The Witchmaster's Key

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “We’ve sprung a leak!” Frank shouted, but his voice was lost in the howling wind.

  He and Joe hurried into the lounge. The other passengers were huddled together, many of them panic-stricken.

  The crew hauled hoses to bail water from the hold, but it did no good. The ferry listed more sharply.

  The voice of the captain came over the intercom. “Don life jackets!” He could be heard ordering his radioman: “Send an SOS!”

  A couple of crewmen rushed into the lounge and handed out life vests. After the Hardys slipped into theirs, they went to the other passengers and helped those who had trouble putting them on properly.

  “Everybody to lifeboat stations!” boomed the captain.

  There was frantic pushing and elbowing as frightened people scrambled to the deck. By this time the list was so bad that the craft was in danger of capsizing.

  “Lower the lifeboats!” the captain ordered. “Abandon ship!”

  CHAPTER XVI

  A Coven Feud

  THE lifeboats hit the waves. The first were filled with women and children. The men piled in next, while crewmen manned the oars. The boats filled up quickly.

  “There’s no room for us!” Joe yelled. “We’ll have to take our chances in the water!”

  The upper deck was awash when the captain ordered the last of the crew to follow him over the side. The Hardys leaped into the sea and swam away as fast as possible. They had to get clear of the ferry to avoid being dragged down by suction when the vessel sank.

  Safely out of range, they watched the death of the stricken ferry. The bow went under and the stern rose high in the air. For a moment she stood on end and then plunged into the depths!

  Frank and Joe bobbed up and down like a couple of corks. They knew they were too far from land to swim for it, and the lifeboats had drifted away in the storm.

  Joe yelled out to Frank, “What’ll we do now?”

  “Wait to be picked up!” Frank shouted back. “The SOS must have got through!”

  Gradually the storm died. The waves became calm, the rain stopped, and the sun came out. Some dots on the horizon grew larger. They were rescue boats answering the ferry’s SOS, and they began picking up survivors.

  The Hardys yelled and waved frantically until one of the boats noticed them. It curved in a wide arc and stopped in a mass of frothy foam churned up by its propellers. The two were hauled aboard.

  Frank’s teeth chattered. “Boy, are we glad to see you,” he told one sailor.

  “Yeah,” Joe added. “We were getting cold out there!”

  “You’re obviously Americans,” the seaman observed. “How do you happen to be swimming in the Irish Sea?”

  Joe told him who they were and where they were from. He described how they went from East Anglia to Dublin and caught the ferry for the Isle of Man.

  “That’s interesting,” the sailor said. Just then a call came for him from the engine room and he left.

  “Joe! Zipper your lip, will you!” Frank rebuked his brother. “We’re supposed to be on our way home, remember, and we don’t want our whereabouts to get back to Griffinmoor!”

  Joe looked embarrassed. “Sorry about that,” he said and added wistfully, “Too bad we lost everything in our suitcases.”

  “Not everything. I salvaged this before we abandoned ship.”

  Frank reached into his pocket and drew out the striped cap they had found at Stonehenge.

  “Good thinking,” Joe complimented him. “At least we can check out this clue.”

  The rescue boat pulled into the dock at Douglas, the capital of the Isle of Man. Cold and stiff, the Hardys went ashore. The Red Cross put them up for the night. They took showers, had a meal, placed their money flat on a table to dry, and went to bed.

  Their clothes were ready to wear again in the morning. They had breakfast, thanked their hosts, and strolled to the center of Douglas. Joe was wearing the striped cap.

  The label in it read Cooper’s Clothes. They found the store on the Douglas promenade. Joe handed the cap to the clerk, a young man with blond hair and blue eyes.

  “Recognize this?” he inquired. “Can you tell who bought it?”

  The clerk turned the cap over in his hands. He peered closely at the cloth and opened his mouth to answer, when the proprietor of the store cut him off.

  “No identification is possible,” the man said. “We sell thousands of such caps every year. Sorry we can’t help you.”

  He strode over to a rack of raincoats and began putting on price tags.

