Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
Joe stood frozen as the little old lady - who was, he realized a bit too late, actually a small man in disguise - opened the metal door. The machine gun poked Joe again in the ribs as the man said, "Had me worried there for a while. We had three drop-off points set up but passed two of them without a sight of you. Thought I'd have to do something right desperate to get one of you Hardys off alone. But third time lucky, I guess."
He glanced out the open doorway. "There'll be a car waiting for us. When we see a yellow lantern by the tracks, off we go."
"I don't think so, Granny." Joe dropped into a sudden crouch, swinging the hamper with all his strength.
The basket smashed into the gunman's hand, knocking the MAC-10 out of his grasp. It spun away, seemingly sucked into the darkness beyond the doorway.
The metal door stood open and flapping. Now the sound of the speeding train was enormously loud.
Dodging, Joe swung the basket again.
The phony granny glasses flew free, hitting the corridor floor. As the two struggled, the glass lenses were stomped into crunchy fragments.
Joe fought desperately. At least he had succeeded in moving the fight away from the doorway. His opponent fell backward, cracking his head on the wall. Joe moved forward, confident of victory. Unfortunately, he walked right into his enemy's last attack.
An outflung foot caught Joe in the waist. The blow took the wind out of him and sent him staggering backward.
He tried to grab the sides of the doorway. Instead he caught only chilly air.
Joe went sailing off the train.
He twisted as he fell, landing on his side with a tremendous jolt. Landing on a slanting, pebbly slope beyond the tracks, he went rolling downward about fifty feet. Finally he came to a stop beside a dark roadway.
The train went roaring on its way without him.
Frank looked out the compartment window as the train slowed to stop at a small rural station. The brightly lit platform was empty except for a fat man in a long black overcoat. He wore a checkered cap with earflaps and was holding an empty bird cage. Two passengers got off the train, both bundled in shapeless overcoats. Soon the train was pulling out of the station, and they were rolling again through the darkness.
"I guess Joe found his drink, and a place to sit down and enjoy it," Karen said, glancing at her watch.
"When it comes to finding supplies or a place to hang out, Joe has a sixth sense," Frank told her. "He probably found - " Frank managed to cut his voice off before he said, "some pretty girl." Instead, he finished the sentence with, " - a snack to go with his drink."
"You're probably right," Karen said.
Frank sighed. This had been an especially rough day - getting rapped in the head, running around, spending long hours searching for clues. The sounds of the train wheels on the tracks began slowly fading. The rattling and the swaying died down.
With another sigh Frank's head dipped forward.
Karen's hazel eyes were troubled. "He's been gone quite a while," she said quietly, not wanting to wake Frank.
Karen watched the darkness roll by outside for a few more minutes. Finally she got to her feet. "I think I'll go look for him."
***
The next thing Frank knew, he was being roughly shaken.
"Wake up! Wake up!" a frantic female voice cried in his ear.
"Who? What?" Frank said fuzzily.
"Joe's not in the dining car. I don't think he's on the train."
Frank licked his lips and blinked. His eyes finally focused, and he recognized Karen. Her words still hadn't penetrated. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"Joe is gone."
Rising to his feet, Frank rubbed the back of his neck. "I must have dozed off," he admitted. "Joe's in the dining car."
"No, he's not." Karen was shaking with tension. "I checked with the dining car, and Joe never made it there. Nobody's seen him. He's not in any of the compartments."
"Take it easy, Karen. I'll go take a look around." Still feeling a little drowsy, Frank got to his feet. "Maybe he just stepped into a washroom."
"He didn't. I had the conductor check them all out." She was pacing around the compartment. "We'll have to stop the train."
Now Frank headed for the door. "Wait on that. I'll go hunt for some trace of Joe and ask a few questions."
Karen's voice was high. "They either threw Joe off the moving train or bundled him off at one of the stops. He could be - "
Frank cut her off. "Sit down. Wait for me here. Don't panic."
He left the compartment. Fifteen minutes later he returned, looking worried.
"You didn't find him, did you?"
"There's no sign of Joe on this train." Frank sat down quietly opposite the nervous girl. "Nobody saw him talking to anyone. Nobody saw anyone grabbing him, and nobody saw Joe get off the train at any of the stations."
