The Hooded Hawk Mystery (9 page)

When Joe spotted a sign with the name FENWICK. at the foot of a lane, he exclaimed:

“What a weird setup for a pigeon fancier!”

On the lawn inside the cyclone fence that lined the property were several perches. Each of them held a hooded hawk!

“Fenwick must be breeding fighter pigeons!” Frank grinned as he turned into the drive.

A pleasant-looking man in his middle thirties strode briskly from the back yard. He was dressed in rough clothing, had on a tight-fitting cap, and held two coils of nylon rope over his arm.

“We're looking for John Fenwick,” Frank announced.

“That's me,” the man said with a smile.

“We're interested in your pigeons,” Joe said.

Mr. Fenwick laughed and remarked, “You're about two years too late for that. As you can see from the perches on the lawn, I've switched my interest to falconry.”

“We have a peregrine falcon,” Joe replied. “That's the reason we came to talk to you. Our falcon brought down a pigeon and we were trying to find the owner so we could settle accounts.”

“Fine attitude, son,” Mr. Fenwick declared. “Since you're interested in the birds yourself, you might like to come along with me today. I'm going to Cliff Mountain to get a young hawk from an eyrie—that's a nest—I've been observing.”

Frank and Joe were thrilled at this idea. Frank suggested that Mr. Fenwick put his gear in their car and let them drive him to Cliff Mountain. He accepted, and as they drove along he explained that he was particularly interested in peregrines.

“I spotted one of their nests out on the mountain, and have been watching the tercel and the falcon. The eggs have been hatched now. There are four of them. I'll take only one young hawk out of the eyrie and leave the rest to fly away and raise broods of their own. The parent birds will return next year to nest again.”

When he and the boys arrived at Cliff Mountain, Frank parked the car and Mr. Fenwick led the way up the trail to the precipice that had given the mountain its name. The going was rugged, but the boys' enthusiasm for hawking and adventure spurred them on.

When they reached the edge of the shaly cliff, Mr. Fenwick tied a heavy rope around a sturdy oak which seemed to be growing out of the rocks. The loose end was dropped over the side of the cliff, its entire one hundred and twenty-five feet hanging down.

“Usually,” Mr. Fenwick explained, “it's a good idea to have a rope that will reach all the way to the bottom of the cliff. Then, if you can't climb back to the top safely, you can at least get to the ground without injury. But this cliff is too high for that. No alternative but to come back up.”

Mr. Fenwick went over the edge of the cliff. He lowered himself about sixty feet, then called to the boys:

“There are three fledglings. One egg didn't hatch.”

The mother hawk was not in sight. But Mr. Fenwick wasn't taking any chances and called up again, “Keep your eyes open for the mother. She's likely to resist an invasion of her nest. I don't want any trouble, if I can help it. I've been attacked before and it's no fun.”

In a few minues Mr. Fenwick announced that he had one of the young birds in his packsack and was coming up. He signaled to be lifted to the rim. As he came over the edge and the rest of the line was pulled up, Mr. Fenwick said:

“Funny, I haven't seen any sign of the tercel, either. Usually he'll do the hunting for food for the young. Then the falcon will take the quarry from him in mid-air, pluck it, and feed the fledglings.”

“Do you think someone might have shot the tercel and the falcon is getting the food?” Frank asked.

“That's possible,” Mr. Fenwick replied. “And she will have to do all the work herself until the young ones can fly.”

Then the hawk hunter displayed the fledgling. The falcon's tail and wing feathers were short because the bird was so young. Small tufts of down clung to them. The bird's feet were a light greenish gray instead of brilliant orange like the adults'.

Both Frank and Joe noticed how large the feet were. They were already fully grown, even though its feathers were still developing.

The thing that amazed them most was that the young falcon was brownish black instead of blackish blue like their own hawk. Mr. Fenwick explained that the young birds never have the same plumage color and markings as the adults.

“Next spring this bird will begin to molt—that is, drop her old feathers and grow new ones. Those will be adult plumage like your peregrine's.”