  “I guess that does it,” Frank remarked.

  Joe twirled the cap on one finger. “For sale–cheap!” He grinned.

  As they turned to leave, the clerk nodded slightly as a signal. He raised his eyebrows and looked toward the door, indicating that the Hardys were to wait for him outside.

  Frank and Joe left the shop and sat on a bench, looking at the scene on the beach across the promenade. Half an hour later the clerk emerged from the store and approached the bench.

  “Follow me!” he whispered as he walked past. He continued for a couple of blocks, entered a pub, and sat down at a secluded table in one corner. Frank and Joe joined him.

  “It’s lunchtime,” the clerk said. “So we can chat a little. My name is Harry Burke.”

  The Hardys introduced themselves. They noted that the pub was frequented by rough men who seemed ready for anything. Most were drinking at the bar. Several were tossing darts at a board.

  After the waitress had brought three orders of fish and chips, Burk leaned over and spoke in a low undertone.

  “I know that cap,” the clerk declared, “because it has a flaw in the cloth. And I remember who bought it.”

  “Who?” Frank prodded.

  “A man from East Anglia. I recall the incident because he demanded a lower price. He was a tough bargainer.”

  “Do you know his—” Frank began.

  Zing! A dart flew through the air, its sharp point penetrating the middle of the table. It stood upright with feathers quivering.

  Startled, Frank wrenched the dart loose and hefted it in his hand.

  “Is it a habit of the natives here to shoot toothpicks at strangers?” he asked tersely.

  “That wasn’t meant for you. It was aimed at me!” Harry said.

  “Why?” Joe asked.

  “Witchcraft! There’s a feud going on. It’s the black witches against the white witches to see who dominates the Isle of Man.”

  Joe was incredulous. “Harry, are you saying you’re a witch?”

  “Yes. I’m a white witch.”

  Joe scratched his head. “I’ve read about the black witches and the white witches. As I get it, the black witches practice black magic and the white witches, white magic.”

  “Black witches worship Satan,” Burk said. “We white ones bow to Diana.”

  “The Greek goddess with the bow and arrow?” Frank asked.

  “Yes, Diana, the Huntress,” Burk told him. “That’s what the ancient Greeks called her. We white witches believe Diana is a principle of good in the world.”

  “What do white witches do when they get together?” Joe wanted to know.

  “We meet in places like Stonehenge when the moon is full. We chant invocations to Diana and dance in the moonlight.”

  “Sounds interesting,” Frank said.

  “That’s not all,” Burk explained. “The good we do comes from our knowledge of herbs, an old wisdom handed down from one witch to another. We gather the herbs in the forest in the dark of the moon and make medicines from them.”

  “Magic cocktails!” Joe quipped.

  “Medicines!” Burk stressed. “Many people are being healed right now through witch lore. Black witches hate white witches for the good they do.”

  The clerk turned his head and glared at the group at the dartboard. They glared back at him.

  “I know who threw the dart,” he informed the Hardys. “He intended it as a warning not to speak to
you. Just for that, I’m going to tell you who bought the cap. He’s a black witch from Griffinmoor. He goes by the nickname of He Goat.”

  “What does he look like?” Frank pressed. “Is he young or old?”

  “Older man. Short. That’s all I know. Now, let’s get out of here before something worse happens.”

  Frank and Joe proceeded to the promenade, discussing the meaning of what they had just heard.

  “That gets Nip off the hook,” Frank said. He didn’t buy the cap. But who’s He Goat?”

  “One of the fellows we tangoed with at Stonehenge,” Joe said. “And Nip could still have been the other guy.”

  “You’re right. Nobody’s off the hook. We just have a new suspect in addition to everyone else. This mystery is too much! We’ve never been involved with one like this!” Frank said, discouraged.

  “Well, we know one thing. The fellow who tried to trap us at Stonehenge is from Griffinmoor. Most likely it’s He Goat himself. But why did he buy the cap so far away from home?” Joe asked.

  “This place is alive with witches,” Frank reminded him. “Maybe he visited the coven on the Isle of Man one time and picked it up during his stay.”