Karen was back on her feet again. "Joe could be lying by the tracks, all broken and bloody, somewhere back there." She flung an arm at the darkness outside. "Or they've got him tied up in a car somewhere. Face it, Frank. We've got to stop the train."
"That won't do much good."
She stared at Frank in disbelief. "But he's your brother! He may be in big trouble!"
"Listen, please. If Joe was grabbed and taken off this train, it has to be Hawkins's men who did the job."
"I know! That's why we have to stop the train and hurry back!"
"Why?" Frank asked bluntly. "The odds are they're taking him to Beswick. And that's where we're heading."
"They might just murder him and bury him in the woods."
"So far they haven't killed anybody. Smart thieves don't go around murdering people - it gets the police too annoyed with them."
Frank took a deep breath, still trying to get his brains to work. "What we have to do is get to Beswick and find Hawkins's hideout, his base of operations. Joe will be there."
"Aren't you worried about him?" Karen demanded.
Frank's head snapped around. "Of course I'm worried. But Joe knows how to take care of himself. I'm betting he can handle whatever situation he's in." He was on his feet, too, pacing the small compartment. "Halting the train and searching all the tracks and stations for thirty or forty miles back will take up time we don't have."
"I hope you're right," Karen said, folding her arms.
Frank nodded, his face grim. "I hope so, too."
***
Joe stayed where he was for a moment or two, taking stock of his situation. Although he was sore and battered, nothing important seemed broken or seriously hurt. He got up on his hands and knees, pushed, and stood up.
As far as he could tell, he was standing beside a narrow country road. The shadowy outlines of trees and hedges were all he could make out in the dark fields. Far off in the night glowed a few tiny lights that might be farmhouses or cottages.
His stiff muscles protested as he forced himself into movement. Looks like I have a hike ahead of me, he thought.
Joe thrust his hands into his pockets and started trudging along the road. The chilly night breeze was against him. He'd banged his left knee while rolling downhill. It twinged with every limping step he took.
Joe had no idea where he was, but he figured the road had to lead somewhere. At some point he'd encounter an outpost of civilization - a town, a village, a railroad station.
"Wish I'd gotten that drink. Cross-country walking is thirsty work," he muttered.
The road didn't seem very popular. Not a single car passed in either direction.
A half mile from where he'd taken his dive from the train, Joe saw a big black form beside the road. Then he realized it was a car - a large black car, lights out, waiting for something.
The words of his attempted kidnapper came back to Joe now. This must be the car that was supposed to meet them, Joe thought. Deciding he'd better avoid it, Joe ducked off for the woodlands that lined the road. He hadn't gone three steps before he stepped on a dead branch that broke with a loud snap.
The side door of the car flew open, and a gruff voice called out, "Did ya get us one of them, Willie?"
"Ar," answered Joe. He was almost behind the big auto, closer to the woods than the car.
"Which one is it - Frank or Joe Hardy?"
"How do I bloomin' know?" Joe snarled. He hoped he was making his voice sound pretty close to that of his almost-kidnapper.
"Well, don't stand there like a bump on a log. Bring whoever it is over here. Now."
Instead Joe darted for the woods, away from the car. Behind him he heard the car door slam. He ran on.
The next sound Joe heard was a pistol shot.
It was nearly dawn when Frank and Karen arrived at the small ramshackle hotel two miles from the Beswick train station. The lobby was done in white plaster with moldings on the walls and looked as if it hadn't been renovated since the turn of the century.
Up from behind the ancient mahogany registration desk popped the bald head of a man of about sixty. "Ah, newly weds, I wager," he said, rubbing his plump hands together and chuckling. "Run off and eloped, have you? Well, you couldn't have picked a more scenic spot. Ah, yes, Beswick is an idyllic little place, and the Winterbotham Wayside Hotel is, if I do say so myself, a jewel in the crown of this quaint and attractive village. I happen to be Winterbotham himself." He chuckled once more and slid the leather-bound register across the desk toward them.
"Good morning, Mr. Winterbotham," Frank said. "We'd like separate rooms."
"Don't tell me you're at odds already - and your honeymoon barely under way."
