The Secret of Pirates' Hill

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “That’s hard to believe,” Frank said.

  Joe, on the other hand, arched his eyebrows and gave his brother a meaningful look as if to say, “I told you so.”

  Bowden asked them how they happened to know Gorman. Guardedly Frank told of meeting him on the beach. Bowden interrupted the narration several times to inquire about details. There seemed to be something he wanted to know, but was reluctant to ask point-blank.

  Finally, unable to suppress his curiosity any longer, he blurted out, “Did Gorman mention the cutlass?”

  CHAPTER XI

  An Alias

  BOWDEN’S unexpected question perplexed the boys for an instant. Then Joe asked, “One of the stolen cutlasses?”

  Bowden looked blank. “What stolen cutlasses?” “You don’t seem to read the newspaper,” Frank said. “Some swords were stolen from the Bayport Historical Society building the night before last.”

  Bowden’s surprise seemed genuine and the Hardys concluded that he had nothing to do with the theft.

  “Well, what cutlass were you talking about?” Joe asked.

  “Forget it.”

  “Look, Mr. Bowden, you can’t play hide-and-seek with facts and expect us to do a good sleuthing job for you!”

  The man smiled. “No need for you to get hot under the collar. Gorman’s hipped on finding a miniature cutlass—says it’s a lost heirloom. He puts the question to everyone.”

  The Hardys thought this was an unlikely story. They left shortly, saying they planned to continue their search for the cannon.

  “I wish Dad would come back from Florida,” Joe remarked as they rode along. “This case is getting knotty.”

  “Joe, it had me baffled until just now. But I believe I have the answer,” Frank declared.

  “What is it?”

  “It might sound farfetched,” Frank replied, “but the combination of cannons, cutlasses, and the story about the pirates’ fight all lead in one direction.”

  Joe smiled. “You mean hidden treasure?”

  “Right. But we’ll have to dig up more clues before we can dig up any treasure,” Frank said.

  Since the boys had to pass near their home to take the road to Pirates’ Hill, Frank suggested that they stop and see if there was a letter or phone message from Mr. Hardy.

  The telephone was ringing persistently as they entered the house. “Nobody’s home,” Frank said. “Grab it, Joe.”

  The boy picked up the instrument in the front hall. “Yes, this is Joe Hardy.... Why do you want to see us, Mr. Smedick?” Joe listened for a moment and added, “All right. Frank and I will come immediately.”

  Joe hung up and turned to his brother. “A guy with a strained voice, named A. B. Smedick, wants to see us at the Bayport Hotel. Room 309. It has something to do with the cannon mystery.”

  “We’d better watch out. This may be a trap. I suggest we stay in the hall to talk to that fellow,” Frank cautioned.

  A few minutes later Joe buzzed 309. Presently the door opened. The Hardys gasped. Tim Gorman stood there!

  “What’s the idea of this?” Joe asked.

  “Please step in,” Gorman invited. “I’ll explain.”

  “We prefer staying here,” Frank said coolly.

  Quickly Gorman reached into his coat pocket, extracted a wallet, and took out a paper and a card. He handed them to Frank.

  On the card the boys saw the small photograph of the man in a Navy uniform. Joe inspected it closely to see if any touching up had been done.

  It was Gorman, all right, beyond any doubt. The paper was a statement of his honorable discharge from the United States Navy two years earlier.

  “Please come in,” Gorman said, and the Hardys entered the room. Their host locked the door and they all sat down close together.

  “I’m using the name of Smedick here for protection against certain people in Bayport who would like to see me harmed,” he said in a low voice. Obviously he was afraid that he might be overheard.

  Without explaining further, he went on, “I’ve investigated you boys thoroughly and know you’re trustworthy. I’m very eager to have you help me solve a mystery.”

  “We’re pretty busy right now on another case,” said Joe, who still felt skeptical about the man.

  Gorman looked disappointed. “I’m sorry to hear that. I really need your help.”

  Frank suggested that Gorman tell them what the mystery was. Perhaps they could work on it along with their other sleuthing.

