Read The Secret of Pirates' Hill Online
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
The Secret of Pirates' Hill (9 page)
“Who was the guy who started that explosion?” Joe demanded.
“I don't know.”
“What do you mean? You were supervising the fireworks, weren't you, Mr.â?”
The man scowled. “The name's Halpen. I was only in charge of the timing,” he answered. “The fellows lighted the fuses when I told 'em to. I don't know the name of the guy who disobeyed orders. He just came around before we were ready to start. I suppose somebody hired him. It wasn't any of my business.”
Frank was not satisfied with the explanation. He hailed the captain of the police boat and asked if he might speak to the men they had picked up.
“Sure thing, Frank,” said the officer.
The captain requested the men to come to the near side of his craft. Frank asked them the name of the worker who had set off the rockets. Each declared he did not know.
Their own passenger grunted. “I guess the guy just butted in for a good time.” He eyed the Hardys. “Unless,” he went on, “he was an enemy of yours.”
“If he was, we didn't know it,” Joe retorted quickly. “But he sure is now!”
“I'm getting cold,” said Halpen. “Put me ashore, will you?”
“Okay, but first 1 want to ask you a few questions,” Joe spoke up.
“Well, make it snappy!”
“Who was the man hidden under the tarpaulin in your boat this morning!” Joe shot at him.
Halpen's jaw sagged, his composure gone for a moment. Then he said, “You saw him, eh? Well, he was a stranger to me. His boat capsized and I picked him up. He didn't tell me his name.”
“But why did he hide under the cover?”
“Afraid of the sun,” Halpen answered gruffly. “And he fell asleep.”
Frank took up the questioning. “Why did you race off in your speedboat when we tried to overtake you?”
Halpen glared at him. “It was late. My wife was waiting for me. And now, unless you're going ashore, let me get into the police boat so I can go home.”
The Hardys were frustrated, but there was nothing they could do. Frank helped the man board the launch, and it took off for Bayport immediately.
Iola grimaced. “I don't believe a word that man said, do you?”
There was a chorus of “No's.” Joe said he was going to find out who Halpen was and what he did for a living.
“Probably nothing much,” Chet spoke up, opening one of the picnic baskets. “Who wants a sandwich and a soda?”
Everyone did and in a short while all the food was gone. Chet declared that he was still hungry, and upon reaching the Hardys' boathouse, the group set off for a spot frequented by teen-agers.
Immediately the Hardys and their friends went to phone their families that they were all right. Then Joe called the chairman of the fireworks committee, Mr. Atkin. He had just reached home.
“Halpen's harmless but a loafer,” Mr. Atkin said in answer to Joe's question. “He manages to get along somehow, doing odd jobs. At one time he worked in a pyrotechnics factory and understands fireworks. He's had the job of setting off the Bayport rockets and set pieces for the last few years. I can't understand what happened tonight.”
Joe now inquired how many men had been engaged to work on the fireworks display.
“Let's see,” said Mr. Atkin. “Five. Yes, there were five.”
“I counted six,” Joe stated. “What?” the man exclaimed. “Then one of them was there without being hired. He probably was the one who caused a near tragedy.”
“I'm sure the mysterious Mr. X was the culprit,” Joe agreed. Upon returning to the group, he told the others that so far Halpen's story checked. “It's a puzzle, though. I have a hunch he's not to be trusted.”
Frank remarked that he was more worried about the mysterious man who aimed the rocket at them.
The thought of their close escape sobered the group. It was not until some of their high school friends stopped at the table and began to joke with them that they shook off the depressed mood, and enjoyed the remainder of the evening.
The next morning, while the boys were dressing, Frank said he thought they should get in touch with Bowden before making a further search. “Since both he and Tim Gorman are looking for the demiculverin, I'd like to know if they're acquainted.”
“Let's go!”
“We'll tell him Chet found a gunner's pick along the shore, but we won't mention Pirates' Hill.”
“Right.”
The man seemed a bit less friendly than usual when they arrived at his motel. Was he suspicious? But when the boys finished telling their story, he smiled. “You're making progress, I can see that. Keep it up. Time is precious.”