"We're not married. We're here on business."
"Business, you say? Well, then, let me assure you that Winterbotham's Wayside Hotel is known throughout the county of Kent as the businessman's haven." The plump proprietor nodded vigorously. "You'll find us ideally equipped for every kind of commercial endeavor. There are, to cite only one of a multitude of examples, telephones in nearly every room."
He glanced at Frank as if he expected an argument. "The telephone, as I needn't point out to a clever young businessman such as yourself, is a boon to the transacting of business. In addition, there is a very efficient manual typewriter on the premises, and it is available at any hour of the day or night, at a nominal fee, for the typing of the most demanding business documents."
Frank stared tiredly at the man until the speech was finished. "Fine," he said. "Do you have two rooms available?"
"I believe I can accommodate you and the young lady, sir. Yes, I can put you in executive suites twenty-two and twenty-five, which are right next door to each other, in spite of the numbers."
As he signed the register, Frank leaned across the counter. "You seem to know the town well. Are you familiar with Emily Cornwall?"
"Ah, yes, the poor lass," Winterbotham said, sighing. "Miss Emily arrived a matter of two weeks ago and took up residence in the Talbot mansion."
Karen came over, yawning, and signed her name. "Would you mind if I went up to my room, Frank? Otherwise I'm going to zonk out right here."
"Could we have Ms. Kirk's key? Then you could go on with this interesting story."
"Of course. Nearly asleep on her feet, she is." Winterbotham reached into a cubbyhole behind him. "Here you are, miss, room twenty-five. Do you wish me to see you up?"
"No, I'll find my own way," Karen said, taking the heavy brass key.
"Here are the stairs. Climb but two flights and go left from the landing."
"Got it." Karen glanced back, her eyes heavy. "I'll see you in the morning sometime, Frank."
"A very charming young lady," commented Winterbotham after Karen had departed. "Now, where was I?"
"The Talbot mansion," Frank said.
"It's a huge old pile set in the middle of a dozen bleak acres beyond the moors outside of town. Miss Emily has had few visitors and is said to be ailing. Very rich she is, but then money can't buy good health, as many another has learned. Nor good luck either, considering the accident just the other day."
"What sort of accident?" Frank wanted to know.
"Oh, now, it wasn't the young lady, it was her companion, Miss Sheridan." Winterbotham nodded vigorously. "Poor woman was struck down near the shops by a hit-and-run driver while she was out marketing. She languishes at the moment in a hospital two villages away."
"Who's looking after Emily Cornwall?"
"Ah, she had a bit of luck there - was able to hire someone locally to see to her needs until the injured lady is up and about again." He frowned, trying to remember. "A young woman, I believe, named Miss Forman."
"How lucky," Frank said. "Any other new arrivals in town?"
"Well, there's that Professor Hobart," the hotel proprietor answered. "He arrived a month or so ago, just before poor Miss Emily. Leased the old Oscard estate. That's the place most folk hereabouts call Castle Fear."
"Spooky name. Why do they call it that?"
"It's a grim, gray, bleak place, hundreds of years old, perched on a cliff overlooking the sea." Winterbotham shook his head. "Some say it's haunted. There are also those who say it was a smuggler's den in days gone by. Myself, I believe both stories and don't go near there after dark." He smiled a little shame-facedly. "Nor by day, I have to admit. Too many secret passages, tunnels, and such-like around Castle Fear. I wouldn't want to fall into one, not I."
"What's Professor Hobart supposed to be up to?"
"Writing a book, he says, about local folk customs. If you ask me, the folk around here don't have a single custom worth reading about, unless you're daft." Winterbotham shook his head. "And for the life of me I can't see why the professor needs half a dozen burly lads hanging about if all he does is scribble. But I'm the first to admit I've never tried to write a book. Perhaps he's got them keeping the roof up. The whole castle is in a shocking state. I'm surprised it hasn't tumbled down before now."
"Have you seen the professor?"
"Just the once," Winterbotham said. "He's not a bad-looking chap - tall, thin, and blond, with a bit of a mustache. Talked with him a bit about local customs. But I had the impression that he and I would never be close friends, if you know what I mean."