The Secret of Pirates' Hill (4 page)

“That's easily answered,” Frank said, pointing to the motorcycle. “We want to talk to the man who owns it.”

“Do you know him?” Joe asked Bowden.

“Never saw the thing before,” he answered.

“Now tell us what brings you here,” Frank went on.

“A tip about the demiculverin.” Bowden glanced about apprehensively. “It may be buried near here.”

Both boys surmised this was another phony story. Bowden was carrying no digging tools, nor was he dressed in work clothes.

“Who gave you the tip?” Frank asked.

“I can't tell you that. The information was given to me in confidence.”

Frank was tempted to ask Bowden why he wanted a fieldpiece for a ship. But recalling his father's admonition to play along with the suspect, he merely said:

“Sorry we knocked you down, Mr. Bowden. Let us know if you want us to help dig here.”

Joe followed Frank's cue to be pleasant. “We went to the motel to see you this morning,” he said. “Frank and I thought we'd talk to you a little more about the cannon you want us to find.”

Frank broke in. “We saw the warning note on your door.” He watched Bowden closely.

“Warning note?” the man repeated, showing real surprise. After Frank explained, Bowden suddenly laughed. “I guess those kids at the motel were pulling a joke on me. They were playing cops-and-robbers when I left.” He glanced at his wrist watch. “I must get back.”

He strode off in the direction of the road. Joe turned to Frank. “Do you believe that cops-and-robbers story?”

“No. I didn't see any children around that motel. You know, one of us ought to follow Bowden and send the police up here.”

“Good idea,” Joe said. “You go; I'll stay.”

While he concealed himself to stake out the cabin, Frank cautiously tailed the suspect. “I'll bet we interrupted some kind of meeting,” he said to himself.

Bowden walked toward a green Pontiac hardtop parked on the road and roared off. Frank followed in the convertible, memorizing the Pontiac's license number. He was disappointed when the man drove directly to his motel, took the note off his door, and went into his cabin. When he had not come out fifteen minutes later, Frank decided to call Chief Collig and drove to a gas station.

The police chief agreed to send two men to the woods and Frank returned to the spot where he had left his brother.

“Anything doing?” he asked when he arrived at Joe's hideout.

Joe shook his head and Frank told him about Bowden and Chief Collig. Ten minutes later the boys were relieved by two plainclothesmen.

The Hardys hurried through the woods and drove on to Delmore. It was nearly noon when they arrived at the motorcycle shop.

“Good morning,” said the short, smiling proprietor, who introduced himself as Mr. Braun.

“We're interested in Kesselrings,” Frank replied. “Do you sell them?”

“Yes, I have the agency. But I haven't sold any motorcycles in a long time. One's been standing in my basement for weeks.”

Frank and Joe looked at each other. Was their clue going to lead nowhere?

Joe said, “We'd like to see it.”

The three descended a flight of wooden stairs. The man walked around a high pile of cartons, then suddenly exclaimed:

“My Kesselring! It's gone! Stolen!”

Mr. Braun excitedly went on to say that he had been away on vacation for two weeks and had just returned. The Kesselring had been there when he left.

“Ach,
what will I do?” he wailed.

Frank laid a hand on his shoulder.

“You may get it back this very day,” he said. He told of finding the motorcycle at the cabin and of the policemen now at the spot waiting to capture the thief. The dealer was overjoyed.

Frank at once telephoned this latest development to Chief Collig, while Mr. Braun thanked the boys repeatedly. Then they said good-by and left. After a quick lunch at a nearby diner they returned to their convertible.

“Joe, I have a hunch,” said Frank. “That motorcycle thief might be a recently released in. mate of the penitentiary. Mr. Braun's shop here in Delmore would be a likely place for him to rob. Let's call on Warden Duckworth and ask him some questions.”

“Good idea.”