  Gorman pulled a pad and pencil from his pocket and wrote:MEET ME TOMORROW AT 2 P.M. IN THE BROWN SHACK ON THE DUNE A MILE NORTH OF PIRATES’ HILL. I’LL TELL YOU THEN.

  The boys read the message. Frank nodded. But Joe, suspicious, said, “Before we go any further, suppose you tell us what you know about cutlasses.”

  The boy’s remark hit Gorman like a bombshell. He sat bolt upright in his chair, and his face flushed. “Please, not now,” he said in a strained voice. “Tomorrow. I’ll tell you then.”

  He arose, took a lighter from his pocket, and burned the note. Then he walked to the door, unlocked it, and ushered the boys out.

  The Hardys did not speak until they reached their car. Then, as they drove off, Joe burst out, “What do you make of all this?”

  Frank said his curiosity was aroused and he would like to go to the shack. “But I’ll watch out for any double-crossing.”

  “Well, we’d better get back to our search for the demiculverin,” Joe urged.

  “Let’s borrow Dad’s magnetometer,” Frank added. This was an electronic mine detector for locating metals under sand.

  They picked up the instrument at their house, then drove to Pirates’ Hill.

  “Let’s do our searching systematically,” Frank said. He proposed that they mark off sectors and work along the beach and the dunes, moving slowly up the hill.

  They worked steadily until one o’clock. The magnetometer had indicated nothing of importance. The boys sat down to rest and eat the sandwiches they had brought. It was ebb tide and the beach was deserted.

  As soon as they had finished, they resumed their work with the magnetometer. Whenever it indicated a metal object under the sand, the boys dug hopefully. As time passed, they discovered a battered watch, a charm bracelet and a cheap ring, along with soda cans and an old, rusty anchor.

  “Say, we could open a secondhand store,” Joe quipped.

  “A junk yard’s more like it,” Frank said.

  By five o’clock they had dug several holes on the beach and part of the hill but had not found any artillery. Unfortunately, the magnetometer short-circuited. It would take some time to repair it, they knew. Weary, they gave up the search.

  “At this rate it’ll take us all summer to cover Pirates’ Hill,” Frank remarked, flopping down on the sand.

  “Yes, and Bowden’s in a hurry,” Joe answered with a grin.

  They went back to their convertible and started homeward. Soon after dinner the phone rang. It was Chief Collig.

  “I have some important news for you,” he told Frank, who had answered.

  “What’s up, Chief?”

  “First, I want to tell you that we still have the stakeout posted at the cabin in the woods, but no one has showed up yet.”

  “Too bad,” said Frank.

  “Second, the department has been working on the fireworks case. Since you fellows are interested in finding that phony helper I thought you’d like to know we’ve traced him to a rooming house.”

  “Where?” Frank asked.

  “Right here in Bayport. His name is Guinness. He skipped out just before we got there, but we picked up a clue that may help us locate him. Officer Smuff discovered it in a wastebasket in Guinness’s room.”

  Frank gripped the phone excitedly. “What is it?”

  “An address on a scrap of paper,” the chief replied. “It reads A. B. Smedick, B. H.”

  CHAPTER XII

  Startling Developments

  STUNNED by the information,
Frank echoed, “A. B. Smedick, B. H.!”

  “Right,” said the police chief. “What do you think B. H. stands for?”

  “I’m sure that it means Bayport Hotel,” Frank replied, “because we talked to a person there by that name.”

  “What! Well, then, maybe you can tell us where Smedick is now. He checked out.”

  Frank, amazed to hear this, said he had no idea. “Joe and I are supposed to meet him tomorrow afternoon along the shore. He probably won’t show up. But if he does, I’ll try to find out if he knows where Guinness is.”

  “Do that,” said Chief Collig and hung up.

  As soon as Frank replaced the phone in its cradle, he rushed to tell Joe, his mother, and Aunt Gertrude the news.

  “It sounds to me,” Aunt Gertrude commented, her jaw set firmly, “as if everybody connected with this Pirates’ Hill mystery is a criminal.”

  “You could be right. At this point I’m beginning to think Joe’s suspicions about Gorman might be justified,” Frank remarked.

  Joe gave a knowing grin. “I thought you’d agree sooner or later.”

