The House on the Cliff (6 page)

“It may be his signature. If not, it's a very good forgery.” Mrs. Hardy was plainly worried.

“If Dad didn't write this note,” Joe asked, “who did and why?”

“Your father has many enemies-criminals whom he has been instrumental in sending to prison. If there has been foul play, the note might have been sent to keep us from being suspicious and delay any search.”

“Foul play!” exclaimed Frank in alarm. “Then you think something has happened to Dad?”

JOE put an arm around his mother. “Frank and I will start a search for Dad first thing tomorrow,” her son said reassuringly.

Next morning, as the boys were dressing, Joe asked, “Where shall we start, Frank?”

“Down at the waterfront. Let's try to find Pretzel Pete and ask him if Dad talked to him on Monday. He may give us a lead.”

“Good idea.”

The brothers reached the Bayport waterfront early. It was the scene of great activity. A tanker was unloading barrels of oil, and longshoremen were trundling them to waiting trucks.

At another dock a passenger ship was tied up. Porters hurried about, carrying luggage and packages to a line of taxicabs.

Many sailors strolled along the busy street. Some stepped into restaurants, others into amusement galleries.

“I wonder where Pretzel Pete is,” Frank mused. He and Joe had walked four blocks without catching sight of the man.

“Maybe he's not wearing his uniform,” Joe surmised. “You know, the one Dad described.”

“Let's turn and go back the other way beyond the tanker,” Frank suggested.

The boys reversed their direction and made their way through the milling throng for six more blocks.

Suddenly Joe chuckled. “Here comes our man.

Strolling toward them and hawking the product he had for sale came a comical-looking individual He wore a white cotton suit with a very loose-fitting coat Around his neck was a vivid red silk handkerchief, embroidered with anchors.

The vendor's trousers had been narrowed at the cuff with bicycle clips to keep them from trailing on the ground, with the result that there was a continuous series of wrinkles from the edge of his coat to his ankles.

The man wore a white hat which came down to his ears. On the wide brown band the name
Pretzel Pete
was embroidered in white letters.

“Boy, that's some gear!” Frank murmured.

Pretzel Pete's garb was bizarre, but he had an open, honest face. He stopped calling “Pretzels! Hot pretzels! Best in the land!” and smiled at the Hardys. He set down the large metal food warmer he carried. From the top of it rose three short aerials, each ringed with a dozen pretzels.

“You like them hot, or do you prefer them cold?” he asked the brothers.

Joe grinned. “If they're good, I can eat them any way.” Then he whispered, “We're Mr. Fenton Hardy's sons. We'd like to talk to you.”

At that moment a group of sailors brushed past. Pretzel Pete did not reply until they were out of earshot, then he said to the boys, “Come into this warehouse.”

The brothers followed him down the street a short distance and through a doorway into an enormous room which at the moment was practically empty.

“You've brought a message from your pop?” the vendor asked.

Quickly Frank explained to him that their father seemed to be missing. “We thought you might have heard this.”

“Yes, I did,” Pretzel Pete answered. “But I didn't think nothing about it. I always thought detectives disappeared—sometimes in order to fool people they were after.”

“They sometimes do,” Joe told him. “But this time seems to be different. Dad said he often came down here to get information from you—because you always give him good tips—and we wondered if you had seen him lately.”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Monday morning.”

“Dad has been gone ever since.”

“Hmm.” The man frowned, picked up a pretzel from one of the aerials, and began to munch on it. “Help yourselves, fellows.”

Frank and Joe each took one of the pretzels. They had just bitten into the delicious salted rings when Pete continued, “Now you got me worried. Your pop's a fine man and I wouldn't want to see anything happen to him. I'll tell you a place you might look for him.”

Pretzel Pete said that he had picked up a bit of information that led him to think an East Indian sailor named Ali Singh might be engaged in some smuggling. The vendor did not know what ship he sailed on, but he understood that the man had come ashore for a secret meeting of some gang.

