The Secret of Pirates' Hill

by Franklin W. Dixon

  When they arrived at the house, Aunt Gertrude greeted them with rapid-fire words of advice about staying away from mysterious shacks. “When you’ve finished supper, go to bed and get a good night’s sleep!” she added. “You need it!”

  “You’re right,” said Joe. “Frank and I have a date at six tomorrow morning.” He told his mother and aunt what it was.

  Mrs. Hardy sighed. “I suppose it won’t be dangerous for you to go if a State Police officer is there.”

  “I’ll call you,” Aunt Gertrude promised.

  The next morning at five-thirty she roused her nephews. “Hurry,” she commanded. “Breakfast is ready and cold eggs and toast are no good!”

  The boys dressed quickly and went downstairs to find that their mother and aunt had prepared a hearty meal consisting of hot cereal, scrambled eggs, and cocoa.

  “The sooner you solve this mystery, the better!” Aunt Gertrude said as the boys ate. “It has me on pins and needles.”

  “Too bad,” said Joe. “But I think we’ll be closer to a solution when we make this death mask.”

  “What on earth are you talking about? I didn’t know someone was—”

  Frank and Joe laughed and calmed their aunt’s fears. Then, becoming serious, Frank said he hoped the person whose face had made the impression in the sand was still alive.

  Joe, pushing back his chair, said, “I’ll carry the equipment from our lab, Frank, while you get the car out.”

  Shortly after six o’clock the boys started off, promising to report back home by lunchtime.

  “I won’t be here,” said Aunt Gertrude. “I’m going over to the state museum to a lecture. While there I’ll explain about the cutlasses. The trip will take me until ten tonight.”

  “Happy landing, Aunty!” Joe said with a grin.

  It was a pleasant ride in the early-morning fresh air and the sun stood bright over the horizon when they arrived at the dunes. At once they were challenged by a state trooper who stepped from the woods. Frank showed his driver’s license and introduced his brother. The man gave his name as Williams.

  “Chief Collig said you’d come,” he stated. “Go ahead. There’s another officer named Winn at the shack.”

  Lugging the equipment for making the mold, Frank and Joe trekked to the small building and said hello to State Trooper Winn. “Has anyone been here since you came on duty?” Frank asked.

  “No. Not a soul.”

  The box was still in place over the face in the sand. Joe lifted it. The impression was intact.

  “Covering that was a good idea,” Trooper Winn remarked.

  First, Frank used a spray gun and coated the imprint with a quick-hardening fluid. While he was doing this, Joe mixed plaster in a pail. Then he carefully poured it into the sand.

  “When that sets, I hope we’ll have a replica of the face, clear enough to be recognizable,” Frank said.

  When the mold was hard, he lifted it from the sand and turned it over. The result was an indistinct blob. Only the chin line was clear.

  “Tough luck,” the trooper said. “The sand dried out too much during the night.”

  “Still I’m certain it’s Gorman!” Frank said, pointing out the solid, jutting jaw. “He’s a prisoner of those hoods!”

  Quickly Joe explained the circumstances to the trooper.

  “Will you tell all this to Williams?” the officer requested. “He’ll send out an alarm over the radio.”

  “Let’s go!” Frank urged.

  The Hardys gathered their implements and hurried back to the convertible. Frank told Trooper Williams of their discovery and he notified State Police Headquarters from his car, well hidden in the woods, to start a search for Gorman. When he finished speaking, Williams let Frank use the radio to contact Chief Collig. The officer said he would institute a local search.

  “Let’s stop at Chet’s,” Joe proposed as they reached the main road.

  “Good idea. I’d like to know how he is. And he’ll want to hear the result of our experiment.”

  They found Chet in bed. There was no doubt he had a bad cold, but fortunately there was no sign of pneumonia.

  The Hardys stayed with him an hour and brought him up to date on their morning’s activities.

  Chet scratched his head. “Where do you suppose Gorman is?”

  Frank shrugged. “A prisoner some place of either Bowden or Latsky. I hope the police find him soon.”

  Joe, eager to continue their search at Pirates’ Hill, rose and said, “Take it easy, Chet. We’ll let you know if anything new turns up.”

