The Secret Warning (5 page)

Not until they reached the lighthouse did Joe realize that one of their party was missing.

“Hey! Where's Chet?” he exclaimed, wheeling about.

All three Hardys peered back anxiously the way they had come. The glow of the misty half-moon, low in the sky, revealed no sign of Chet.

They exchanged glances of dismay. Had somebody bushwhacked Chet?

“Joe and I'll go back and find him,” Frank said.

“Not without me,” their father replied.

Stealthy as Indians the trio began to retrace their steps. Frank and Joe moved along cautiously at their father's side—sick with fear that at any moment they might discover their pal's motionless body.

They had just reached a dense thicket of shrubbery near the ravine when a crackling noise caused them to halt abruptly.

“Hit the ground!” Mr. Hardy murmured. Silently the three sleuths flattened themselves in the brush.

The noise came closer and the form of a man materialized out of the gloom. Without hesitation, Joe hurled himself through the darkness. There was a grunt of impact, and as he butted against solid flesh, Joe felt a heavy stick swish past his ear and whack him hard on the shoulder. He went down in a tangle of arms and legs just as Frank snapped on a flashlight.

“Hey, what's the big Idea! You guys trying to ambush me or something?”

“Chet!” Frank gasped.

Grinning ruefully, Joe got up while Frank helped Chet to his feet. Mr. Hardy was already retrieving several cans, a squashed loaf of bread, and other supplies which lay scattered over the ground.

“Where the dickens have you been, Chet?—as if we couldn't guess,” Frank said.

“And what's the idea of trying to brain me with that stick?” Joe added.

“You think I'd be dopey enough to let that red-whiskered nut jump me, without being set for him?” Chet retorted.

Mr. Hardy found it difficult to restrain a smile. “Good for you, Chet—but you did have us pretty badly worried, disappearing like that without a word of explanation.”

Chet gulped. “I was afraid you wouldn't let me if I asked to go back for grub. But—well, gosh, how could we get through the whole night without something to eat? I haven't had a thing since lunch.”

Joe chuckled. “You put away enough lamb chops at Captain Early's to hold you for a week!”

“Oh, yeah? I only had four of those little bitty things.”

“All the same,” said Mr. Hardy, putting on a straight face, “it was a foolish risk going back to the campfire after what happened.”

“Oh, I didn't go back there,” Chet explained. “I got this stuff off the
Sleuth.”

“Okay, I guess we can all use some food,” Frank said. “Now let's make tracks for the lighthouse.”

Although the Whalebone Light had been abandoned years before, the keeper's living quarters still contained various furnishings—a battered table and chairs, a cast-iron stove, and a glass-chimneyed kerosene lamp. The storeroom below contained two rusty lanterns and several tins of oil and kerosene, evidently left behind for the use of stranded fishermen.

With the tower door securely barred behind them, the group soon cooked a tasty supper and fell to with keen appetites. Afterward, they sat around the table talking.

“Can you tell us more, Dad, of why you were interested in the legend of Whalebone Island?” said Frank.

“A good detective,” Mr. Hardy replied, “should always be concerned when something odd happens at or near the scene of a case he's investigating.”

“You mean, something strange went on here before tonight?” Joe asked.

“Yes. Several days ago I saw an item in the newspaper about a fisherman who'd reported being scared out of his wits by the ghost of Whalebone Island when he put in one evening.”

Frank said, “So you suspected that something funny might be going on here.”

“Exactly. It seemed far more likely that the so-called ‘ghost' might be someone who was using the circumstances of the legend as a cover-up for some secret activity—and also, of course, to scare people away from the island.”

“What kind of secret stuff?” Chet asked.

“Somebody might be using the island as a base for diving operations to the
Katawa.”

“Which would explain why the golden Pharaoh's head was secretly being offered for sale!” Joe declared.

“Not only that,” said Mr. Hardy. “The
Katawa's
hulk is vitally important for another reason. You see, there's a fortune in lawsuits at stake over the losses and injuries suffered in the collision, particularly claims being brought by relatives of those who lost their lives.”

“But how does that make the sunken hulk so important?” Joe questioned.

“The
Katawa's
master claims his ship was stopped dead in the water after they picked up an approaching vessel on radar. If he's right, Transmarine is free and clear of responsibility. But the captain of the
Carona
alleges that the
Katawa
was proceeding at full speed in spite of the fog—in which case Transmarine could be liable for several million dollars in damages, not even counting the loss of the gold Pharaoh's head.”

“And the answer lies aboard the sunken freighter?” put in Frank.

“Right—with the engine-room telegraph and tachometer,” Mr. Hardy answered. “If the telegraph shows ‘Stop' and the tachometer reads ‘Zero,' the
Katawa
was not at fault. If they indicate full speed ahead, it's a different story—a difference worth several million dollars.”

Joe gave a low whistle. “Some difference!”

Suddenly Frank snapped his fingers. “That mention of diving reminds me, Dad—in all the excitement about the pirate map, we clean forgot to tell you about the visitor you had this morning!” He quickly described Gus Bock's appearance at the Hardy home and the threat which the diver had uttered before leaving.

Mr. Hardy took the news calmly. “I think I have the answer to that.” He explained that Transmarine Underwriters had asked him to run a security check on several competing diving companies before letting the contract to salvage the
Katawa.

“Gus Bock,” the sleuth went on, “is chief diver for an outfit called the Simon Salvage Company. They tried hard to get the contract, even put in a ridiculously low bid. But the company has a shady reputation. They've been involved in outright fights and several other unsavory incidents on salvage jobs, so I advised against them.”

Instead, Mr. Hardy told the boys, he had recommended that the contract go to the Crux Diving Company. As a result, Gus Bock was no doubt out for revenge.