  “Crazy,” Joe said. “Between white witches and black witches I’m slowly going crazy!”

  Frank chuckled. “If we hang around long enough, either faction might try to convert us!”

  “No way,” Joe said. “The black faction at Griffinmoor definitely doesn’t want us around. I just wonder why the Isle of Man group objected to Harry Burke talking to us. Unless they know who we are?”

  Frank was thoughtful. “I’m beginning to wonder. “Maybe our cover is blown already and someone in Griffinmoor has warned the club here that we are coming?”

  They bought toothbrushes and some clothes, then sat down on another bench. Behind them rose a row of hotels catering to the tourist trade. Traffic moved along the broad thoroughfare between them and the beach, where vacationers were lying in the sand, throwing beach balls or splashing in the water.

  Adding to the activity, a platoon of motorcycles decorated in all the hues of the rainbow roared past. The leader wore a bright-red helmet and a black-leather jacket. Giving his machine the run, he zoomed in and out of traffic while his buddies zipped along behind him. The onlookers cheered.

  Frank asked a pedestrian why there were so many colorful bikes.

  “The International Tourist Trophy Races,” the man informed him. “The best drivers in the world come here every year to compete. You might say it’s the Isle of Man Grand Prix.”

  “Where’s the race track?” Joe inquired.

  “Covers most of the Isle of Man. Starts just outside Douglas, goes west across the island to Peel, then north to Ballaugh, east to Ramsey, and south to Douglas.

  “Bad country roads, hills, dust, sheep–there are a lot of obstacles on the course. Well, I’m off to see the bikes!”

  He walked away as a horse tram came slowly along, an open-air carriage riding on rails bisecting the promenade. A couple of cyclists were pedaling up behind it. They looked familiar, and Frank focused his eyes on them sharply.

  “Hey, Joe! See those guys over there on the bikes? One looks just like Phil Cohen. If the other one was fatter, I’d say they were our pals Chet and Phil.”

  Just then the two cyclists came abreast of the Hardys. The dark-haired, wiry boy with the glasses looked at Frank and stopped.

  “Chet!” he yelled. “Look who’s here!”

  CHAPTER XVII

  A Happy Reunion

  CHET Morton, a tall, strapping youth who was the Hardys’ best friend, almost fell off his bicycle.

  “I don’t believe it!” he shouted. “What in the world are the famous Bayport detectives doing so far away from home?”

  “Detecting, no doubt.” Phil chuckled. “Okay, spill it. What are you working on in these parts of the globe?”

  “Just sightseeing,” Frank said.

  “Sure. And we’re just off to a walk in the woods,” Chet quipped.

  “I thought you were on a cycling tour of Ireland,” Frank declared.

  “We were,” Phil replied, “but we decided to pop over here for the motorbike races.”

  Chet varoomed like a motor revving up. “Those guys zip around the back roads like crazy! I’d like to be in on it!”

  Frank and Joe knew that Chet was usually up to his ears in a new hobby.

  “Is it motorcycles this time?” Joe asked.

  “That is just one of my interests,” Chet answered with an airy wave of his hand. “My main concern on the Isle of Man is—”

  “Cats!” Phil chuckled.

  Joe looked quizzical. “Cats? We have scads of ’em in Bayport!”

  Chet shook his head and looked pained. “Not Manx cats. The ones without tails that this island is famous for. I’d like to get one and ship it home.”

  “I think you should stick to cycling,” Frank declared. “That’s a great way to get rid of extra pounds.”

  Chet grinned and patted his belt line. “Terrific, isn’t it? I’ll be so trim when I get back that I might beat you out for halfback on the football team!”

  Phil and Chet were staying at an inn, so the four decided to go there and compare notes about what they had been doing since their last meeting in Bayport.

  The inn was a ramshackle building in an alley near Strand Street, the main shopping district of Douglas. They had to climb three flights of rickety stairs to reach the room.

  “This is the best we could do,” Phil said. “Douglas is buttoned up for the races.”