  “Hold on! I didn’t say I’m entirely convinced. I’ll let you know after we talk to him at that shack tomorrow afternoon.”

  “If he shows up,” Joe added.

  Next morning, when the boys awoke, a heavy rain was falling. Jumping out of bed to close the window, Frank remarked, “It doesn’t look as if we’ll be able to do any searching at Pirates’ Hill today.”

  After breakfast they decided to spend the morning doing some sleuthing on the stolen cutlasses.

  “There’s a good chance that they may have turned up at some of the antique shops and pawnbrokers by this time,” Frank observed.

  The boys’ first stop was a curio shop near the Bayport railroad station. The visit there was fruitless.

  Next the Hardys drove across town to a shabby antique shop, owned and operated by Robert Dumian.

  “I had some cutlasses,” the dealer replied to Frank’s question. He eyed the boys with curiosity over his bifocal glasses. “It’s funny you’re wanting them. Yesterday a boy named Gil Fanning—about eighteen years old—brought five cutlasses in here to sell. Told me they were family relics.”

  “Is he a local boy?” Frank asked, interested at once.

  “Yes, he lives in Bayport,” Mr. Dumian answered. “On Central Avenue. I paid him twenty dollars apiece—a pretty steep price, but they were the real thing. Five beautiful swords!”

  “May we see them?” Frank asked eagerly. The thought that they might be the Entwistle relics caused his heart to beat faster.

  “I’m sorry,” the dealer replied. “Right after Fanning brought the weapons in, a swarthy-looking fellow in a black motorcycle jacket came into the shop and bought every one! He didn’t give me his name.”

  The Hardys shot chagrined looks at each other. It appeared that Latsky had beat them to the draw! They were dumbfounded by the appearance of Latsky at the shop—assuming that the man in the leather jacket was he. It certainly looked now as if Latsky were not the person who had stolen the cutlasses from the Historical Society’s building. Could Gil Fanning have been the thief?

  “That’s not all,” the man continued. “Last evening, just as I was closing up shop, a stout boy came in here looking for cutlasses. And now you fellows come in asking for the same thing. I am beginning to wonder if there—”

  “Did the stout boy give his name?” Joe broke in.

  “Yes,” Mr. Dumian said, turning to a spindle of notes on his desk. “He wanted me to get in touch with him if any more cutlasses came in. Here it is.” He tore a slip of paper off the spindle and handed it to Frank.

  The paper bore the name Chet Morton!

  “Chet Morton! We know him,” Joe burst out. “What would he want with the swords?”

  “Search me,” said Mr. Dumian.

  The boys thanked him and left the shop. They decided to talk to Gil Fanning, then ride out to Chet’s house and ask him why he was looking for cutlasses.

  “What a muddle!” Frank exclaimed as they went into a drugstore to look up the name Fanning in the Bayport telephone directory. They found one listed at 70 Central Avenue.

  Frank and Joe drove there in the downpour and learned that Gil, an orphan, lived with his grandmother. Tearfully the elderly woman said the boy had not been home for a week.

  “He’s always been hard to manage,” she said, “but I knew where he was. This is the first time he’s ever stayed away without letting me know where he is.”

  “Have you notified the police?” Frank asked.

  “Oh, no,” Mrs. Fanning replied. “Gil phoned he’d be back in a while. Said he had a job and I was not to worry.” Suddenly she asked, “But why are you here? Is my boy in some kind of trouble?”

  “Not that we know of,” Frank answered. “Mrs Fanning, did you give Gil permission to sell any of your heirlooms?”

  “Cutlasses,” Joe added.

  A frightened look came over the woman’s face. “You mean swords? We never had any swords. You must be mistaken.”

  “No doubt.” Frank smiled, not wishing to disturb the elderly woman any further. “Well, thank you,” he said. “I hope Gil returns soon.”

  Frank and Joe left, puzzled by the information. After having lunch at a coffee shop, they headed for Chet Morton’s.

  As they neared the farm, the rain ended. They learned from Iola that Chet had taken his flippers and snorkel, and gone to their swimming pool to practice skin diving.

  “Ever since he found that gunner’s pick, he’s had a great desire to dive for treasure,” Iola added, smiling.

