TRAILS SLIPPERY. DOWN SOON. DAD.
Chet grinned. “Gee, that sounds funny. I suppose it’s in code.”
Neither he nor the general could make out the message, so Frank interpreted. “Junior is older than he appears and a slippery customer, probably from out West.”
“Wow!” Chet cried. “No wonder he’s handy with a gun I”
General Smith looked very serious. “You boys have done mighty well on this case, and have one prisoner. Don’t you want to call it quits? With the material you’ve already gathered, your dad should solve this mystery in short order.”
Joe frowned. “That’s just it, sir. We want to solve it before he gets here.”
“Well, I’m all for you,” the officer said happily. “You surely have opened my eyes. Didn’t know the younger generation had so much detective ability. We’ll get that plane this afternoon. Call up and make arrangements, Frank.”
The boy contacted the airport and talked with a young pilot who operated a plane-leasing service. He readily agreed to rent the Hardys a small plane.
At four o’clock Frank, Joe, and Chet arrived at the airport. By arrangement, General Smith was to post himself at the old plantation. If the boys found the location of Bush’s hideout, they were to fly over the plantation and drop a message to the officer. He, in turn, was to get the local police to assist in the roundup of the criminals.
On the way to the airport building, Chet chattered eagerly. “Just the kind of day for pictures. Maybe I can take some good ones from the plane and sell them to the local newspaper.”
A young man came out the door of a hangar as Frank parked. He smiled at the boys, and introduced himself as Tom Crandall.
Frank briefly explained his mission, saying they were going to look for a group of men believed to be in the woods near the old plantation.
“You can go up right away. There’s your baby. I checked her out myself.” Crandall indicated a sleek little silver four-seater.
The boys strode out to the runway apron and climbed aboard. Frank started the engine, the propeller raced to life, and the small craft shuddered with power.
“Okay, here we go!” Frank shouted as he taxied to take-off position. In a few minutes the plane rose into the air.
Joe sat in the seat next to his brother, with Chet directly behind. As the craft glided over the treetops, Chet watched as Frank manipulated the controls.
“Gee I’d sure like to learn to fly these things,” the boy mused.
“Nothing’s stopping you!” Joe grinned, turning to wink at Frank.
“We’ll crisscross the area,” Frank said. “Sing out when you spot the Smith place.”
“Boy, this is the life!” Chet beamed as he leaned toward a window to take photographs.
It did not take the craft long to reach the old plantation. Peering out, the boys saw General Smith far below, waving up to them.
“Here’s the place,” Frank said, taking in the area with a sweep of his hand. “I’ll go a mile or so north, then back again. Keep a sharp lookout when we get over the middle of the woods.”
The boys’ eyes were glued to the windows for a possible glimpse of anybody in the secluded area below. Chet fussed with his telephoto lens, then squinted down at the scene.
Suddenly Frank cried out, “Look! There’s smoke over there!”
Far ahead, and apparently rising from a clearing, curled a lazy wisp of smoke.
“Somebody’s down there, sure as shootin’,” Joe stated. “We’ll pass right over them.”
Tense with excitement, the boys waited for the plane to reach the spot from which the smoke was rising.
“Can you bring her lower?” Joe asked.
Frank nodded, then manipulated the controls so that the plane nosed gently down. He leveled off again. The smoke was closer. Finally a clearing came into view.
Frank decided not to fly over it directly. Instead he made a wide circle, banking at an angle to give all of them a clear view of the place.
“Well, would you look at that!” Chet said, and adjusted his telephoto lens.
Three men were around a campfire, evidently preparing a meal. The figures were bending over, so that they could neither be seen directly by the boys nor could they see the occupants of the plane bearing down upon them.
The shutter of Chet’s camera clicked and clicked again. Suddenly the men, apparently now suspicious of the low-flying plane, grabbed up something from the ground and dashed into the bushes. But not before Chet had snapped another picture!
“What now?” asked Joe.
“Back to the plantation,” Frank said. “We’ll drop a note to General Smith.”
Three men hovered around a campfire
Frank eased the plane into a banking turn, ap-plied full throttle, and climbed for altitude. But as he did, a man on the ground ran into the clearing.
Chet centered him in the view finder and ex claimed. “He’s got a rifle. He’s aiming at us!”
All three could see tiny puffs of smoke as the high-power weapon spoke and bullets struck home against the fuselage. Then a bullet thudded against the straining motor. Frank gave a groan of dismay as the engine began to cough!
CHAPTER XVIII
A Final Clue
“THE bullet’s hit the fuel line!” Frank shouted to Joe and Chet.
Immediately he tried to coax the engine back to its normal, pulsating drone, but his feverish manipulation failed. The sputtering became continuous, and the craft began to lose altitude.
“We’re going to crash!” Chet cried hysterically.
“Pull yourself together,” Joe shouted. “Frank can handle a plane as well as if he’d been born at the controls.”
The older Hardy grinned at his brother’s high praise, even as he himself began to lose hope.
“We may be able to keep her up long enough to make it back to the airstrip,” he yelled encouragingly.
