The Witchmaster's Key

by Franklin W. Dixon

  CHAPTER II

  The Witch Masks

  THE horrid-looking creature placed a thumb under his chin and gave a jerk upward. His face came off!

  “It’s a mask!” Frank cried.

  “Only plastic and paint!” Joe marveled.

  “Doctor Burelli at your service.” The man introduced himself with a low bow.

  He was of medium height with short, uncombed brown hair, blue eyes, horn-rimmed glasses, a prominent nose, and an expanding waistline. He smiled easily.

  “Quite a start for our visit to Griffinmoor!” Frank mumbled.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the dentist said seriously. “I’m an amateur actor, and secretary of the Gravesend Players in town. I make masks for our company in my basement workshop. The trap door allows me to work on them between patients. I believe one of you has a toothache. Let me look.”

  Joe sat down in the dental chair, opened his mouth, and pointed to the sore spot.

  “Well,” the dentist said after an examination, “You haven’t shown much wisdom about that wisdom tooth. The wisest thing would have been to have had it extracted long ago.”

  He chuckled at his own witticism. Amid a barrage of comic comments, he gave Joe a local anesthetic and waited for it to take effect.

  “Who are you fellows?” he inquired. “I notice an American accent.”

  Frank explained that he and Joe were two Americans who did detective work at home in Bayport. He concealed the fact that they were in Griffinmoor to deal with Professor Rowbotham’s mystery. “No sense in gabbing too much,” he thought.

  Frank was the cautious Hardy. Joe was more likely to leak a secret, but just now Joe couldn’t talk.

  “So you’re detectives,” Burelli said. “You must know about masks.”

  “We use disguises from time to time,” Frank admitted.

  The dentist clamped his forceps around Joe’s tooth, applied leverage, and extracted it.

  “No mystery here,” he declared. “You see the offender before you. Now you can rinse.”

  A few minutes later Joe got out of the dental chair, rubbing his jaw.

  “Since you’re detectives,” Burelli went on, “perhaps you’d like to see my collection of masks in the basement.”

  The boys said they would, and Dr. Burelli lifted the trap door, wedged it open, and descended the ladder. Frank and Joe climbed down after him.

  They found themselves in a gloomy room lighted by a single overhead bulb. A long bench held a series of masks of well-known people. They recognized Winston Churchill, General Douglas MacArthur, and Marilyn Monroe.

  “A few of my friends,” Burelli said airily.

  “Those masks wouldn’t scare anybody,” Joe observed.

  The dentist beckoned to them and led the way to another table against a side wall. Four horrid faces with distorted features and misshappen heads glared at them. These masks were as hideous as the one Burelli had worn.

  “What an ugly bunch!” Joe exclaimed.

  “Worse than the rogues’ gallery,” Frank added.

  The dentist looked pained. “Please! You’re talking about the masks I love! Anyway,” he said, “I make horror masks for my own amusement.”

  “Boy, I’d like to have these on Halloween,” Joe said. “Nobody could find anything scarier.”

  Suddenly Burelli became serious and mysterious. “If you think that, look at these!”

  He moved to a dark corner that the light of the overhead bulb barely reached. The Hardys could just make out a number of masks that were more sinister than any they’d seen yet.

  A man’s mask peered at them through slitted eyes, the corners of the mouth turned up in a malevolent smirk. A woman’s face was wild-eyed, the nostrils flaring, the mouth open as if to bite.

  Frank and Joe shivered in spite of their long experience with criminals. They had never come across faces that exuded evil, as these masks did.

  “I thought you’d be impressed,” Burelli stated.

  “What are they?” Frank wondered.

  “Witch masks!”

  Joe shook his head as if he were coming out of a trance. “What are witch masks?”

  “Faces copied from woodcuts and pictures of witches in old books,” Burelli explained. “I make drawings of the witches and then design the masks. I read the old records of witch trials to get in the mood before I start work on a witch mask.”

  “They’re enough to give anyone the willies,” Joe said.