  Frank and Joe told her about their search at Pirates’ Hill the previous day, then went to the pool to talk to Chet about his visit to the antique store.

  To their surprise, he was not in sight. At the edge of the pool lay his snorkel and flippers.

  The Hardys returned to the farmhouse and told Mrs. Morton and Iola that Chet was not around. Both looked concerned. Mrs. Morton said that he never left without saying where he was going.

  “Perhaps he went off with that boy who was here,” Iola suggested. She told the Hardys that about half an hour ago a youth about Chet’s age had strolled in and asked for him. They had directed him to the pool.

  “Who was he?” Frank asked.

  “We’d never seen him before,” Iola answered. “He said his name was Gil. He didn’t give his last name.”

  Upon hearing this, Frank and Joe told her and Mrs. Morton the whole story of Gil Fanning and the cutlasses.

  “If the boys went off together walking, they probably haven’t gone far,” said Frank. “We’ll look for Chet.”

  The Hardys hurried off. As they rode along, their eyes constantly swept the landscape, hoping to catch sight of their pal. They went for three miles without passing a car or seeing anyone walking along the road. Presently they came to a combination country store and gasoline station.

  “I’ll go in and phone Mrs. Morton. Maybe he’s turned up meanwhile,” said Frank, getting out of the car.

  Joe followed, hoping that Chet had returned. But when Frank spoke to Mrs. Morton they learned that their pal had not come back and the family had no word from him. Mrs. Morton declared that she was going to call Chief Collig at once.

  Leaving the store, Frank turned to Joe. “What do you think we should do? Keep hunting for Chet, or go on to the shack?”

  “Let’s go on,” Joe replied. “The police will do everything possible to find Chet.”

  As they approached their convertible, Joe gasped and grabbed Frank’s arm.

  “Oh, no!” he cried out, pointing to the rear tires. Both were flat!

  The boys rushed over to the car. Not only were the tires flat, but to their dismay there were huge slashes in them!

  “Someone deliberately cut our tires!” Frank exclaimed.

  They wondered whether it had been the malicious mischief of some prankster, or whether one of their enemies was pursuing them and ha
d done it to keep them from meeting Gorman.

  “We have only one spare,” Joe remarked with a groan. “Where can we get a second?”

  “Maybe the storekeeper sells tires,” suggested Frank, and returned to the shop.

  Fortunately the man kept a few recaps in his cellar. Frank found one that fit the car and brought it upstairs. Working together, the Hardys soon replaced the slashed tires.

  “It’s way after two o’clock,” Frank remarked as they went to wash their hands. “I wonder if Gorman will wait.”

  Joe reminded him that the man might not be at the shack at all. He still mistrusted Gorman and was sure a trap had been laid for them.

  “Maybe,” said Frank. “Anyway, we’ll approach with caution.”

  Three miles farther on they reached a side road which they figured would take them near the shack. Presently the road ended and Frank braked the convertible to a stop. Ahead was nothing but sand. The boys got out and looked around.

  “There’s the shack!” Frank pointed to their right as he put the car keys in his pocket.

  The ramshackle old building, badly weathered and sagging, stood between two dunes. They trudged toward it through the wet sand, a fine spray from the windswept sea stinging their faces.

  “What a dismal place!” Frank exclaimed

  Joe nodded, “Perfect spot for a trap. I don’t believe Gorman came, Frank.”

  As they drew closer, they noticed that the front door was wide open. They concluded no one could be inside, for certainly any occupant would have shut the door against the strong winds.

  Nevertheless, Frank called out, “Tim! Hey, Tim!”

  No answer!

  “It’s obvious he’s not here,” said Joe. “And if this is a trap, we’re not walking into it. Let’s go!”

  At that moment the boys heard a muffled cry from inside the shack. Throwing caution aside, they rushed into the building.

  The next instant they were seized by two masked men!

  CHAPTER XIII

  Mixed Identities

  AMBUSHED, Frank and Joe fought like wildcats. Their assailants were much heavier in build and held onto the boys with grips of steel. Neither man relaxed his viselike hold for a moment, despite a hard, occasional punch which the Hardys managed to land.