The Masked Monkey (2 page)

Retson continued. “That's not all. The point is, you're both about my son's age. There's a generation gap between Graham and me. But you fellows speak his lingo. You should be able to get through to him.”

“We'll try,” Frank said, “if we can find him.”

Retson gave a deep sigh. “That's a relief. Stay right with the case. Money is no object. Spend whatever it takes. Go to the ends of the earth if you must, but find my son!”

“We'll give it all we've got,” Joe vowed. “But we'll need some information from you.”

“Such as?”

“Photos, letters, diary—anything that might give us a lead.”

“I see what you mean,” Retson said. “Well,
I'll give you all the help I can. Come out to my place, Whisperwood, tomorrow. It's on a ridge of Granite Rock near the waterfall. Take the highway west till you see the wire fence around the property. You can examine Graham's personal belongings.”

“We'll be there.” Frank and Joe left the office, climbed into their convertible, and headed back to Bayport.

“What do you think of it?” Frank asked as he turned the car into the driveway of their home.

“Let's discuss it with Dad tonight,” Joe suggested.

“He won't be home until late. But we'll see him in the morning.”

At breakfast the next day Mr. Hardy listened closely while his sons described their visit to Granite City.

“It's a real mystery,” he admitted. “No wonder Retson's worried.”

“Dad, can you give us a hand?” Joe asked.

Fenton Hardy smiled but shook his head. “I'd like to, but I'm tied up with a fake passport case. A ring of unsavory characters is doctoring stolen United States passports. Strange coincidence, they were stolen in Granite City in a post office holdup two years ago. So I'm off to Washington this morning.”

As the front door closed behind him the phone

rang. Joe answered, heard a familiar voice, and turned to Frank with a grin. “It's Chet,” he said.

Chet Morton was the Hardy boys' best friend. A plump, freckle-faced youth who jolted around town in an ancient jalopy, he was always involved in some new hobby.

Frank chuckled. “What's he up to?”

Chet was telling Joe excitedly, “I want to see you guvs right away. Got a big deal on! If you sweet-talk me, maybe I'll give you a piece of the action. I'm coming over to your house pronto.”

“No use, Chet,” Joe said. “We're on our way to a meeting in Granite City.”

Chet gave a low whistle. “You're on another case? … Say, is there anything I can do? Nothing too dangerous, of course.”

He had helped the Hardys solve several mysteries. Though Chet was not fond of hair-raising assignments, Frank and Joe knew they could rely on him when the going got rough.

“We've just started,” Joe answered. “We'll know more when we get back tonight. Come on over tomorrow and we'll talk.”

“Okay,” Chet replied. “And we'll discuss my big deal, too.”

“Right.” Joe laughed. He hung up and joined Frank for the drive to Granite City.

Beyond the outskirts of Bayport, Frank swung the convertible onto the highway leading west.
After two hours the level terrain gave way to a section of hills and ravines. The car rolled through a pass cut in solid rock.

“There's the ridge Mr. Retson mentioned,” said Joe, glancing ahead at Granite Rock. “And that must be the fence around Whisperwood.” He pointed to a tall barrier of heavy meshed wire.

“Right, Joe. It's a huge estate. I don't even see the gate yet. Oh, there it is.” Frank guided the car past a stand of pine trees and stopped before a large iron portal guarding the entrance. A brass bell was mounted beside it.

Joe got out and tried to turn the massive handle. “Locked,” he muttered. “And there's not a sign of a gatekeeper to let us inside this fortress.”

Frank jangled the bell clapper, and the sound boomed through the grounds, but it brought no response. “Looks as if they don't want company,” he muttered.

“Well, we've got an invitation,” Joe said. “It's not polite for a couple of guests to keep their host waiting. So here goes.”

Grasping the fence wire with his fingers, Joe got a toehold and swarmed up the fence. He dropped down on the other side to the sound of tearing cloth.

“Ripped my jacket,” he groaned. “Well, I made it, though. Come on.”

Frank, who had followed Joe up the fence, jumped down. Together they walked toward the Whisperwood mansion, outlined against the sky at the summit of the ridge. A butler answered the bell.

“Ripped my jacket!” Joe groaned

“My name is Harris,” he announced in solemn tones. “Mr. Retson is expecting you. But you've torn your jacket, Mr. Hardy. Here, let me have it and I'll see it's repaired before you leave. I'm so sorry I didn't hear the bell clapper.”

Joe handed over the garment, then the butler ushered them into Retson's den.

Their client apologized when he heard about their experience at the gate. “I didn't expect you so early. You see, I do insist on complete privacy in Whisperwood.”

“Think nothing of it, Mr. Retson,” Frank said. “Let's get down to the question of where your son might be. First of all, what does he look like?”

Retson lifted a photograph from the mantelpiece. “This was taken just a few days before Graham disappeared.”

Frank and Joe examined the picture. They saw a frail youth wearing long hair and glasses with round metal rims that made him appear owlish.

“Any distinguishing characteristics, Mr. Retson?” Frank asked.

“Yes. Graham has a nervous habit of nodding his head while he's talking.”

Joe looked hard at the photo. “He's not the rugged type, if I'm any judge.”

“Hardly. Graham is very sensitive. In fact, he spends most of his time writing poetry.”

“What started the feud between you two?” Joe wanted to know.

Retson snorted. “A cage of silly hamsters. Graham brought the beasts home. I stood them as long as I could. Then one day when my son was out, I told the butler to get rid of them.”

“Could we have a look at Graham's poetry?” Frank asked.