“This here meeting,” Pretzel Pete explained, “was being held out in the country somewhere off the shore road. It was to be in a deserted farm house on Hillcrest something or other. I don't remember whether it was ‘road' or ‘street' or what.”

“Was this last Monday?” Frank asked eagerly.

“Oh, no,” the vendor answered. “This was about three weeks ago, but when I told your pop he seemed real interested and said he guessed he'd go out there and look around.”

Joe broke in, “Dad must have thought the rest of the gang might be living there. Maybe they're holding him a prisoner!”

“Oh, I hope not,” Pretzel Pete said worriedly. “But you fellows had better get right out there and take a look.”

“We certainly will,” Frank told the man.

The brothers thanked Pretzel Pete for the information, then hurried home. Mrs. Hardy was not there, so they did not have a chance to tell her about their plans.

“We'll leave a note,” Frank decided and quickly wrote one.

Their hopes high, the brothers set off on their motorcycles on the search for their father. By now they were very familiar with the shore road but did not recall having seen any sign reading Hillcrest.

“Suppose it's not marked,” said Joe. “We'll never find it.”

Frank gripped his handle bars hard. “If Dad found it, we won't give up until we do.”

The motorcycles chugged past side road after side road. The farther away from Bayport the boys went, the farther apart these roads became. After a while they came to the Kanes' farmhouse and were tempted to stop to see if they might know where Hillcrest was. But just then, a short distance ahead, Joe saw a small car suddenly turn into the shore road. It seemed to have come right out of a clump of bushes and trees.

“Come on, Frank! Let's investigate that place.”

The boys pushed ahead, hoping to speak to the driver of the car. But he shot down the road in the opposite direction at terrific speed. When Frank and Joe reached the place from which he had just emerged, they saw that it was a road, though hardly noticeable to anyone passing by.

“I'll take a look and see where it goes,” Frank said, shutting off his motorcycle and walking up the grassy, rutted lane. Suddenly he called back, “We're in luck, Joe. I see a homemade sign on a tree. It says Hillcrest Road.”

Frank returned to his brother and the boys trundled their machines up among the trees to hide them. Then they set off afoot along the almost impassable woods road.

“There aren't any tire tracks,” Joe remarked. “I guess that fellow who drove out of here must have left his car down at the entrance.”

Frank nodded, and then in a low tone suggested that they approach the deserted farmhouse very quietly, in case members of the gang were there. “In fact, I think it might be better if we didn't stay on this road but went through the woods.”

Joe agreed and silently the Hardys picked their way along among the trees and through the undergrowth. Five minutes later they came to a clearing in which stood a ramshackle farmhouse. It looked as if it had been abandoned for many years.

The young sleuths stood motionless, observing the run-down building intently. There was not a sound of activity either inside or outside the place. After the boys had waited several minutes, Frank decided to find out whether or not anyone was around. Picking up a large stone, he heaved it with precision aim at the front door. It struck with a resounding thud and dropped to the floor of the sagging porch.

Frank's action brought no response and finally he said to Joe, “I guess nobody's home. Let's look in.”

“Right,” Joe agreed. “And if Dad's a prisoner there, we'll rescue him!”

The boys walked across the clearing. There was no lock on the door, so they opened it and went inside. The place consisted of only four first-floor rooms. All were empty. A tiny cellar and a loft with a trap door reached by a ladder also proved to have no one in them.

“I don't know whether to be glad or sorry Dad's not here,” said Frank. “It could mean he escaped from the gang if he
was
caught by them and is safely in hiding, but can't send any word to us.”

“Or it could mean he's still a captive somewhere else,” Joe said. “Let's look around here for clues.”

The boys made a systematic search of the place. They found only one item which might prove to be helpful It was a torn piece of a turkish towel on which the word Polo appeared.

“This could have come from some country club where they play polo,” Frank figured.