Bowden had nothing to offer in the way of news. The police, he said, had no clues to the person who had left him the warning note and later attacked him.
Presently Frank asked, “Do you know a man named Tim Gorman?”
Bowden was visibly disturbed by the question. “Gorman!” he exclaimed, his face flushing. “I'll say I know him, but I'm not proud of it.”
“What do you mean?” Joe asked.
“He's no good!” Bowden told the boys that Gorman went about posing as a naval man and was wanted by the police for swindling.
“That's hard to believe,” Frank said.
Joe, on the other hand, arched his eyebrows and gave his brother a meaningful look as if to say, “I told you so.”
Bowden asked them how they happened to know Gorman. Guardedly Frank told of meeting him on the beach. Bowden interrupted the narration several times to inquire about details. There seemed to be something he wanted to know, but was reluctant to ask point-blank.
Finally, unable to suppress his curiosity any longer, he blurted out, “Did Gorman mention the cutlass?”
CHAPTER XI
An Alias
BOWDEN'S unexpected question perplexed the boys for an instant. Then Joe asked, “One of the stolen cutlasses?”
Bowden looked blank. “What stolen cutlasses?” “You don't seem to read the newspaper,” Frank said. “Some swords were stolen from the Bayport Historical Society building the night before last.”
Bowden's surprise seemed genuine and the Hardys concluded that he had nothing to do with the theft.
“Well, what cutlass were you talking about?” Joe asked.
“Forget it.”
“Look, Mr. Bowden, you can't play hide-and-seek with facts and expect us to do a good sleuthing job for you!”
The man smiled. “No need for you to get hot under the collar. Gorman's hipped on finding a miniature cutlassâsays it's a lost heirloom. He puts the question to everyone.”
The Hardys thought this was an unlikely story. They left shortly, saying they planned to continue their search for the cannon.
“I wish Dad would come back from Florida,” Joe remarked as they rode along. “This case is getting knotty.”
“Joe, it had me baffled until just now. But I believe I have the answer,” Frank declared.
“What is it?”
“It might sound farfetched,” Frank replied, “but the combination of cannons, cutlasses, and the story about the pirates' fight all lead in one direction.”
Joe smiled. “You mean hidden treasure?”
“Right. But we'll have to dig up more clues before we can dig up any treasure,” Frank said.
Since the boys had to pass near their home to take the road to Pirates' Hill, Frank suggested that they stop and see if there was a letter or phone message from Mr. Hardy.
The telephone was ringing persistently as they entered the house. “Nobody's home,” Frank said. “Grab it, Joe.”
The boy picked up the instrument in the front hall. “Yes, this is Joe Hardy.... Why do you want to see us, Mr. Smedick?” Joe listened for a moment and added, “All right. Frank and I will come immediately.”
Joe hung up and turned to his brother. “A guy with a strained voice, named A. B. Smedick, wants to see us at the Bayport Hotel. Room 309. It has something to do with the cannon mystery.”
“We'd better watch out. This may be a trap. I suggest we stay in the hall to talk to that fellow,” Frank cautioned.
A few minutes later Joe buzzed 309. Presently the door opened. The Hardys gasped. Tim Gorman stood there!
“What's the idea of this?” Joe asked.
“Please step in,” Gorman invited. “I'll explain.”
“We prefer staying here,” Frank said coolly.
Quickly Gorman reached into his coat pocket, extracted a wallet, and took out a paper and a card. He handed them to Frank.
On the card the boys saw the small photograph of the man in a Navy uniform. Joe inspected it closely to see if any touching up had been done.
It was Gorman, all right, beyond any doubt. The paper was a statement of his honorable discharge from the United States Navy two years earlier.
“Please come in,” Gorman said, and the Hardys entered the room. Their host locked the door and they all sat down close together.
“I'm using the name of Smedick here for protection against certain people in Bayport who would like to see me harmed,” he said in a low voice. Obviously he was afraid that he might be overheard.
Without explaining further, he went on, “I've investigated you boys thoroughly and know you're trustworthy. I'm very eager to have you help me solve a mystery.”
