Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER I - Underwater Danger
CHAPTER II - A Suspicious Client
CHAPTER III - A Motorcycle Clue
CHAPTER IV - New Tactics
CHAPTER V - The Stakeout
CHAPTER VI - Mysterious Attackers
CHAPTER VII - The Battle of Bayport
CHAPTER VIII - Spies
CHAPTER IX - A Surprising Suspect
CHAPTER X - Fireworks!
CHAPTER XI - An Alias
CHAPTER XII - Startling Developments
CHAPTER XIII - Mixed Identities
CHAPTER XIV - Chet’s Kidnap Story
CHAPTER XV - An Impostor
CHAPTER XVI - The Wreck
CHAPTER XVII - Gunner’s Tools
CHAPTER XVIII - Guarding a Discovery
CHAPTER XIX - Human Targets
CHAPTER XX - Divers’ Reward
THE SECRET OF PIRATES’ HILL
In a series of hair-raising adventures both on land and undersea the teen-age brother detectives pit their wits against some of the most ruthless criminals they have ever encountered.
It all starts when Frank and Joe are skin diving just for fun and the thrill of exploring the undersea world. Suddenly, deep in the waters that flow near the foot of Pirates’ Hill, a mysterious skin diver fires a spear through Frank’s air hose.
From this moment on, danger is never far away. The very lives of the boys are at stake as they, with the help of their pals Chet Morton and Tony Prito, uncover a mystery involving an old Spanish cannon and a fabulous sunken treasure. Again, Franklin W. Dixon has woven a suspense-filled story that will thrill his many fans.
A rocket was streaking directly toward them!
Copyright © 1972,1956, by Simon & Schuster, Inc.
All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset Group, New
York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.
THE HARDYB0YS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number:72-77108
eISBN : 978-1-101-07650-7
http://us.penguingroup.com
CHAPTER I
Underwater Danger
“DON’T forget, Frank, any treasure we find will be divided fifty-fifty!” Blond, seventeen-year-old Joe Hardy grinned. He checked his skin-diving gear and slid, flippers first, over the gunwale of their motorboat.
“I’ll settle for a pot of gold,” retorted Frank.
He was similarly attired in trunks, air tank, and face mask, and carried a shark knife. The boys had anchored their boat, the Sleuth, off a secluded area of dunes, which ran beneath a low, rocky promontory called Pirates’ Hill.
“Here goes!” said Frank as he plunged into the cool waters of the Atlantic. Together, the Hardys swam toward the bottom.
Suddenly Joe clutched his brother’s arm and pointed. Twenty feet in front of them and only a short distance from the surface was another skin diver in a black rubber suit. The barbed shaft of a spear gun he held was aimed in their direction!
As the man pulled the trigger, Joe gave Frank a hard shove, separating the boys. The arrow flashed between them and drifted away.
“Wow! What’s that guy trying to do?” Frank thought as the diver moved off. “He couldn’t possibly have mistaken us for fish!”
Motioning for his brother to follow, he swam toward the diver. But the spearman, with powerful strokes, shot to the surface. Apparently he did not want to be questioned.
Pointing, Frank indicated to Joe, “Up and after him!”
As they popped above the waves, they looked about. The Sleuth lay twenty feet away. But the spearman was nowhere in sight.
Frank and Joe lifted their face masks. “Where did he go?” Frank called out.
“Beats me,” Joe replied, treading water and gazing in all directions.
Conjecturing that the stranger must have swum slightly beneath the surface and taken off toward shore, the Hardys decided to give up the chase and resume their diving.
“Down we go,” Joe said as he readjusted the straps that held the air tank on his back. “But keep your eyes open for that spearman.”
“Right.”
Again the boys submerged. There was no sign of the other diver. “He sure got away from here fast,” Frank thought. “I wonder who he is.”
