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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

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BOOK: The Hooded Hawk Mystery
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“Flont! Don't shoot! Orders from the boss!”
Frank clicked on the receiver but there was no answer. He kept repeating “Come in, Flont.” Still no reply. As Joe looked on tensely, Frank continued this call intermittently for ten minutes. Finally, receiving no response from the captain, he gave up.
“Maybe Flont had turned off his set before I started sending the order,” Frank said, worried. “Or he may have recognized my voice.”
“You tried the only thing possible,” Joe said. “Besides, even though there wasn't any answer, Flont might have heard it and been fooled. All we can do is hope.”
Joe suggested that he hurry across to the other side of the island and contact the local police. “In the meantime, you stand by the radio, just in case Flont should call in again.”
“Okay,” Frank agreed. “But let's tie this fellow up first.”
They bound the captive's ankles and arms, and put a gag in his mouth. Joe found a pair of shoes and a sweater, put them on, and started off.
He located a rocky trail and followed it a couple of miles, until he came out of the woods. Finally, nearly an hour after leaving the smugglers' cabin, Joe spotted a farmhouse and dashed up to it.
Fortunately the residents were awake. They listened with some skepticism to the boy's story. But they permitted Joe to use their phone and offered to drive him to the chief of police in Venus Village.
But Joe could not get through to either Chief Collig or his mother at the Bayport Hotel, due to the inadequate service between the island and Bayport. After several attempts, however, he finally contacted the Coast Guard. The young detective was told that men would be sent out at once to apprehend Captain Flont and learn what had happened to the
Sleuth.
On the drive to town the farmer remarked, “This is the first time I remember anything happening around here which needed the police. Chief Barton's appointment was kind of an honorary one.”
When the farmer stopped at the police chief's home in Venus Village, Joe thanked him for the lift, then rang the bell.
Chief Barton was a man past middle age, with a paunch and a good-natured smile.
“Well, what brings you around here so early in the morning, stranger?” the man asked.
“I'm Joe Hardy from Bayport. My brother and I have located the hideout of a ring of smugglers here on Venus Island. We've got two of them tied up. We'd like you to come and make the arrests.”
“Smugglers on Venus Island!” The chief roared with laughter. “Who you trying to kid, son?”
“It's true,” Joe insisted, trying not to show annoyance. “The Coast Guard and the immigration authorities have been trying to track them down for months. The State Department's interested, too!”
“How does the State Department figure in this?” the officer asked curiously.
“These smugglers are also kidnappers,” Joe said. “They're holding a young Indian captive.”
The man finally seemed to realize the seriousness of the situation and said, “Well, no one can say that Chief Barton doesn't tend to business. I'll phone my deputy and we'll be right with you. Just sit down in the parlor.”
It seemed an eternity to Joe while Barton made the contact with his deputy and dressed. But at last the chief brought in a tall, lanky man whom he introduced as Al Richards. The deputy studied Joe for a moment, then commented:
“So you're one of the Hardy boys, eh? I've heard about you fellows down around Bayport. What's this wild-goose chase we're going on?”
“Smugglers!” Joe said tersely. “And let's get going before it's too late.”
The three drove part way back to the smugglers' hideout in a jeep. They stopped about a mile from the cabins, and Joe led the men the rest of the way on foot. A fork in the path brought them to the first cabin.
Frank, who had found shoes and a shirt, heard them coming and went to meet the group. He said he certainly was glad to see the police, and reported that no radio messages had been received.
“One of the smugglers is in here,” he told the men as they paused at the cabin door.
“Well,” drawled Deputy Richards, “we're ready for him. Let's see what a smuggler looks like.”
They opened the door and Joe walked across to the bunk. He knelt down to pull out the trussed-up man.
The prisoner was not there!
“He's gone!” Joe cried.
“Gone!” echoed Frank. “But how?”
Deputy Richards remarked laconically, “Told you this would be a wild-goose chase!”
The chief shook his head slowly and shrugged, eying the Hardys dubiously. Frank and Joe were staring at each other, blaming themselves for the prisoner's getaway. Apparently they had not tied him securely enough.
But perhaps he had not had time to go far, the boys thought. In fact, he might still be in the building! They dashed into the adjoining room. The escaped man was not there and only three of the pigeons were left in the cages.
Frank tried the door to the next room—the one Joe had reported locked. It was unlocked now.
As the door swung open a wholly unexpected scene met their eyes. Joe cried out, “Here he is!” and Frank yelled, “Stop!”
The police chief and his deputy rushed in. At an open window stood the man who had been the Hardys' prisoner. He was releasing two carrier pigeons.
Joe, noticing there were capsules on the birds' legs, leaped forward to stop their flight. But he was too late!
“Here he is!” Joe cried out
“Where are those messages going?” he demanded, but the man made no reply.
Frank spotted a large perch in a corner. On it rested a hooded hawk. Certain that the falcon was their own, he picked up a heavy leather gauntlet from a window sill. Quickly donning the glove, Frank took the bird on his wrist. As he removed the hood, Frank spoke softly to her. The hawk recognized him instantly and uttered a joyful
keer, keer.
Frank turned to the police officers and said, “Here is support for our story. This is a prize hunting hawk, and it was stolen from our home in Bayport.”
“Arrest this man!” Joe said. “He's in cahoots with the thief and he's one of the smugglers.”
Chief Barton made no move to take the man into custody. Instead, he stared at the smuggler. “Why, John Cullen, what's going on?” he asked.
Frank was puzzled by the chief's friendliness, but he did not take time to ask questions. He was afraid that the pigeons might be carrying messages which would alert the men holding Tava Nayyar. If so, harm might come to the youth. Frank hurried outside with the falcon and unhooded her.
Looking up, he saw that the carrier pigeons were circling above the cabin, picking up their directional beam preparatory to making a beeline flight to their destination.
Frank turned the falcon loose. To his dismay, she responded sluggishly. Her reactions were considerably slowed down as a result of being imprisoned for so long. There was nothing the impatient young detective could do to hasten matters. He must wait until she regained her keenness.
At that moment Chief Barton and Deputy Richards came out of the cabin with John Cullen and Joe. In an angry tone the chief of police said to the Hardys:
“If your whole story's as phony as this part of it, I'm afraid we can't help you.”
“What do you mean?” Joe demanded.
“This so-called smuggler, Mr. Cullen, is one of the leading citizens on the island, though he has only lived here a couple of years. He's a pigeon fancier and has been racing birds for a year or more. His cote's on the mainland.”
The Hardys were not impressed. Turning to Cullen, Joe asked suspiciously:
“How do you account for our stolen falcon being in your cabin?”
“My assistant got furiously angry about the whole deal, I'm afraid,” the man replied suavely.
“What deal?” Joe probed.
“He knew that a number of my best pigeons had been killed by a hunting hawk. Someone told him that your falcon was responsible.”
Frank's and Joe's minds were racing. Suddenly a thought came to them.
Nanab!
He had doubtless brought the falcon to the island!
“Go on!” Frank said icily to Cullen.
“My assistant brought the bird here, so that I could use it as evidence in my damage suit against you,” the man concluded triumphantly.
It was obvious that both Chief Barton and Deputy Richards believed the story and were about to reproach the boys when Joe challenged Cullen with:
“That sounds smooth enough. Now try to explain why the other man we captured was talking by short-wave to a boat with smuggled aliens on it.”
“You're crazy,” Cullen retorted. “Chief Barton, these boys are the ones who ought to be arrested!”
All this time Frank had not taken his eyes off the falcon. She had finally aroused from her lethargy and was now winging after the two pigeons. The hawk was still some distance from the birds, who were lining out for the mainland. Completely confident of the falcon's skill, Frank remarked:
“Chief Barton, maybe our hunting hawk will prove to you that Mr. Cullen is not merely racing pigeons.
She
may prove he is aiding smugglers and kidnappers!”
All eyes turned toward the three birds in the morning sky.
CHAPTER XVIII
The Falcon's Victory
 