“We're pretty busy right now on another case,” said Joe, who still felt skeptical about the man.
Gorman looked disappointed. “I'm sorry to hear that. I really need your help.”
Frank suggested that Gorman tell them what the mystery was. Perhaps they could work on it along with their other sleuthing.
Gorman pulled a pad and pencil from his pocket and wrote:
MEET ME TOMORROW AT 2 P.M.
IN THE BROWN SHACK ON THE DUNE A MILE NORTH OF PIRATES' HILL. I'LL TELL YOU THEN.
IN THE BROWN SHACK ON THE DUNE A MILE NORTH OF PIRATES' HILL. I'LL TELL YOU THEN.
The boys read the message. Frank nodded. But Joe, suspicious, said, “Before we go any further, suppose you tell us what you know about cutlasses.”
The boy's remark hit Gorman like a bombshell. He sat bolt upright in his chair, and his face flushed. “Please, not now,” he said in a strained voice. “Tomorrow. I'll tell you then.”
He arose, took a lighter from his pocket, and burned the note. Then he walked to the door, unlocked it, and ushered the boys out.
The Hardys did not speak until they reached their car. Then, as they drove off, Joe burst out, “What do you make of all this?”
Frank said his curiosity was aroused and he would like to go to the shack. “But I'll watch out for any double-crossing.”
“Well, we'd better get back to our search for the demiculverin,” Joe urged.
“Let's borrow Dad's magnetometer,” Frank added. This was an electronic mine detector for locating metals under sand.
They picked up the instrument at their house, then drove to Pirates' Hill.
“Let's do our searching systematically,” Frank said. He proposed that they mark off sectors and work along the beach and the dunes, moving slowly up the hill.
They worked steadily until one o'clock. The magnetometer had indicated nothing of importance. The boys sat down to rest and eat the sandwiches they had brought. It was ebb tide and the beach was deserted.
As soon as they had finished, they resumed their work with the magnetometer. Whenever it indicated a metal object under the sand, the boys dug hopefully. As time passed, they discovered a battered watch, a charm bracelet and a cheap ring, along with soda cans and an old, rusty anchor.
“Say, we could open a secondhand store,” Joe quipped.
“A junk yard's more like it,” Frank said.
By five o'clock they had dug several holes on the beach and part of the hill but had not found any artillery. Unfortunately, the magnetometer short-circuited. It would take some time to repair it, they knew. Weary, they gave up the search.
“At this rate it'll take us all summer to cover Pirates' Hill,” Frank remarked, flopping down on the sand.
“Yes, and Bowden's in a hurry,” Joe answered with a grin.
They went back to their convertible and started homeward. Soon after dinner the phone rang. It was Chief Collig.
“I have some important news for you,” he told Frank, who had answered.
“What's up, Chief?”
“First, I want to tell you that we still have the stakeout posted at the cabin in the woods, but no one has showed up yet.”
“Too bad,” said Frank.
“Second, the department has been working on the fireworks case. Since you fellows are interested in finding that phony helper I thought you'd like to know we've traced him to a rooming house.”
“Where?” Frank asked.
“Right here in Bayport. His name is Guinness. He skipped out just before we got there, but we picked up a clue that may help us locate him. Officer Smuff discovered it in a wastebasket in Guinness's room.”
Frank gripped the phone excitedly. “What is it?”
“An address on a scrap of paper,” the chief replied. “It reads
A. B. Smedick, B. H.”
A. B. Smedick, B. H.”
CHAPTER XII
Startling Developments
STUNNED by the information, Frank echoed, “A. B. Smedick, B. H.!”
“Right,” said the police chief. “What do you think B. H. stands for?”
“I'm sure that it means Bayport Hotel,” Frank replied, “because we talked to a person there by that name.”
“What! Well, then, maybe you can tell us where Smedick is now. He checked out.”
Frank, amazed to hear this, said he had no idea. “Joe and I are supposed to meet him tomorrow afternoon along the shore. He probably won't show up. But if he does, I'll try to find out if he knows where Guinness is.”
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