Long, strong strokes with their rubber-finned legs forced the boys downward through seaweed gardens. Small fish swished in and out among the fronds. Seeing no interesting objects to salvage, Frank signaled Joe to head for deeper water. Air bubbles rippled steadily upward.
Moments later Frank felt a sudden jar and his face mask was nearly ripped off. He clawed desperately to put it back in place, but realized that his air hose had been ripped. Frantically he tried to move up, but unconsciousness swept over him.
Joe, who had seen the whole episode, was horror-struck. Another shaft from a spear gun had zipped through the murky deep. From the vast amount of bubbles rising through the water, Joe knew that his brother’s life was in danger.
With powerful strokes, he reached Frank’s side. Towing the limp form with one hand, Joe headed for the Sleuth’s anchor line, dimly visible in the distance. Working his fins as violently as possible, he fought his way toward it for what seemed an eternity.
Finally he reached the rope and pulled himself to the surface. Joe tore off Frank’s headgear, holding his face above the waves. Then he pushed him into the boat and scrambled aboard.
Quickly Joe laid his brother in a prone posi. tion and applied artificial respiration.
Minutes passed before Frank stirred. Joe continued his treatment until he heard a moan, then a feeble question.
“Where—? What happened?”
“We were shot at again and you were hit,” Joe said, helping Frank sit up.
“The same diver?”
“Must have been. Probably he was hiding behind an underwater rock,” Joe replied.
“That guy must be crazy!” Frank said, after filling his lungs with deep drafts of air.
“I can’t figure him out,” Joe mused. “Do you suppose he’s looking for sunken treasure and wanted to keep us away?”
“I never heard anybody talk about sunken treasure off Bayport,” Frank said.
“No,” Joe agreed. “Well, pal, I think you’ve had enough for one morning. Let’s go home.”
He pulled up anchor and started the motor. Two miles away on Barmet Bay was the boathouse where the boys kept the Sleuth. As. they turned toward the bay entrance, Joe grinned ruefully. “I wish we could have kept that spear for a clue,” he remarked, “but it passed clean through your air hose and disappeared.”
“I did notice one thing when we chased the diver,” said Frank. “There was a yellow band around that black swim cap he wore.”
Frank realized his air hose had been ripped!
“Pretty slim clue. You feeling okay, Frank?”
Frank said he felt a bit nauseous, but otherwise recovered from the shock. “Hey,” he added, “there’s someone waiting for us at the dock!”
Drawing closer, they saw a man about thirty-five years old. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and had wiry black hair. He stood motionless, his legs braced apart, looking intently at them.
Joe ran the Sleuth into the boathouse and the brothers stepped ashore.
“Good morning,” the stranger said as they came outside. “My name’s Clyde Bowden. I’m from Tampa, Florida. I assume you’re the Hardys?”
“That’s right,” Frank replied as the trio shook hands
. “What can we do for you?”
“A detecting job.”
“Let’s hear about it,” Frank said.
The Hardys, star athletes at Bayport High, were the sons of Fenton Hardy. Formerly a crack detective with the New York City Police Depart ment, Mr. Hardy was now an internationally famous private investigator. Frank and Joe often helped their father on his cases and also had solved many mysteries on their own.
Their first big success was The Tower Treasure, and only recently they had had several hair-raising adventures in tracking down The Clue in the Embers. Now they were excited about the prospect of tackling a new mystery.
“How did you know where to find us?” Joe asked.
“I just left your home on Elm Street,” Bowden replied. “Learned from your mother I might meet you here.”
“While we stow our diving gear and get into some clothes, suppose you tell us about your case,” said Frank.
The boys put their skin-diving equipment in a locker of the Sleuth, then pulled on shirts, dungarees, and sneakers.
They listened intently as Bowden explained that he was searching for an early eighteenth-century cannon known as a Spanish demiculverin. It was supposed to be in the vicinity of Bayport.
“A Spanish cannon in Bayport?” Joe asked unbelievingly.