  It was noon when Frank and Joe reached home, Mrs. Hardy had a tasty lunch ready. They ate quickly and soon were ready to go out again.

  “I’d like to search until it’s too dark to dig,” said Joe. “Let’s take some supper with us.”

  Frank agreed. They told their mother they would be back around nine and drove to Pirates’ Hill.

  Working in the damp sand proved to be a hot, arduous task, and before they ate their sandwiches, the boys went swimming. When the sun was about to set, they packed their tools and left.

  “Not one clue to that demiculverin,” Joe said in disgust.

  “But we’re not giving up!” Frank declared.

  Exactly at nine o’clock the Hardys’ car hummed up Elm Street and Frank turned into their driveway. They noticed a dark-blue sedan parked in front of their home.

  “A visitor,” Joe said. “Wonder who it is.”

  Pulling up in front of the garage, they got out and went in through the kitchen.

  Mrs. Hardy greeted them. “You just missed a friend.”

  “Who was it?” Frank asked.

  “Tony Prito’s cousin Ken,” Mrs. Hardy replied. “He came for the cutlass, as you requested.”

  “What!” Frank cried in alarm.

  “Tony phoned a little while ago. Said you were at his house and had told them about the sword. Ken would come over and pick it up in a few minutes. So I wrapped it in newspaper and gave it to him. He just drove off in a dark-blue car.”

  “Mother!” Joe cried out. “That man was an impostor! We weren’t there and Tony has no cousin Ken!”

  Mrs. Hardy sank into a chair. “Oh, how dreadful!” she wailed.

  Frank put an arm around her. “Don’t worry. We’ll go and find that man!” To Joe he said, “We must get that cutlass back! There might be a clue in it that will tell us what Latsky, Bowden, and Gorman are really searching for.”

  The boys dashed to their convertible and sped after the thief.

  “There he goes!” Joe cried as Frank turned the next corner.

  The convertible leaped ahead. Five blocks farther on, the driver of the blue sedan, apparently unaware that he was being followed, stopped for a red light. Frank quickly pulled alongside on his left. The man at the wheel wore a black motorcycle jacket.

  “Latsky!” Joe exclaimed.

  On the seat alongside the driver Joe saw a narrow, newspaper-wrapped package. The cutlass!

  As Joe flung open the door and hopped out, the man turned to look at the boys. His swarthy face twisted into an ugly sneer.

  “We’ve got you, Latsky!” Joe cried, quickly reaching for the door handle.

  But the ex-convict was quicker. Gunning his motor, he shot across the street against the red light. Joe was flung to the pavement.

  CHAPTER XVI

  The Wreck

  BRAKES screeched as oncoming cars tried to avoid colliding with Latsky. Joe picked himself up and jumped into the convertible. Frank, gritting his teeth impatiently, waited for the signal to change. When it clicked to green, he took off in hot pursuit of the fleeing sedan.

  “I hope Latsky sticks to the main highways,” Joe said. “With his head start, we’ll have a tough time catching him if he turns into a side street.”

  Reaching the outskirts of the older section of Bayport, Frank increased his speed. Suddenly, going over a small rise, the boys saw the red glow of rear lights. A car swung to the left into a
T-intersection highway that circled wide to the right, by-passing the outlying residential section.

  “It’s Latsky!” Joe shouted.

  At almost the same moment they heard the wailing of a siren close behind them.

  “A police car,” Joe said. “I guess the officer thinks we’re speeding. Slow down, Frank.”

  The boy eased his foot off the accelerator and the squad car pulled alongside. Chief Collig himself was at the wheel. “Where’s the fire, fellows?”

  “We’re after Latsky,” Frank explained, and quickly told of their chase.

  “I’ll lead the way!” the chief said.

  Though the officer drove a special high-powered vehicle, Joe doubted that he could catch the fleeing car. Latsky had too much of a head start. “Frank,” he suggested, “how about taking the shortcut past the old Pell farm? Then we’ll come back onto the main highway and throw up a roadblock.”

  “Great! I’ll try it.”