  “Well,” the doctor answered, “you two are the only ones who have gotten the willies, if I may use your expression, because you’re the only ones who have seen my witch masks.”

  “Why the secrecy?” Joe wanted to know.

  “You’ll find out soon enough if you stay in Griffinmoor. Now then, we’d better go upstairs. Another patient may be waiting. I hope you’ll keep this under your hat. I don’t want word of what I’m doing to get around.”

  The Hardys assured him they’d keep his secret. Burelli revealed that he was hoping for a one-man exhibit of his masks in London.

  “That show’ll scare the public,” Frank predicted.

  “Thanks for the compliment,” Burelli said.

  They climbed back up the ladder and the dentist lowered the trap door into place. A faint smell hung in the atmosphere, reminding Joe of the Bayport riding stables.

  “Don’t tell me you have a horse in the waiting room,” he quipped.

  “Nothing as spectacular as that,” Burelli said with a grin.

  “Quit the bloody jokes,” a voice called out. “I’ve been waiting for ages!”

  “That’s Nip Hadley,” Burelli informed the Hardys. “He’s the groom of the Craighead estate. Cracked a tooth this afternoon, playing soccer. He made an appointment with me just after you called.”

  The dentist led the way into the waiting room. Nip Hadley was Joe’s age and height, but more stocky in his build and rough in his demeanor. His husky shoulders showed that he had the strength to handle a horse.

  Burelli introduced them. Joe offered his hand but the groom refused. He glared at the Hardys.

  “I heard about you Yanks. You been asking questions about old John Pickenbaugh. Pretty nosy, ain’t you?”

  “We just stumbled on the funeral,” Frank protested.

  “Sure,” Nip jeered. “You might get a bang on the snoot if you keep pushing it in where it ain’t wanted. And I’m the one who’ll do the banging!”

  The boy’s challenge was too much for Joe to take. He moved forward with his fists up, ready to swing at Nip.

  Burelli quickly stepped between them. “You fellows seem anxious to keep me in business. But I’m not looking for any more right now. There’s been enough dental damage for one day.” He and Nip went into the office, while the Hardys walked into the street and headed back toward the inn.

  “Nip Hadley seems like a tough customer,” Joe remarked. “He’s about as friendly as a bear with a sore head.”

  “He sure wouldn’t win any popularity contest,” Frank agreed. “But your remarks didn’t help. Maybe you wouldn’t feel friendly if you had a cracked tooth and somebody said you smelled like a horse.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Joe confessed. “I’ll apologize if we meet Nip again.”

  “Chances are, in this little town you will,” Frank replied.

  “You know, there’s something eerie about this place,” Joe went on. “No one wants to talk about John Pickenbaugh or the witch business; and all we get are cryptic warnings about finding out about it if we stay in Griffinmoor long enough.”

  Frank nodded thoughtfully. “I didn’t expect anything like this. Everyone is a little strange. Did you ever hear of a dentist whose hobby is making witch masks?”

  Joe laughed. “No, but why not? I like Dr. Burelli. He seems to be a good dentist and a jolly good fellow, too. Maybe all the jaws he sees day after day inspire him to make those crazy masks.”

  The rain began to fall harder. As the Hardys turned a
corner, they stepped into a gooey mud puddle and had to scramble out.

  “My shoes are a mess!” Joe complained.

  “Mine, too.”

  They hastened back to the inn and went to bed. They were sleeping soundly when they became dimly aware of a commotion going on downstairs.

  Joe opened one eye and looked at his watch. “Six o’clock!” He groaned. “You’d think they’d hold their karate exercises later in the day!”

  “Something must be up,” Frank said.

  Heavy feet pounded up the stairs. A fist banged loudly on their door. Frank jumped out of bed and opened it. Joe joined him.

  A tall police constable stood there.

  “Are you Frank and Joe Hardy?” he asked.

  “Yes, we are. What’s the matter?” Frank inquired.

  The constable glowered at them. “John Pickenbaugh’s grave was robbed during the night! I’d like to ask you a few questions. Anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you!”

  CHAPTER III

  Graveyard Surprise!