“Although I’m not in a position to tell you how I know about the cannon, I’m certain that with your assistance I can locate it,” Bowden answered.
As they drove toward the Hardy home, Frank asked the man for the dimensions of the cannon. Bowden described it as being nine feet long and weighing 3,200 pounds. “It fires an eight-pound shot,” he added.
“What do you want the old cannon for?” Joe asked.
Bowden smiled. “Believe it or not, I’m helping to outfit the pirate boats to be used in the famous Gasparilla Exposition in Tampa this year,” he replied. “All the details, including the guns, must be authentic.”
“That’s very interesting,” said Frank as they turned a corner toward the town square. “I should think that the type of cannon you’re look ing for would be found somewhere around the Caribbean rather than this far north. I’ve read that many Spanish ships were wrecked—”
Frank stopped speaking as a deafening boom suddenly shook the air.
“What was that?” Bowden gasped.
“It came from the square,” Frank replied. “Sounds like trouble. Come on!”
Frank drove quickly around another corner and parked the car. They all jumped out.
CHAPTER II
A Suspicious Client
WITH Bowden trailing behind, Frank and Joe sprinted toward a crowd of people milling in the town square. They were gathered around an old Civil War mortar that stood on a pedestal. White smoke drifted from the muzzle.
“Somebody fired the gun!” Joe cried out.
“It must have been an accident,” Frank said.
As the boys shouldered their way through the crowd they saw Officers Smuff and Riley of the local police force being besieged with questions from the onlookers.
Before the policemen could reply, a booming voice sounded above the babble and a short, grizzled old man, dressed in a revolutionary Minute Man’s costume, complete with tricorn hat and leggings, strode up beside the mortar.
“I can’t understand what all this here fussin is about,” he said in a booming voice.
He smiled and his weather-beaten face creased into long lines. He told Officer Riley that he was Jim Tilton, a retired artillery sergeant. He had been asked by Police Chief Collig to take charge of the Independence Day cannon salute.
“But this isn’t July fourth!” Riley protested. “It’s only the first.”
The old-timer raised his hands good-naturedly. “I’m mighty sorry I caused so much fuss. After all, I wasn’t usin’ a ball. I just had some powder an’ waddin’ in her.”
Tilton pulled a letter from his pocket and showed it to the officers. It was from Police Chief Collig and the Fourth-of-July Committee, granting permission for Tilton to test the mortar.
“Well, there was no harm done,” Riley said. “Now we know the gun is ready—we and everybody for five miles around!”
Reassured, the crowd dispersed. Sergeant Tilton remained near the mortar, talking with a few men. The Hardys moved closer to get a better look at the old sergeant and the equipment he had been using.
Bowden also edged forward and stared with keen interest at the various markings on the gun. He told the boys that this was a Federal artillery piece.
“It was cast at the same arsenal that turned out the famous Dictator,” he said. “That was a thirteen-inch mortar used against Petersburg, Virginia, in the Civil War.”
Tilton raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Land sakes,” he remarked, “you know a lot! I didn’t never suspect anything like that about this ol’ hunk o’ iron.”
As the sergeant began to clean the barrel of the weapon, Bowden turned to Frank and Joe. “My offer to you,” he said in a low voice, “is one thousand dollars if you find the Spanish cannon.”
The Hardys were amazed. A thousand dollars for an old gun to be used in a pageant! I
Sensing their thoughts, Bowden quickly added, “I’m a man of means and can well afford it.”
He explained that he had already combed Bayport proper. The boys’ responsibility would lie in searching the surrounding areas and nearby towns. Bowden said he was staying at the Garden Gate Motel on the state highway and could be reached there if anything developed.
“We don’t charge for our sleuthing,” Frank informed the man.
Bowden was astonished. “You’ve solved all your cases for nothing?”
Joe nodded. “If we should help you,” he said, “it will be on that basis.”
“Okay. But believe me, I’ll make it worth your while somehow!” Then, seeing that Tilton was preparing to leave, Bowden hastily excused himself. “I have a few questions to ask this old codger. See you later.”