  Frank whirled to the right at the next lane, roared over a narrow macadam road for a mile, and then turned left into another dirt lane. Minutes later he zoomed onto the highway again.

  “Here he comes!” Joe cried out as two headlights flashed over a low hill behind them. In the distance the whine of the police siren sounded.

  Frank slammed on his brakes and angled the convertible across the road, so that the red lights blinked a warning to stop. Both boys jumped out, concealing themselves behind a tree along the roadside.

  “Wow!” Joe whispered. “Latsky and the chief must be doing ninety!”

  The next second there was a squeal of rubber on concrete. Latsky had spotted the roadblock and jammed on the brakes.

  “He’s out of control!” Frank cried.

  The oncoming car headed wildly for the tree behind which the Hardys had taken cover. As they ran, the car bounced off the tree and screeched across the road into a field, where it overturned.

  Joe and Frank sped toward the wreck, flashlights in hand. While they were still some distance away they saw Latsky, carrying the cutlass, stumble from the car. Dazed for the moment, the man staggered, but quickly regained his equilibrium and dashed off into the darkness of a woods.

  At that moment Chief Collig roared up and stopped. Seeing the flashlights, he got out and hurried across the field. The Hardys were trying to pick up Latsky’s footprints.

  “Am I seeing things?” the officer cried out. “How did you get here? And what’s going on?”

  “Shortcut,” Joe said. “We set up a roadblock and stopped Latsky, but he ran away.”

  Swinging the bright beams of their flashlights in the woods, the trio followed the footprints. They led to a wide brook.

  “Latsky’s clever,” Chief Collig remarked. “He must have entered the water and walked either up- or downstream.”

  The Hardys offered to take one direction while the chief took the other, but Collig shook his head. “We’ll never pick up his trail in the dark. I’ll send out an alert on the radio.”

  The three left the woods. While Collig went ahead to phone, the Hardys paused to look over the wreck of Latsky’s car.

  “He dropped the cutlass!” Joe cried out suddenly as his flashlight reflected on the shining steel blade.

  Grabbing it, he hurried with Frank to the police car. Chief Collig was just concluding his conversation. He was delighted to hear that the boys had retrieved their ancient sword, then said, “My men are starting out now to track down Latsky. By the way, that wrecked car was stolen. Too bad for the owner.”

  Soon a tow truck arrived to haul the smashed sedan to the police garage. The Hardys said good-by to the chief, and with the cutlass, started home to give it a close examination.

  After telling their mother and Aunt Gertrude that they had retrieved the weapon, Frank and Joe went directly to their laboratory over the garage. Under a powerful work lamp they quickly examined the blade. On one side was etched the name of the maker, Montoya.

  “There’s probably more,” Joe said excitedly, getting out bottles of chemicals with which to clean off the metal. Every inch of the fine Damascus steel blade was inspected for other markings or hidden writing. There were none.

  “The maker of this cutlass must have considered it too fine to mark,” Joe said. Old as it was, the sword still had a keen edge.

  Next, the handle was cleaned. Every seed pearl in the design was intact, and the gold leaf was still in place.

  “Let’s examine that handle closely,” Frank suggested, getting a magnifying glass.

  There was a heavy, richly encrusted leaf scroll pattern. The Hardys scrutinized this minutely to see if it concealed any gems or contraband, but without success.

  “I still think there might be something in this handle,” Frank said stubbornly. “Let’s try that special magnifying glass of Dad’s.”

  “Good idea!” said Joe. “I’ll get it.”

  He ran back to the house and in a few minutes returned with the extra-powerful glass.

  Frank focused it over the handle inch by inch. Suddenly his face lighted up. “Look here, Joe!” he exclaimed, pointing.

  Looking through the magnifier, Joe saw a tiny line which had been cleverly worked into the leaf pattern.

  With the thin blade of a knife, Frank tried to force the crack open, but it was impossible.

  “Maybe there’s a spring hidden somewhere in the handle,” Joe suggested. “Let me try it.”

  Frank handed him the cutlass and Joe bent over it intently. He pressed each tiny leaf but the crack did not widen.