 
 
 
THE falcon was only a tiny speck in the sky. The pigeons were out over the water but well below the climbing hawk. Frank turned to Joe and said:
“I guess this is what those old-time falconers called a ‘ringing flight.' I'm going to the beach to watch it.” The others followed him.
At the height of her pitch, the falcon plunged toward the pigeons in a long, angling stoop. Faster and faster she dropped—until the onlookers saw only a blur of moving wings. At a speed approaching a hundred and eighty miles an hour the hawk struck one of the pigeons. It plummeted into the water.
The peregrine mounted from her stoop and gave chase to the remaining pigeon.
Frank shouted, “Joe, take this and watch Cullen!” He thrust the hawk's hood into Joe's hand, kicked off his shoes, and ran into the surf. He set off at a strong, fast crawl toward the floating pigeon and soon reached it.
As Frank swam toward the beach with it, he glanced up. The second pigeon had reversed its course and was heading toward the brushy cover of the island. With awe and admiration he and Joe watched their falcon overtake her prey in a tail chase and bind to it in mid-air. In a long glide Miss Peregrine came to rest with her quarry in her talons.
“Good girl!” Joe cried. He ran forward and picked up the pigeon.
At that moment Frank came out of the surf and joined Joe. John Cullen cried angrily, “Leave those birds alone! They're my property!” With a vicious lunge he grabbed for both of them.
To the boys' dismay Chief Barton said, “I guess he's right, fellows. Let him have the birds.”
Frank and Joe were nonplussed. “I'll give them to you, Chief, but not to this man,” Frank said firmly.
Frank quickly flipped the capsule off the leg of the pigeon he was holding, while Joe removed the one on the other bird. Cullen tried to snatch the capsules, screaming in a hysterical voice that this was thievery and against the law. He demanded that the policemen do something.
But the chief and his deputy were stunned by the swift-moving events. Before the men could collect their wits, the Hardys had twisted open the tops of the capsules.
Two rubies dropped into
Frank's
hand!
Joe's capsule contained a tightly folded note, which he opened and read aloud:
“‘Twelve a's gone. Spies here. We're leaving island. Advise you move at once.”'
Chief Barton stared in amazement. Turning to Cullen, he demanded, “What does this mean?”
But Cullen was already fleeing pell-mell over the rocks.
“I guess that proves he's guilty!” Joe exclaimed. “Twelve a's must mean those aliens who left here in the dory!”
Stuffing the note into his pocket, he dashed after Cullen, with the police at his heels. The chase was soon over. As the fugitive attempted to get away in a motorboat hidden in a cove, he was caught and marched back.
“I guess you're not innocent after all,” said Chief Barton. “But you sure had me fooled.”
Cullen looked with hatred at the Hardys. “You idiots!” he snarled. “I'll get you for this!”
Frank suggested to the officers that they pick up the other smuggler at once. Silently he and Joe hoped the man had not been able to loosen his bonds and send a radio message!
BOOK: The Hooded Hawk Mystery
9.42Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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