“Or some stable where polo ponies are kept,” Joe suggested.

Puzzled, Frank put the scrap in his pocket and the brothers walked down Hillcrest Road. They brought their motorcycles from behind the trees and climbed aboard.

“What do you think we should do next?” Joe asked.

“See Police Chief Collig in Bayport,” Frank replied. “I think we should show him this towel Maybe he can identify it.”

Half an hour later they were seated in the chief's office. The tall, burly man took a great interest in the Hardy boys and often worked with Fenton Hardy on his cases. Now Chief Collig gazed at the scrap of toweling for a full minute, then slapped his desk.

“I have it!” he exclaimed. “That's a piece of towel from the Marco
Polo!”

“What's that?”

“A passenger ship that ties up here once in a while.”

Frank and Joe actually jumped in their chairs. Their thoughts went racing to Ali Singh, smugglers, a gang at the deserted farmhouse!

At that moment Chief Collig's phone rang. The Hardys waited politely as he answered, hoping to discuss these new developments with him. But suddenly he put down the instrument, jumped up, and said:

“Emergency, fellows. Have to leave right away!” With that he rushed out of his office.

Frank and Joe arose and disappointedly left headquarters. Returning home, they reported everything to their mother, but upon seeing how forlorn she looked, Frank said hopefully, “That note you received with Dad's name on it could have been on the level.”

Mrs. Hardy shook her head. “Fenton wouldn't forget the secret sign. I just know he wouldn't.”

Word quickly spread through Bayport that the famous Fenton Hardy had disappeared. Early the next morning a thick-set, broad-shouldered young man presented himself at the front door of the Hardy home and said he had something to tell them. Mrs. Hardy invited him to step inside and he stood in the hall, nervously twisting a cap in his hands. As Frank and Joe appeared, the man introduced himself as Sam Bates.

“I'm a truck driver,” he told them. “The reason I came around to see you is because I heard you were lookin' for Mr. Hardy. I might be able to help you.”

“YOU'VE seen my father?” Frank asked the truck driver.

“Well, I did see him on Monday,” Sam said slowly, “but I don't know where he is now.”

“Come in and sit down,” Frank urged. “Tell us everything you know.”

The four walked to the living room and Mr. Bates sat down uneasily in a large chair.

“Where did you see Mr. Hardy?” Mrs. Hardy asked eagerly.

But Sam Bates was not to be hurried. “I'm a truck driver, see?” he said. “Mostly I drive in Bayport but sometimes I have a run to another town. That's how I come to be out there that mornin'.”

“Out where?”

“Along the shore road. I'm sure it was Monday, because when I came home for supper my wife had been doin' the washin' and she only does that on Monday.”

“That was the day Dad left!” Joe exclaimed.

“Well, please go on with the story,” Frank prodded Sam Bates. “Where did you see him?”

The truck driver explained that his employer had sent him to a town down the coast to deliver some furniture. “I was about half a mile from the old Pollitt place when I saw a man walkin' along the road. I waved to him, like I always do to people in the country, and then I see it's Mr. Hardy.”

“You know my father?” Frank asked.

“Only from his pictures. But I'm sure it was him.”

“Dad left here in a sedan,” Joe spoke up. “Did you see one around?”

“No, I didn't.”

“What was this man wearing?” Mrs. Hardy asked.

“Well, let's see. Dark-brown trousers and a brown-and-black plaid sport jacket. He wasn't wearin' a hat, but I think he had a brown cap in one hand.”

Mrs. Hardy's face went white. “Yes, that was my husband.” After a moment she added, “Can you tell us anything more?”

“I'm afraid not, ma‘am,” the trucker said. “You see, I was in kind of a hurry that mornin', so I didn't notice nothin' else.” He arose to leave.

“We certainly thank you for coming to tell us, Mr. Bates,” Mrs. Hardy said.

“Yes, you've given us a valuable lead,” Frank added. “Now we'll know where to look for Dad.”