“Is that true for all hawks?” Joe asked.

“Yes,” Mr. Fenwick replied as he put the fledgling back in the pack to begin the return journey.

When they reached Mr. Fenwick's home, the falconer extended a cordial invitation to return soon.

Back at their own house, they found Sam Radley waiting. He was seated in the garden with Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude. The falcon sat on the perch beside them.

As Radley began his report, the two women arose and went into the house.

“No one returned to the hunting lodge and I doubt that anyone will, since they'll figure it's being watched. But as I was leaving Smith's woods, I met Mr. Morton. He told me that Mr. Smith's lawyer informed him that the property was leased for the summer to a dark-skinned man by the name of Sutter. I have a feeling he's one of our Indian boys.”

Frank and Joe agreed.

At that moment a special-delivery letter arrived for the boys from the Mediterranean Line. It stated that no Indians had arrived on any of their vessels' recent trips to New York.

“This information may interest you, however,” the letter went on. “A couple of years ago there was an Indian member of the
Continental's
crew named Bangalore. He jumped ship. This company is particularly disturbed, because the immigration authorities hold us responsible for such things.”

As he folded the letter, Frank said, “I wonder if we could get a photograph of Bangalore.”

“I'll try to locate one,” Radley offered.

Frank then told him of the clue about the pigeon fancier using the name Bhagnav, and the boys' decision to phone Mr. Delhi. Joe put in a call, but there was no answer at Mr. Ghapur's home, where the emissary was staying.

“Anything more I can do for you boys?” Radley asked. “I'll continue to keep an eye on the lodge.”

Frank and Joe could think of nothing else. They mentioned Kane's shadowing the Daisy K's crew and that they expected a report from him soon.

“And I think we should talk to the Coast Guard,” Frank remarked.

“I did that while I was waiting for you,” Radley said. “The local men have found nothing suspicious on boats or ships in the area they cover. Of course they don't go out far beyond the twelve-mile limit. Does that suggest anything to you?”

“You bet it does!” Joe spoke up. “For one thing, it seems to back up our idea that a large ship anchors offshore, receives some sort of signal —or maybe sends its own message by carrier pigeon. Then the smuggled Indians are taken off in boats like the motor dory we trailed last night.”

“But why couldn't the Coast Guard fly out there and spot such a transfer?” Frank pointed out. “When the dory reaches our waters, it could be nabbed.”

“I suppose they might,” Radley agreed. “But if the smuggled Indians swam a distance from a large ship to the smaller boat at night, the Coast Guard sure would have trouble spotting them.”

“And it's impossible for them to cover every bit of shore line at once,” Frank added, “especially at night when a dory could slip in. It might even be that the aliens swim the last half mile.”

After Radley left, Frank and Joe talked over their next move. “I suggest that we use Miss Peregrine for a little sleuthing,” Frank said.

“How?”

“Let's take the falcon out to the Morton farm and have George Simons meet us there with his copter. It's a shorter drive for us there than to the airport and maybe Chet would like to go along. We'll go up in the chopper and keep watch for a pigeon coming from the ocean and heading southwest. If we spot one, we'll follow it until the bird starts down to its cote. Then we'll turn the falcon loose and let her trail the pigeon right to its cote. That way we ought to be able to intercept any message it may be carrying.”

“You mean we'll kill two clues with one bird?” Joe grinned.

Frank first phoned Chet, who said, “Count me in. I sure would like to go along.”

Then Frank called George Simons, who agreed to meet them at the farm in half an hour. Joe got the hawk's equipment, hooded and wristed her, and the boys drove off. When they reached the farm, the helicopter was already settling in an open area behind the barn. The boys headed for it to tell Simons their plan.

Chet, seeing them from the kitchen window, came outside and followed them. As he ambled past a corner of the barn, a masked figure moved up behind him. Chet's arms were pinned behind his back and a hand was clamped over his mouth!