  “A spring could be connected with the blade,” Frank mused. “But how?”

  “Perhaps the spring is rusted after all these years,” Joe said. “I’ll try hitting the blade on something.”

  He looked around the laboratory and found a slab of stone left over from a previous experiment. Grasping the handle of the cutlass firmly, he jabbed the tip against the hard surface.

  Click! The crack widened a full inch!

  The boys were jubilant. Frank bent down and examined the sword.

  “The tip contains a tiny mechanism,” he said after a moment’s scrutiny. “It must extend through the blade all the way to the handle. Very ingenious!”

  He inspected the opening and reached into it with his thumb and forefinger.

  “Anything there?” Joe asked.

  “Wait a minute—”

  There was a soft crinkling noise. “I can feel something,” Frank said. “Here it comes.”

  Gingerly he pulled out a small piece of ancient parchment. It was folded up into a compact wad.

  Frank carefully smoothed it out. “There’s writing on it!” he exclaimed excitedly.

  CHAPTER XVII

  Gunner’s Tools

  “FRANK, this message is written in what seems to me ancient Spanish,” Joe said. “I can’t make it out.”

  “Whatever it says must be mighty important,” Frank concluded, “or the writer wouldn’t have hidden the message.”

  “And Bowden and Gorman and Latsky must think so too,” Joe added.

  Happy but weary, the boys went to bed, the cutlass safely tucked under Frank’s mattress.

  At breakfast the next morning they showed the old parchment to their mother and Aunt Gertrude. All were bending over it excitedly when Chet walked in.

  “Wow!” he said when he heard the newest development in the mystery. “You sure are good detectives.”

  At that moment the phone rang. “I’ll take it,” Joe offered, hoping the caller would be Mr. Hardy.

  The other boys followed him to the phone and stood near as he spoke.

  Placing his hand over the mouthpiece, Joe whispered to Chet and Frank, “It’s Bowden!”

  He held the receiver a distance from his ear to let them hear the conversation. Bowden said that Gorman had been arrested in St. Louis while traveling under an assumed name.

  “A friend of mine on the St. Louis police force, knowing I was interested, just phoned me,” Bowden continued. “I guess
we can go about locating the cannon without any interference from Gorman.”

  The boys were skeptical of the story.

  To Bowden, Joe merely said, “Thank you for the information. We’re working hard on the case.”

  The man told Joe he would let the Hardys know if anything further developed. He was about to hang up when Chet burst out:

  “Tell him we’ve found the clue in the cutlass!”

  Frank gave Chet a warning look, but too late. Bowden’s next words were, “I heard what someone just said. What’s it all about?”

  “Oh, nothing, really,” Joe replied. “Just a story we heard and haven’t had time to check out yet.”

  “Oh.” Bowden seemed to be thinking hard, but did not pursue the matter.

  After Joe hung up, Chet apologized for revealing the news. Frank and Joe were disturbed but assured him that by working fast they would get to the bottom of the mystery and no harm would result from Chet’s slip.

  “Now if we could only think of someone who might translate the message on the parchment,” Frank said.

  “Let’s try our Spanish teacher, Miss Kelly,” Joe suggested. “If she—”

  At that moment the doorbell rang. Aunt Gertrude went to answer it and presently came back with a telegram.

  “It’s for you,” she said and handed the message over to Frank.

  “From Dad,” the boy said as he unfolded the telegram. “And, Joe, it’s in code!”

  “Let’s go upstairs and decipher it,” Joe said. The Hardys dashed to their father’s study and removed Mr. Hardy’s code book from his filing cabinet. Quickly they decoded the message:BEWARE DOUBLE-CROSSING BY BOWDEN!

  “Double-crossing!” Frank echoed the warning in the telegram. “Dad must have further information about Bowden.”

  “I wish he had told us more,” Joe said as they returned to the first floor with the news of Mr. Hardy’s message. Instantly Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude became alarmed.

  The boys, fearful that their mother might insist they abandon their sleuthing, promised to take extra precautions from now on.

  “If Bowden still doesn’t suspect that we mistrust him,” Frank said, “we’ll have the advantage.”