“How about what happened tonight?” Chet said, looking around the table uneasily. “Do you think Bock or Simon Salvage was behind that explosion in the ravine?”

“It's a cinch the map was just bait to lure us there,” Joe declared.

“I agree,” said Fenton Hardy. “The real question is who sent it—and who has been posing as Red Rogers' ghost.”

“What's our next move, Dad?” Frank asked.

“Come daylight, we'll search the island for clues to the person who tried to kill us. After that, we'd all better return to the mainland. I have to get back to work with Sam Radley, tracing that tip on the Pharaoh's head.”

Next morning, while Chet Morton and Mr. Hardy were preparing breakfast, Frank and Joe started up the winding stairway of the tower to check the lamp room for possible traces of the person who had sent the red warning signals.

As they neared the top, Frank suddenly halted and pointed to the wall. “Take a look at that, Joe!”

A message—faded and almost illegible—had been scrawled in pencil on the whitewashed surface of the stone. It said:

 

 

 

 

 

“T
ANG!” Joe gasped. “The lighthouse keeper who went out of his mind!”

“I wonder,” Frank said slowly, “if he
was
suffering from hallucinations.”

Joe stared at his brother. “Are you implying that Tang
wasn't
crazy?”

“Suppose we told a doctor we'd seen the Jolly Roger ghost—a red-bearded spook in a black cloak. And not just here on Whalebone Island, but even back in Bayport. Would he call us crazy?”

“The explosion last night wasn't our imagination!” Joe said flatly.

“Maybe. But that wouldn't prove we had or hadn't seen a ghost.”

“Still,” Joe persisted, “Tang must have been examined before he could be declared insane.”

“True, but the question is what really drove him out of his mind?” Frank argued. “Suppose you or I were cooped up in this tower alone for weeks and months, not another soul on the island —so far as we knew. Yet every time we went for a walk to stretch our legs, that spook kept popping out at us—especially at night. Maybe even inside the lighthouse. I'll bet we'd be flipping our wigs too before long!”

Joe frowned reflectively, then blurted out, “But, good night, Frank! All that was years ago. The person Tang saw couldn't have been the same one
we
saw—”

As Joe's voice trailed off, Frank gave a wry chuckle. “You mean—or could it? That's the same question I'm asking myself.”

The lamp room had been empty ever since the Whalebone Light was taken out of service. The boys inspected it thoroughly, but found no clues to the signaler.

“He must have used an ordinary bull's-eye lantern. Let's try the outside platform and see if—” Joe broke off with a gasp. “Hey, Frank!”

“What's the matter?”

“Look there—out to sea!”

Lying off the southern shore of the island was a small steamer. Larger than a tug, it was equipped with cargo booms.

The two boys dashed to the floor below and outside to the railed platform around the light tower.

“It's not under way,” Joe observed. “What do you think it's doing out there?”

“Could be a fishing vessel,” Frank said doubtfully, “but it sure doesn't look like one. Let's get Dad.”

On hearing the news, Mr. Hardy and Chet hurried topside. The detective broke out his powerful binoculars and focused on the mysterious vessel.

“It's a salvage ship!” Mr. Hardy said tensely. “It belongs to the Simon Salvage Company.”

“Gus Bock's outfit!” exclaimed Joe.

Mr. Hardy passed the binoculars to the boys. Each of the three in turn examined the vessel. The name at its stern read:

On deck, a diver had apparently just suited up. Helpers were closing the glass ports of his helmet and checking the air hose and telephone cable. As Frank watched, the diver strode to the side of the ship and climbed down a ladder into the water.

“That must be Bock himself,” Frank muttered. “But what's he diving for there, Dad? You said the
Katawa
went down
north
of the island, didn't you?”

Mr. Hardy frowned. “That's right. And I can't figure Simon Salvage engaging in a diving operation just for the fun of it.”

“I wonder when the ship arrived,” Joe mused, “We didn't see it last night.”

“Maybe it was on the other side of the island,” put in Chet. Suddenly a look of comprehension crossed his face. “Oh—oh! You think maybe somebody off that ship was the dynamiter last night?”

“Sure, and also the one who flashed those red signals,” Joe replied.

“It's possible, all right,” Mr. Hardy agreed.

“Dad, I have an idea!” Frank exclaimed.

“Let's hear it, son.”

“When you go back to the mainland, why don't we three stay on the island? We can watch the
Simon Salvor
and maybe find out what it's up to—and also keep a lookout for the ‘ghost'!”

Mr. Hardy looked troubled. He shook his head. “That would be dangerous, Frank. There's no telling what might happen with a possible killer at large.”

Frank and Joe pleaded earnestly. Mr. Hardy finally promised to wait until they searched the island before making a final decision.

After breakfast they scoured the Whalebone crescent from tip to tip, but the ghostly dynamiter had apparently slipped away during the night. The detective was now half inclined to let the boys stay.

When they approached the cove campsite at the end of their search, Fenton Hardy stopped short and blanched.

“My camp's been ransacked!”

The four rushed forward. Scattered across the sand were the smashed fragments of what had been his transceiver.

“Who—” Joe began, appalled. The sleeping bag was burned to a charred crisp. All food supplies were violently trampled.

The detective's boat, too, seemed to be gone. But suddenly Frank's sharp eyes spotted the craft.

“There it is!” he said, pointing offshore.

The boat lay bottom-up in a few feet of water, a gaping hole in its hull!

Fenton Hardy's jaw tightened grimly. “That settles it,” he said. “You boys are not staying on the island. We're going back in the Sleuth together—if our ghost hasn't wrecked that, too.”

Anxiously they trekked back to the southern tip of the island. All four heaved sighs of relief when they found the sleek motorboat still safely hidden among the reeds.