The warden was an old friend of Mr. Hardy, and the boys had once assisted him in solving a prison break. Reaching the penitentiary, Frank called him from the main gate phone. A guard accompanied them to Warden Duckworth's office, where the official greeted them cordially.

“What brings you way out here from Bayport?”

Frank told him their suspicions and said, “We'd like to find out the names of men released from here within the past two weeks.”

Warden Duckworth rose, walked to his filing cabinet, checked the records, and returned with some cards. “We've let six men go,” he replied. “Four old-timers and a couple of young fellows.”

“The man we suspect is probably in his twenties,” Frank said. “Who were the young ones?”

“One is Bob Chidsie, a car thief. The other, Hal Latsky, a safecracker.”

“May we see their pictures?” Frank asked.

“Certainly.” Duckworth handed over the record cards, to which small photos were attached.

“That looks like the motorcycle thief!” Joe said immediately, pointing to Latsky.

Frank was thoughtful. “Don't forget, Joe, we've never seen this fellow close up without his goggles. Warden, could you tell us something more about him?”

“Yes—” The man studied Latsky's card for a moment. “Besides being a safecracker, he's an explosives expert. Also, he has an unusual hobby—the study of ancient cannon!”

AT the mention of Latsky's interest in old cannons, Frank cried out, “That convinces me, Warden! Latsky must be the man we're after!”

Once more the Hardys telephoned Chief Collig, who was amazed by the latest development in the boys' sleuthing. “Are you sure you don't want to join the force?” he asked with a chuckle.

Then he gave them a report on the stakeout in the woods. “Braun phoned in the serial number of the stolen Kesselring,” he said, “and our men at the cabin made a positive identification. It's Braun's bike all right. The thief hasn't returned yet, but we'll maintain a round-the-clock surveillance for as long as we need it. Braun has agreed to leave the motorcycle there as bait for the thief. He might try to get it back.”

Before the Hardys left, Warden Duckworth handed them pictures of Latsky. “Give these to Chief Collig,” he requested.

On the way to Bayport the boys discussed the strange turn of events. Was Latsky trailing the Hardys because they were searching for an old cannon? Did he know Bowden, and had the two planned a meeting in the woods? Or were they enemies, both looking for the old demiculverin?

“I'm going to phone Warden Duckworth and see if he can tell us anything about Bowden,” said Frank.

When the boys reached home, Frank immediately made the call. The warden said he had no released prisoner on his list named Bowden, nor had he ever heard Latsky mention anyone by that name.

“I'll ask the guards and prisoners, though,” Warden Duckworth promised. An hour later he called back. “If Latsky knows anyone named Bowden, he never mentioned it here.”

“Thanks, anyway,” said Frank and hung up.

He was disappointed not to have uncovered another clue but turned his attention to Aunt Gertrude, who had just come in the front door. She was waving three letters.

“I picked these up from the box at the newspaper office,” she said, handing them over. “You forgot all about your ad. I suppose these are some answers. Well, hurry up and open them. I'm entitled to know what's inside!”

Frank smiled as he tore open the first envelope. Joe came to stand beside him, and read the letter over his brother's shoulder.

The writer proved to be the amusing old artillery sergeant who had set off the mortar in the town square the previous day. Sergeant Tilton said that he lived up the coast near Pirates' Hill. He had once heard there was an old cannon on the hill, but it had been buried by sand in a storm many years ago—long before Tilton's birth.

Both boys agreed that the lead should be investigated.

The second letter was from Mr. Maglan, the retired custodian of the Bayport Historical Society. Frank opened it.

“Wait till you hear this, Aunty.” He chuckled.

“Why, what is it?”

“Mr. Maglan says three old cannons have been stored in the cellar of the Historical Society's building for thirty years!”

“What!” exclaimed Miss Hardy. “Cannons in the basement!”

Joe roared with laughter. “Why, Aunt Gertrude, I always thought you knew everything about the Bayport Historical Society building.”