Yet as he fought to maintain a safe altitude, Frank knew that at any moment the engine might give a final cough, and quit. And there was the further danger that leaking gas from the damaged fuel line might ignite and set the small plane aflame.
“I can see the airport ahead now! Joe exclaimed excitedly. ”You’re doing fine, Frank. Keep up—”
The boy’s remark was cut short as the engine gave a sudden shudder and the craft dropped sharply. Trees loomed only a few feet beneath the belly of the plane.
But now Frank was lined up with the runway.
“Hang on!” he bellowed. “I think we’re going to make it—but it may be a rough landing!”
Chet sucked in his breath and shut his eyes as the wheels struck the concrete and bounced. The plane bounced twice more, then skidded to a final stop a few yards in front of its hangar.
Frank heaved a huge sigh of relief as Joe clapped him on the back.
“Great work!”
“Y-you mean we-we’re s-safe?” Chet asked unbelievingly as the boys helped him from the craft.
“I’ve had close calls, but this was the closest,” Frank admitted.
Just then Crandall ran from the hangar.
“I’m sorry your plane’s damaged,” Frank said, and he explained what had happened.
Crandall managed a half-smile. “The plane’s covered by insurance,” he said. “I’m just glad you’re all safe!”
As the Hardys and Chet made their way to the office, Crandall asked if they had any idea who had fired upon them.
“We think the man responsible is a criminal who calls himself Dr. Bush,” Joe answered. “He and his cohorts have been bothering us for some time.”
“Well,” Crandall said after a pause, “Bush is in real trouble now. He can’t go around shooting at planes and expect to get away with it!”
After settling the bill for the plane’s rental and thanking Crandall, the three boys went to the police station and reported the incident. The chief said he would relay the information to the county sheriff and a determined search would be made for the men invo
lved.
Frank and Joe wanted to join the hunt, but when they telephoned their news to General Smith, he would not hear of it.
“You were up most of last night,” he reminded them. “Come on back here and get some rest.”
Claude was waiting for them with a sumptuous meal. It was not Chet alone who came back for third helpings of pompano and fried tomatoes. Frank and Joe’s recent experience had given them ravenous appetites.
Chet had planned to take his roll of film to town for developing after dinner, but he fell asleep in an easy chair. General Smith and Joe discussed the mystery, while Frank for the hundredth time looked over the coded message found in the ammunition box. Finally he said:
“There’s one symbol on this sheet we’ve never tried to decipher and it might be the connecting link.”
“What’s that?” Joe asked.
“The strange-looking tree. You said you never saw one like it, General Smith?”
“I can’t recall ever having seen one.”
Frank became silent again, but in a few minutes he remarked, “Do you suppose there are any old-timers in town who would have any information about the plantation before it was ruined?”
As the general pondered, Claude came to say good night. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “but I couldn’t help hearing your conversation. I believe Reverend Colts, the pastor of my church, could help you.”
“That’s fine. Thank you, Claude. We’ll call on him in the morning,” the general said.
The Hardys’ first stop the following day, however, was the jail. There they were told that Hank still refused to talk. The boys also learned there was no news of Bush or the gang.
While Chet went to the general store with film to be developed, the Hardys and General Smith called at the home of Reverend Colts. A middle-aged man answered their knock. The general introduced himself and asked the pastor if he knew of anyone still living who had had any contact with the Smith plantation years ago.
“Yes, I do,” the pastor replied. “Benjamin Berry. He lives in an old folks’ home. I’m quite sure his grandfather worked for Mr. Beauregard Smith.”
The boys and the general thanked the pastor and drove to the home, located a mile away. An attendant pointed out old Ben, who was rocking on the side porch of the red-brick building.
“How do you do, Ben?” said General Smith. Smiling, he told the man who he was. “Meet some friends.”
The old man nodded. To their questions, he replied that his grandfather had served the Beauregard Smith family long after the emancipation. He was delighted to talk of the older days. After a few minutes General Smith steered the conversation around to the lost tunnel.
“Did you ever hear of an old arsenal on the plantation?” the general asked.
Ben shook his head.
“Ever see a tunnel, or any other hiding place?”
The old man took up a cane resting beside his chair and thoughtfully folded his bony hands over its head.
“I’m tryin’ to think, General.” He paused. “No. I don’t remember any tunnel, but I know my grandpop was scared of the woods along the run.”
“Why?” Joe was first with the question.
“He said he once saw Mr. Beauregard swallowed right up by the earth, probably because of some hole that nobody but Mr. Smith knew about.”
“That may be just what we’re looking for!” Joe burst out. “Where was the place, Ben?”
“I don’t know exactly. Some place along Rocky Run.”
“There’s another question we’d like to ask you, Ben,” Frank spoke up. The boy reached into his pocket and pulled out a drawing of the tree as it had appeared on the coded message. “Ever see a tree like this?”
Ben carefully adjusted a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles on the bridge of his nose. After studying the tree a moment, he smiled.
“Well I declare! I haven’t seen a Franklin tree for many, many a year.”
“A Franklin tree?”
“Mr. Smith planted a lot of them along the Rocky Run. They were his favorite trees. But most of them died right off, so I heard.”