Retson opened a cabinet and pulled out a magazine. “Here, this is published by the private school he went to. You'll find his stuff on
page 58
. It's Greek to me.”

Frank spread the magazine on top of the cabinet. The boys began to read the verses.

“Say, this isn't bad,” Frank said. “Your son has talent.”

“But it doesn't tell us where he is,” Joe mused. “We'd better have a look at his room.”

Retson led the way up a broad staircase to a bedroom at the end of the hall. “I hope you'll find a clue to Graham's whereabouts,” he remarked, and left them.

The Hardys searched the closets, carefully looked through the bureau drawers, and examined the missing youth's collection of poetry books.

Joe was disappointed. “Nothing here.”

“Let's try the desk,” Frank said.

They went through the drawers, beginning at the top center, working down the left side and then turning to the right.

“Still nothing,” Joe said. “No diary, no letters, no clues.”

He started to slam the bottom drawer shut when Frank grabbed his arm.

“Wait a minute, Joe. What's this?” Frank reached to the back of the drawer and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. Unfolding it, he read aloud four lines of verse:

Frank turned the paper over. There were two more lines on the other side.

Joe said, “This could be a clue! Judging by those first four lines, Graham wasn't too happy here.”

“And the last two lines could mean he found a way to escape,” Frank said.

Just then Mr. Retson came into the room. Frank showed him the piece of paper. “Is this Graham's handwriting?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“May we keep it? It might be a message in code.”

“Certainly. Keep anything that will help you find Graham. Incidentally, you can stay at Whisperwood while you're on the case. There's an apartment over the old stable. The horses are gone, so we've had the rooms renovated and call it the guesthouse.”

Frank and Joe decided they might accept the offer later on.

“We'd better get back to Bayport today,” Joe said. “If we find it would be easier working from here, we'll be glad to park ourselves over the stable.”

The butler showed the visitors out. “Here's your jacket, Mr. Hardy,” he said to Joe. “I believe you will find the repairs satisfactory.”

“Looks as good as new,” Joe assured him. “Thanks a lot.”

When the young detectives arrived home, Joe hung his jacket in the hall closet. Something crinkled in one pocket. He reached in and pulled out a folded page torn from a small notebook.

“What's that?” Frank queried.

“A bit of scribbling. Apparently somebody wrote it in a hurry.”

“What does it say?”

Joe read, “ ‘Don't look for Graham. You'll ruin his life!' ”

“T
HIS
is a warning!” Frank gasped. “Who could have written it, Joe?”

“Harris the butler could have slipped the paper into the pocket before returning my jacket.”

“We'd better have a talk with Harris,” Frank declared. “If he's trying to scare us off the case, I'd like to know the reason.”

“You boys are jumping to conclusions,” said a tart voice behind them. Fenton Hardy's sister was dusting the living room. Gertrude Hardy lived with her brother and his family. She loved her nephews dearly. But she never hesitated to give her opinion about the boys' detective work.

“I heard what you said about the butler,” she went on, flicking her duster around a vase. “And I say you're jumping to conclusions. I've read enough murder mysteries to know that the butler is always accused.”

“We're not accusing him, Aunty,” Frank said.
“He just seems to be the prime suspect at this point. Anyway, this isn't a murder mystery. At least we don't know that anybody's been murdered.”

“We're involved in a missing-person case,” Joe explained. “Graham Retson lived at Whisperwood near Granite City with his parents. He's disappeared under mysterious circumstances.”

“Granite City!” Miss Hardy sniffed. “That's a hundred miles from here. You'll burn a lot of gas commuting back and forth!”

“Not necessarily,” Joe replied. “Mr. Retson offered to put us up at Whisperwood over his stable while we're hunting for clues. Besides, there might not be a criminal involved at all.”

Gertrude Hardy clucked like a wet hen. “Stable indeed! Mr. Retson should have offered you better lodgings. One of you might get kicked by a horse.”

Frank and Joe soothed their aunt by assuring her there were no horses at Whisperwood to do any kicking.

“Well, I imagine you'll find some kind of danger there,” Aunt Gertrude said. “So be careful.” With this parting shot, she flounced out of the room.

Frank and Joe mulled over the strange disappearance of Graham Retson and the warning note. They decided to accept the industrialist's offer and go to Whisperwood the next day.

In the morning Frank and Joe were having breakfast with their mother and Aunt Gertrude when a series of rackety explosions erupted in the street.

“That's Chet's jalopy,” Laura Hardy said.

The doorbell rang and Frank let their friend in. He was puffing with excitement as he entered the dining room.

“Morning, Mrs. Hardy, Aunt Gertrude,” he said. When he saw the food on the table, he halted in delight, rubbed his belt buckle, and glanced significantly at the women.

“Chester Morton, there's no mystery about what you want,” said Gertrude Hardy. “Can I tempt you with some pancakes?”

“Please do,” replied Chet, who loved nothing better than eating.

Joe laughed. “After all, our buddy's only had one breakfast this morning. His inner man is telling him it's time for an encore.”

Chet sat down and consumed a stack of pancakes at an alarming rate. He also drank two glasses of milk. Then he leaned back with a pleased expression. “That was just great,” he said as the women cleared the table. “Thanks very much.”

“Okay,” Joe said. “What's the big deal you mentioned on the phone yesterday?”

Chet rolled his eyes. “You guys ever hear of golf ball scavenging?”

“Negative,” Frank said. “What is it? A new hobby?”

“No, a get-rich-quick scheme. Duffers keep dunking golf balls in water hazards on most of the golf courses. Scavengers retrieve them and sell them. I'm a scavenger, and I'll cut you in if you're interested.”