In a low, fierce whisper, the masked man ordered, “Bring that falcon to your barn and leave it there. If you don't, you and the Hardys will be in serious trouble! And don't tell anyone why you're doing it!”

Desperately Chet squirmed and twisted in the grasp of his assailant but could not free himself!

 

 

 

 

THE masked man tightened his grip.

“All right,” Chet finally said. “I'll do it.”

The masked man pushed Chet along until they were close to a small door in the barn. Then he turned him loose and darted into the darkness of the barn, closing the door behind him.

Chet walked toward the Hardys with trembling legs. As Frank and Joe explained their plans to Simons, Chet interrupted, saying:

“Sounds swell. M-mind if I hold the f-falcon on the trip?”

“But the bird isn't accustomed to you,” Frank said. “She wouldn't respond to your commands.”

“Well, can't I at least h-hold her until you s-spot the pigeon?” Chet pleaded.

Frank and Joe exchanged puzzled glances. They both sensed something was wrong with Chet, for he was not usually so nervous.

“That wouldn't work too well, either,” Frank told him.

Chet cast an anxious glance over his shoulder in the direction of the barn, then stared at the hooded falcon. She was standing quietly on Joe's gauntlet. He was checking the jesses to make certain that they were firmly fastened to the bird's legs. Then he unsnapped the swivel hook, so that he could release the falcon quickly.

Suddenly Chet dived at Joe and grabbed for the bird! With a startled cry Joe stepped back and the falcon flapped her wings to hold her balance.

Frank clutched the stout boy's arm. “What's wrong with you, Chet? You act as though you're crazy! This bird can be ruined if she's disturbed. You mustn't make a pass at her like that! Move gently and slowly or she will bate off the hand.”

Finally Chet decided the Hardys must be told about the threat. He glanced again at the barn, then said in a hoarse whisper:

“L-listen, fellows. A masked man stopped me at the barn a couple of minutes ago and ordered me to get the falcon from you. He told me to leave it inside the barn. If I don't, your lives and mine won't be worth a nickel!”

Simons, who had heard Chet's explanation, leaned out of the cockpit in amazement and said:

“Trouble! Can I help?”

Frank and Joe were grim, realizing that the only way out was through a ruse.

“You sure can,” Frank told the pilot. “We'll give the hawk to Chet. He can take his time about getting it to the barn. In the meantime, Joe and I will pretend we've gone off with you in the copter, but we'll sneak out the other side, double back, and try to nab this guy and anyone who might be with him.”

Joe helped Chet put the gauntlet on. Then he switched the falcon to the youth's wrist and handed him the end of the leash. In a loud voice he called “Good luck!” as though Chet had asked to borrow the hawk for an afternoon's hunting.

Simons jumped to the ground and the Hardys entered the passenger compartment. Then, while Chet and the pilot stood close together beside the helicopter to cut off any view from underneath the craft, Frank and Joe quickly slipped out the far side and took cover in back of some bushes. From there they made their way toward the barn as the copter rose and headed toward the woods.

Chet, who had started for the barn, was having trouble with the falcon. She bobbed up and down on his wrist, turned toward the throbbing sound of the rotors on the helicopter, and flew out to the end of the leash several times.

Chet, however, managed to get her to the barn. He rolled open the big door and placed the bird inside.

“Pretty rough on the hawk,” Frank whispered to Joe. “But I guess Chet is scared plenty, too.”

The frightened boy turned and hurried to the house. After he had climbed the rear steps and slammed the kitchen screen door behind him, the masked man slipped furtively out of the barn with the hawk under one arm.

Instantly the Hardys were upon him, and at a shrill whistle from Joe, Chet dashed back on the double. As Joe took the hawk, Frank pinned the prisoner to the ground and ripped off his mask.

Ragu!
The first mate from the Daisy K stared insolently at the boys.

“Well,” said Frank grimly as he let the sailor up but kept hold of him, “suppose you talk.”

“You threatened me and the Hardys,” Chet growled.