Ben believed the species had been found growing first in the Carolinas. Then it had almost died out until the middle of the nineteenth century, when it became quite popular and was named for Benjamin Franklin.
“Could you describe the tree?” Joe asked.
The old man thought a moment.
“As I remember, the trees stood fifteen, twenty feet high. They had leaves like those on magnolias, with fragrant white blossoms.” He concluded, “The trees are still rare, because they’re hard to grow. It’s too bad. They smelled wonderful on summer afternoons.”
Ben looked up. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to be of more help to you.”
“But you havel” Joe said enthusiastically.
After thanking Ben for his information, the trio got into the car and returned to Centerville. Chet was waiting for them in front of the store.
“Let’s get out to Rocky Run as soon as possible,” Joe said eagerly.
“Not me,” Chet spoke up. “I have a hunch that this time my pictures are going to solve the mystery. The man said he’d have ‘em ready by twelve o’clock, so I’m hanging around here to wait.”
General Smith and the Hardys were about to drive off when Claude came hurrying along the street, waving for the officer to wait.
“A long-distance call came in for you, sir,” he reported. “Very poor connection, but the party said he would call again about twelve. Its very important, and he asked that you please be there.”
Telling Frank and Joe he would see them later, the general followed Claude.
As the Hardy boys drove off, they wondered if the call might have anything to do with their case. But the thought left their minds as they eagerly talked about the clue of the Franklin tree.
In the meantime, Chet, to while away the time, walked around the town, had an ice-cream soda, and bought some scenic cards of Centerville to send home. At a quarter to twelve his pictures were ready.
Chet pulled them from the envelope eagerly. One look and he gave a shout.
“Randolph! The black bag! I’ve got to get to General Smith fast!”
CHAPTER XIX
The Lost Tunnel
CHET left the storekeeper staring open-mouthed at his cryptic remarks. The stout boy had never moved faster than he did in the next few minutes. Bursting breathlessly into General Smith’s home, he was met by the officer who was just turning away from the telephone.
“Chet, we must find Frank and Joe at once!”
“What’s up?” Chet replied, stopping short with the photographs in his hand. The look of worry on the general’s face alarmed him.
“Mr. Hardy has uncovered the identities of our enemies. I’ve just had a message from his home. He’s flying down here.”
“Bush and his men are bank robbers, wanted on the West Coast,” he continued. “They’re fully armed and deadly! If we don’t get to Frank and Joe immediately, we may never see them alive again!”
Meanwhile, the Hardys had covered a lot of ground. After hiding the car in a grove of trees, they had started their search along the north bank of Rocky Run, the side nearest the plantation buildings.
“Suppose you look for signs of a tunnel along the shore, Joe,” his brother suggested. “I’ll keep my eyes open for Franklin trees or other clues a little distance from the water.”
The boys started upstream, carrying a shovel and a spade. Every little crevice among the rocks, every depression in the ground was carefully probed. When an old stone fence indicated they had come to the end of the plantation, Frank and Joe switched places and started back to recheck before crossing the stream.
They continued the search, looking at every tree and every inch of ground until their backs ached. Finally Frank called a halt. He went to the brink of the stream, bent down, and splashed his face with the cool water. The refreshing pause sharpened his senses. Taking in a deep breath of woodland air, h
e remarked:
“Smell that sweet honeysuckle?”
“Honeysuckle?” Joe repeated. Suddenly his eyes lighted with excitement. “Frank! Maybe what we smell is from the blossoms of a Franklin tree!”
“Joe, you’re a whiz. But I didn’t see any Franklin trees on this side of—”
“Let’s look on the other side of the stream,” Joe interrupted excitedly.
Following the direction from which the sweet scent seemed to be coming, they crossed the rapidly swirling water and pressed several yards into the woods. Suddenly Frank spotted something.
“Follow me!” he cried, scrambling through the brush.
He and Joe reached a beautiful tree, whose fragrance scented the woodland. Although the branches seemed to be decaying in several places, its leaves were large, with beautiful white blossoms. There were no other trees around like it.
“Maybe this is it!” Joe cried.
“The only one left of Beauregard Smith’s favorite trees,” Frank murmured in awe.
“Come on!”
Starting at the base of the tree, the boys made ever-widening circles, probing every inch of ground as they went.
“Hey, look at this!” Frank said as he came upon a large mossy mound close to the stream. Opening his knife, the boy peeled off some of the thick green sod. Underneath a layer of earth he found a brick.
The boys began to dig away the sod furiously. A few minutes later they had uncovered a vaultlike enclosure. They loosened the bricks in the front one by one. Finally they had made an opening large enough to squeeze through. The daylight which penetrated the darkness below revealed old stone steps leading downward.
“The lost tunnel! The arsenal!” Joe exulted hoarsely.
Frank was just as excited as his brother, but he warned Joe:
“Keep it down! We don’t want to attract any of Bush’s men—yet.”
Joe already was leaping down the steps, Frank close behind.
They found themselves in a musty cavern. Both boys whipped out their flashlights, then halted in amazement.
“Cannon balls!” Frank exclaimed. “Look! There must be a hundred of them.”
The Secret of the Lost Tunnel Page 10