  “WHAT? You mean we’re being arrested for grave robbery?” Joe exploded.

  “Cool it, Joe,” Frank urged his brother. “We haven’t been charged with any crime.”

  “Not yet,” the constable explained. “But you’ll have to come with me for questioning.”

  At headquarters the constable grilled them about their stay in Griffinmoor.

  “How did your shoes get muddy?” he asked.

  “We blundered into a mud puddle last night,” Frank said.

  “Perhaps you were digging up the body of John Pickenbaugh,” the constable contended.

  Joe got hot under the collar. “What would we want with a corpse? We didn’t even know the guy!”

  “That’s what you say,” the constable noted. Suddenly he fired a question at them. “What do you know about witchcraft?”

  Frank coolly fielded the question. “Not a thing, constable. America had witch trials in Salem. But this was long before our time.”

  “We have an alibi,” Joe said. “We weren’t there.”

  The constable cleared his throat. “Where were you last night at ten o’clock?”

  “That’s easy,” Frank told him. “In bed at the Marquis of Granby Inn. Why don’t you check with the desk clerk?”

  The constable picked up the phone and put a call through. After a brief conversation, he hung up.

  “Okay,” he said. “Your alibi checks out. The manager tells me you came in long before that and did not leave again.”

  “Does that mean we can go?” Frank asked.

  “Not quite. I’ll need a character reference. Will anyone in Griffinmoor vouch for you?”

  Frank scratched his head. “I guess the only one is Professor Chauncey Rowbotham.”

  “Yeah,” Joe put in. “He knows who we are.”

  The constable called the professor, who just had arrived at his home. Rowbotham said he would be right over. While they waited, Frank and Joe talked to the men at headquarters about British methods of crime fighting. They gathered a few tips to add to their criminology files in Bayport.

  Professor Rowbotham bustled in. He was slight, with a goatee and flowing white hair. He carried a cane, which he waved around so carelessly that he nearly hit the constable. He stammered slightly as he talked.

  After admitting he had never met the Hardys, he was challenged about how he could vouch for them.

  “But–ah–ah, I know the father of these young men,” he said. “The sons of Fenton Hardy are sure to be all right.”

  “Professor,” the constable said, “your word is good enough for me.” He turned to Frank and Joe. “Okay, you’re free to go.”

  Rowbotham had a European compact car outside. While they drove, he explained the mystery that had brought them to East Anglia.

  “Ah–ah, well, you see, the fact is, I’m curator of the Griffinmoor Witch Museum. It’s my life’s work. All my money is tied up in it.”

  Joe nudged Frank. Griffinmoor seemed to be crowded with witches.

  “So you want us to investigate the ladies who ride broomsticks?” Joe suggested.

  “No–er–no, nothing like that. The problem is that the museum has been robbed. Burglarized! Cleaned out! I hope you fellows can find out who did it, because the police don’t seem to make any headway.”

  They drove up to a large building not far from the cemetery where they had spied on the weird Pickenbaugh funeral. It was four stories high with a lot of corners and bay windows. The slate roof tilted at a steep angle that made it appear to be toppling over.

  Professor Rowbotham escorted them through a few rooms of the Witchcraft Museum. All were stripped completely.

  “Not even a stick of furniture left,” Frank muttered.

  “Quite–that is–I would have to say you are quite right. Nothing is left. Everything is gone. The basement is here. I had a big collection of occult items down there. The rooms were locked. Now they are empty!”

  “Why would the thieves take everything?” Joe wondered. “Why didn’t they concentrate on valuable objects?”

  Frank pinched his lower lip. “They may have been after something specific,” he theorized. “Maybe they took everything so nobody could tell which piece they wanted.”

  Rowbotham was impressed by the theory. “Very likely, very likely. But I cannot imagine what it could be. I wrote to your father because I was so stunned. I thought he might solve the mystery.”

  “Dad was delayed by an important case in California,” Frank said. “He sent us instead.”

  “I see–I see your point. I understand he trained you to be detectives. But ah–ah–the question is, will you take the case?”