The Hardys drove to police headquarters to report the underwater attack. They went directly to Chief Collig, a solidly built man in his late forties. He often cooperated with them on their cases, and now listened intently to their latest adventure.
“This is serious,” he said. “I’ll notify the harbor patrol to be on the lookout for a skin diver wearing a black suit and a black swim cap with a yellow stripe around it.”
The boys thanked him and left. As they turned into Elm Street on which they lived, their conversation centered around Bowden.
“It looks as if we’re back in business!” Joe remarked. “Let’s take on the case.”
“I’m a little worried about it,” Frank replied. “The whole thing seems a bit phony.” He reminded Joe of the many times they had met people who had seemed to be aboveboard, but had turned out to be dishonest.
“It would be fun looking for the cannon,” Joe insisted.
“That’s true.”
At the rambling stone house in which they lived, the boys were greeted by their petite mother and their tall, angular Aunt Gertrude. She was Mr. Hardy’s sister, who lived with the family. When she heard about Clyde Bowden’s offer, Aunt Gertrude exclaimed:
“A thousand dollars for finding an old piece of junk! There’s something underhanded about such a deal. Mark my words!”
Mrs. Hardy’s face wore a worried frown. “I wish your father were here instead of in Florida.”
“Florida!” Joe exclaimed. “Frank, Dad could check on Bowden’s credentials. Let’s phone him!”
Mrs. Hardy said the detective could be reached only by mail or telegram at an address in Miami. Frank immediately sent a wire by telephone.
“We may not get an answer for several days,” Joe remarked. “I hate to wait. Why can’t we make a start on Bowden’s case? We can drop it any time we like.”
“Okay, but let’s not get in too deep until we hear from Dad.”
“I’ll let Bowden know,” said Joe. He dialed the Garden Gate Motel. Bowden was not in, so
Joe left a message for him. Then he turned to Frank. “How about advertising in the newspaper for information about the demiculverin?”
“Good idea.” By telephone Frank placed an ad in the Bayport Times, which had a wide circulation even in the smaller outlying towns.
“I have another thought,” Joe said. “Maybe Aunt Gertrude can help us.”
“How?”
“As newly elected president of the Bayport Historical Society,” Joe said. “she might have some information about ancient cannon in the vicinity.”
Their aunt had gone to the kitchen to prepare lunch. Frank and Joe followed and put the question to her. After a moment’s thought, Miss Hardy said, “Let me see. I know of one cannon.”
“Where is it?” Joe asked eagerly.
“I think it’s on the back lawn of a museum in Greenville.”
“Do you know what type it is?” Frank asked.
“I believe it may be pre-Civil War,” Aunt Gertrude replied. “It might be Spanish. I’m not sure.”
“We’ll take a look,” said Joe.
After lunch the boys set off in their convert. ible for the Greenville Museum. It was a small building at an intersection of two roads at the edge of town. The main entrance was on one road, with a tall hedge in front of the building. Extensive grounds stretched to the rear on the side road, along which ran a high iron picket fence. Frank parked alongside the hedge, and the young detectives strode through a gate to the spacious lawn at the back.
The cannon, a long-barreled six-pounder, stood in the center of the lawn. Joe dashed across the flagstones leading to it and read the plaque fixed to the piece.
“It’s a Spanish gun!”
Frank joined him and read the inscription on the bronze plaque. It stated:
“Pasavolante, meaning fast action. Made in Toledo, Spain. Often called cerbantana, after Cerberus, the fierce dog of mythology. Pasa-volante in modern Spanish means peashooter.”
“Do you suppose this could be the peashooter that Bowden is searching for and he just got the name wrong?” Joe asked.
Frank looked thoughtful. Then he said, “I doubt it. Bowden seemed sure it was a demiculverin, didn’t he?”
The Secret of Pirates' Hill Page 1
