the slope.”

  “I’m game,” Jerry said.

  “Me too,” Biff added.

  Frank brought the Sleuth in toward the rocks. The boys craned their necks to look up at the tiny opening in the face of the cliff above.

  “I guess you’re right, Chet,” Jerry admitted. “Joe’s kidnappers wouldn’t climb all the way up there, with so many better caves to pick from.”

  Chet gave a loud groan. “I’ve lost about three pounds already, climbing these cliffs.”

  Despite the worry over Joe, Biff could not refrain from saying, “Then, Chet, you’d better tackle about fifty more caves.”

  Frank, meanwhile, had seen something that had gone unnoticed by his friends. A piece of newspaper was lodged among the stones under the cave’s mouth. The scrap of paper might be significant! The fact that it was within a few feet of the cave was suspicious and warranted investigation.

  This time Chet volunteered to stand watch and maneuvered the boat around so the others could reach the shore from the bow. Frank went first. Biff and Jerry followed.

  They climbed the slope, following the trail Frank had spotted. But the incline was so steep and winding that they could make only slow progress in a diagonal direction. The path ended abruptly at a ledge some fifteen feet below the cave. From there they had to climb directly upward over the rocks.

  When Frank reached the piece of newspaper, he picked it up. The sheet was wet and soggy from the fog, but he recognized it as a copy of the Gresham Times, dated the previous day.

  His hopes rose with this discovery. Gresham! For the third time since Joe’s disappearance the name of that town had come into the mystery! Excited, Frank thrust the paper into his pocket and scrambled up toward the entrance of the cave.

  “What did you find?” Jerry demanded, panting.

  “Newspaper. It looks like a clue.”

  Frank reached the cave mouth and stepped inside. The interior was larger than he had thought. Though the entrance was small, the cave widened and seemed to be very deep.

  The young detective took a flashlight from his pocket and clicked it. He played the beam on the rugged, rocky walls, the fairly level floor, and finally focused on a wooden box like those used for shipping food.

  “Someone’s been here!” he shouted eagerly as the others entered the cave. “Look at that box! Fresh bread crusts around it!”

  “Don’t see anyone now,” Jerry observed. “Listen!”

  The boys heard a peculiar sound, which seemed to have come from the back of the cave. The sound was repeated. They listened, staring at one another in surprise.

  “Someone’s groaning!” Frank exclaimed.

  Biff pointed a trembling finger toward a large section of rock about twenty feet away. “From there.”

  Again they heard groaning.

  “Somebody’s behind there!” Frank declared.

  He ran toward the mass of rocks and directed the light into the shadows beyond. Frank gasped as its radiance fell upon a figure lying bound and gagged on a crude pallet of sacking.

  “Joe!” Frank shouted. He sprang forward and removed the gag.

  His brother answered feebly, “Frank!”

  Biff and Jerry gave a joint yell of delight. They scrambled in behind the wall of rocks and b
ent over their friend.

  Joe looked white and ill. He could scarcely talk to them. His feet were bound together with rope and his hands were tied behind his back.

  “To think that we weren’t going to search this cave at all!” Biff exclaimed. “And wait until Chet learns we found you. He’s down guarding the Sleuth.”

  Frank had already opened his pocketknife and was hacking at the ropes that bound his brother’s ankles. Jerry was working at the other knots.

  “I’m hungry,” said Joe, when all the ropes had been loosened and he was able to sit up. “I haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday noon.”

  The boys helped him to his feet. “They drugged me,” Joe went on shakily, “and I can still feel the effects. But tell me, how did you find me?”

  “Aunt Gertrude gets the credit.” Frank quickly told of her encounter with the fair-haired man at Gresham, and his reference to “Hardy” and “caves.”

  “But Frank put two and two together,” Biff spoke up, and mentioned the newspaper clue.

  “It was lucky for me you saw the paper,” Joe declared. “One of the kidnappers had some food wrapped in a newspaper yesterday. He must have dropped one of the sheets.”

  “Was the big fair-haired man really mixed up in it?” Frank asked.

  Joe nodded. “He was in it, all right. But there were others. They were after that secret in our car. It’s a long story. Let me tell you about it later.”

  The boys refrained from asking more questions.

  “Do you feel strong enough to come with us now?” Frank asked.

  Joe, with a flash of spirit, started to walk. He wavered a moment and would have fallen if Frank had not caught him.

  “If you can’t make it, we’ll carry you,” Jerry offered.

  Joe shook his head and sat down weakly. “My legs are so numb from being tied up, I don’t seem to have any strength in them. I’d better wait a few minutes.”

  At that moment they heard a loud noise. It was a clattering, rolling sound, as if a rock had been dislodged and gone tumbling down the steep incline.