  “Of course we will, professor,” Joe assured him. “That’s what we’re here for.”

  “First of all,” Frank said, “is there any tie-in between the burglary at the Witch Museum and the robbery of John Pickenbaugh’s grave?”

  Professor Rowbotham said he doubted it. “Pickenbaugh was still alive when the theft took place,” he pointed out.

  “Have there been any other burglaries around here?” Frank asked.

  “Ah–ah–yes. There’ve been some at Eagleton Green. That is the artisan village next to Griffinmoor.”

  “Artisan village?” Frank queried.

  “A village of workmen who make things like clocks, guns, and jewelry. They have suffered from thefts lately, also arson.”

  “Theft and arson!” Joe exclaimed. “Sounds like a gang operating in East Anglia!”

  “But–ah–ah, although I’m not a detective,” Rowbotham said, “I must tell you these were small crimes. More like harassment.”

  “Any suspects?” Frank persisted.

  “A young man, a groom, I believe, from the Craighead estate.”

  “Nip Hadley?” Joe blurted out.

  “Just so. He was caught near the Eagleton Green Saddle Shop just after a fire bomb went off.”

  “We’ve met him,” Joe said. “He might just be mean enough to do something like that.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions,” Frank advised. “Let’s talk to Nip about this.” He turned to Rowbotham. “What kind of objects are we talking about? I’d like to know a witch collection when I see one.”

  The professor produced a thick catalog. Frank and Joe studied the listings.

  “Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “Cauldrons, robes, wands, bells, daggers, dolls with pins in them–the works!”

  “Also,” Frank observed, “stuffed animals, astrology charts, poison potions, and the good old skull and crossbones.”

  Rowbotham cleared his throat. “Notice the instruments of torture. They are my particular hobby. Pincers, thumbscrews, headsman’s ax, etcetera.”

  Frank closed the catalog and handed it back. “With so many items involved,” he said, “we’ll have to go over this museum with a fine-toothed comb.”

  “But ah–ah–, the police have already done so,” Rowbotham declared. “They eve
n found a clue, and took it to headquarters.”

  “Then we’d better mosey on down there and take a look at it,” Joe said.

  “We’ll be back later,” Frank promised.

  “You’ll stay with me,” the professor said, “in my house behind the museum. I’ll have your things brought over from the inn.”

  “Sure thing, professor. Thanks. Meanwhile we’ll return our car. I doubt that we’ll need it.”

  At headquarters they spoke to an officious sergeant named Joseph Rankin. When they asked about the clue from the Witch Museum, Rankin at first evaded the issue.

  “Why should I say anything to you about the clue?” he growled.

  “Because Professor Rowbotham hired us to investigate this case for him,” Frank said in a conciliatory tone. Quickly he filled the sergeant in.

  “Well,” Rankin said, “in that case you might as well see what we found.”

  He opened a drawer and produced a long purple-and-white feather, which he placed on the desk. “This was on the floor beside the door of the museum.”

  “Any theory about it?” Frank queried.

  “We know feathers were used to make witches’ brew. The thieves must have dropped it when they were moving the stuff out the door.”

  “Then it was part of Professor Rowbotham’s collection?”

  “He claims not. But why would anyone bring a feather along on a burglary job?”

  “Thanks, sergeant,” Joe said.

  “We appreciate it,” Frank added.

  As the boys started for Rowbotham’s home, Joe said, “I think that’s an eagle feather.”

  “Not exactly an eagle,” Frank disagreed, “but a close relative. I’m not sure. What bugs me, though, is that the professor claims it’s not his.”

  Joe had an inspiration. “What say we make a detour around by the cemetery and take a gander at Pickenbaugh’s grave?”

  “Good idea. Maybe the ghouls left a clue.”

  They tramped through the woods to the spot where they had seen the weird mourners. The police were there, examining the empty coffin that had held the corpse of the witchmaster.

  A few questions elicited the information that no clue to the desecration had been found.

  Frank and Joe went up to one of the officers. “Found anything yet?” Frank asked.