The boys' aunt did not laugh. “This is serious. Suppose there is powder in those guns!” she cried out. “Why—”

Frank assured her that thirty-year-old gun-powder would be damp and harmless. Aunt Gertrude merely said “Humph!” and then reminded her nephews tartly about carrying the cutlasses to the basement. “Mr. Lightbody says they're in the way.”

“We'll go right after dinner,” Joe said. “And we'll investigate those old cannons at the same time.”

The third note was of more serious import. Letters of the alphabet had been cut from newspapers and pasted on the paper to form words. The message bore no signature. It read:

“Wow! Things are really getting complicated!” Joe exclaimed.

“Yes,” Frank agreed. “And the writer must have found out we're the ones who put that ad in the paper.”

“I don't like this!” Aunt Gertrude declared.

When Mrs. Hardy heard about the threat, she too became alarmed. Both she and Aunt Gertrude appealed to the boys to drop the case, at least until their father returned from Florida.

“We can't stop work now,” Frank objected. “Joe and I are just getting some good leads. And anyway—”

The ringing of the telephone interrupted his protest. As Joe picked up the phone, everyone waited tensely.

“Maybe it's your father,” Mrs. Hardy whispered.

Frank noticed Joe's jaws tighten as he listened. It could not be a call from their father.

“Frank,” Joe whispered, “come here! It's Bowden. He wants to talk to you, too.”

His brother put his ear close to the phone “Hello,” he said, “this is Frank.”

Bowden's voice sounded scared. “Listen! You've got to help me! I've been threatened!”

“By whom?” Frank asked. “Those kids again?”

“No, no. This is for real!” Bowden's voice was shaky and faint. But suddenly it became strong again. “Fr-ank! Joe!” he cried out.

“Were you threatened by someone named Latsky?” Frank demanded.

There was no answer.

“Mr. Bowden?” Frank said questioningly.

Still there was no response, but suddenly the Hardys heard a thud and the noise of a phone dropping onto a hard surface.

“Hello! Hello!” Frank kept saying.

There was dead silence for another moment. Then a strange voice said ominously into the instrument:

“You Hardy boys! Drop the cannon search at once! This is your last warning!”

The threat ended with a sharp dick as the intruder in Bowden's room slammed down the telephone.

Frank whirled to face his brother. “It sounds as if Bowden had been attacked! Probably by the person who just gave us that final warning!”

Joe started for the door. “Let's hurry over to Bowden's motel. We may catch the guy.”

Frank thought it best to get help to Bowden immediately. “He may be seriously injured. I'll notify the desk clerk at the Garden Gate.”

With frantic haste, Frank dialed the motel office number, but the line was busy.

“Come on!” Joe urged impatiently. “We can get there in a few minutes if we hurry.”

The boys ran to the convertible. When they reached the motel, Frank pulled up in front of Room 15. The door stood ajar and they burst inside.

Bowden lay face down on the floor, unconscious. Blood trickled from the back of his head!

As Joe and Frank rushed over to him, the man groaned slightly and moved his arms. Frank turned him over.

“I'll get some water,” Joe offered, and hurried to the bathroom for it. He soaked a towel in cold water and pressed it against the man's neck and face. Bowden shook his head dazedly as he regained consciousness, and the boys helped him to his feet.

“How did you—?” he stammered, recognizing them. “Where's—? ... Oh, my head!”

Frank assisted Bowden to the bed, where Joe applied an antiseptic bandage he had found in the bathroom medicine chest. Then they began to question him. Bowden said he had not seen his attacker.

“I hadn't locked my door,” he explained. “Somebody must have sneaked up from behind and hit me!”

“Latsky?” Frank queried, watching Bowden intently.

“Who's he? Never heard of him,” the man said.

“Who threatened you?” Joe asked.

“I don't know. An unsigned note had been shoved under my door. It's right—” Bowden looked toward the telephone table. “Why—it's gone! It was right there!”

“Your attacker must have taken it,” Joe said. “What happened to the other note that was stuck on your door?”