  The room held a couple of beds and chairs. Chet produced four bottles of root beer and sat down on the window sill.

  “We cycled all over Ireland,” he boasted. “You guys should have been here. I could have given you some lessons.”

  He chugalugged his root beer and patted his stomach. The other three sipped theirs slowly. Finally Frank placed his bottle on the floor beside his chair.

  “You should have been with us,” he countered. “We could have used a couple of backstops when the going got rough.”

  Phil pursed his lips. “As I surmised, you and Joe are on another case.”

  “Right,” Joe confessed. He described their sudden departure from Bayport after Professor Rowbotham asked their father to help solve the burglary at the Witch Museum. He mentioned their adventures in East Anglia, London, and Stonehenge.

  “Hey, we’d like a piece of the action,” Chet said. “Bring on the witches! But don’t expect me to ride a broomstick!”

  “You couldn’t get airborne on a broomstick anyway, Chet.” Joe needled him. “You’d need to lose another twenty pounds.”

  “Well, we’d like an assist,” Frank said. “We haven’t gotten too far with the witch case. He explained the problem of the Stonehenge cap and the black witch known as He Goat.

  “Harry Burk says there’s a feud between black and white witches on the Isle of Man,” Frank concluded.

  “I’ve got news for you,” Phil revealed. “Chet and I have been to Black Magic Hall. It’s owned by a couple of black witches!”

  Frank became excited. “Is it a good exhibition? We were planning to go.”

  Chet shrugged. “It’s okay. But we didn’t see the Super Exhibit. We would have had to pay an extra pound.”

  A sound on the landing made the four sit up and listen intently. Footsteps stealthily approached the door and stopped. Joe crossed the room silently and pulled the door open. A slatternly woman almost fell against him before regaining her balance.

  “I’m the landlady,” she declared. “I was just about to knock. Four in a room means you pay twice as much.”

  “Then we want two extra cots,” Phil said.

  The landlady told them to take the cots from a hall closet. They paid her and she went back downstairs.

  “Was she eavesdropping?” Chet wondered.

  “She may become the next suspect,” Frank replied. “What say we all go to Black Magic Hall
and see the special exhibit?”

  “Okay,” Chet said, and they left the inn.

  The museum was located in a rundown area of Douglas. The man and woman who ran it were brother and sister, who admitted they were black witches.

  “Why shouldn’t we be?” the woman demanded defiantly. “Witches have rights, too!”

  “Suppose,” Frank replied, “you let us have tickets to the museum.”

  The man took their money and handed them the tickets. His eyes followed the boys as they went inside.

  The regular exhibition was good. They looked over witch dolls, masks, bells, and candles. They stopped before a black table covered with velvet cloth on which lay a wand, a crystal ball, two daggers that pointed in opposite directions, an astrology chart, and a sprig of mistletoe.

  “Interesting but not suspicious,” Frank judged when they had circled the room. “I don’t see any of Professor Rowbotham’s things here.”

  An arrow directed them up a flight of narrow stairs to a door with a sign reading: SUPER EXHIBIT. They entered a small dark room and closed the door behind them. Dim lighting illuminated the items on display.

  The first was a witch’s cauldron.

  Joe whispered, “Frank, that’s from the Griffinmoor collection! I remember the illustration in the catalog. The dent in the side is a dead giveaway!”

  “And here’s a skull and crossbones exactly like Professor Rowbotham’s!” Frank murmured. “And this mask! And this dagger!”

  The Hardys told their friends that the Super Exhibit appeared to be made up of stolen pieces from the Griffinmoor Witch Museum.

  “We ought to make those crooks confess!” Chet said.

  “No good,” Frank countered. “They’d only deny everything.”

  “But we must do something!” Joe urged.

  Phil thought for a moment. “How about visiting a witch’s coven? We might find some more proof that way.”

  The Hardys agreed to try Phil’s idea. The four laid their plans and descended to the ground floor, where the two witches were talking in guarded whispers in a corner. They fell silent when they saw the boys approaching.

  “I have a secret to tell you,” Frank said mysteriously.