The Hooded Hawk Mystery Part 9

"Yes, and the firebug who caused the trouble hasn't been apprehended yet," Joe said grimly.

Joe ga.s.sed up the Sleuth Sleuth while Frank took the wheel. Soon they were speeding out of while Frank took the wheel. Soon they were speeding out of Bayport harbor. There were a number of islands near the inlet where they could wait for their quarry. Frank chose one that lay in shadows, cut the motor, and turned off their running lights.

"I feel like one of those falcons 'waiting on' until its prey comes along," Joe remarked with a grin.

In the bright moonlight the boys could see other boats plying up and down the harbor, but all of them were pleasure craft. Finally, however, Frank whispered: 103 "I think this is it. There's a boat with the Daisy K's Daisy K's lines." lines."

Both boys positively identified Captain Flont's craft as it moved past them. They gave it a reasonable lead, then started after it. The chase continued for about five miles, then the boys noticed the Daisy K Daisy K slowing down. Frank cut the slowing down. Frank cut the Sleuth's Sleuth's engine. engine.

A few minutes later a large motor dory appeared beyond the fis.h.i.+ng boat and pulled alongside. A rope ladder clattered over the rail of Flont's s.h.i.+p and two men scrambled down the rungs into the dory.

As the smaller boat pulled away toward the open sea, the Daisy K Daisy K started up again, started up again, turned in a wide arc, and headed back toward Bayport.

"We must must find out where that dory's going!" Joe said. find out where that dory's going!" Joe said.

The Sleuth Sleuth took up the chase! took up the chase!

CHAPTER XIV.

Hunting a Hawk.

the Hardys had been following the mysterious motor dory in their own boat for some time when suddenly the Sleuth's Sleuth's motor began to sputter and the craft lost way. motor began to sputter and the craft lost way.

Joe, seated on the forward deck as lookout, whirled around and asked, "What's the matter?"

"Sounds as if we're out of gas," Frank replied. "Didn't you fill the tank?"

"Of course I did," Joe insisted. "The gauge read full when I stopped pouring."

Frank unscrewed the cap and beamed his flashlight inside. "I have news for you, Joe,"

he said grimly. "The gauge still reads full, but there isn't a drop of gas in the tank!"

"Well, for Pete's sake!"

The Hardys examined the gauge carefully and discovered that it was jammed.

104.

105 "This didn't jam by itself," Frank declared. "Someone tampered with it!"

"Think it might have been someone from the Daisy K?" Daisy K?" Joe asked. Joe asked.

"Could be. But it sure puts a monkey wrench in our plans for tonight."

The motor dory was out of sight by this time. In disgust the boys brought out the emergency fuel can and emptied its contents into the tank. Since there was little hope now of locating the dory, even in the moonlight and with their limited fuel supply, the boys headed for home. While Frank fixed the gauge, they speculated about where the dory had come from. Perhaps from a s.h.i.+p waiting at sea? The boys could see no lights to indicate any vessel, however, and concluded that the dory might be planning to meet a pa.s.sing s.h.i.+p later.

"I wonder who those two men were who climbed off the Daisy K," Daisy K," Frank said Frank said thoughtfully.

Joe shrugged. "I guess our only hope of solving that is to keep the Daisy K's Daisy K's crew under crew under close observation," he commented. "When we get back to town, let's ask one of Dad's operatives to watch them."

"Jeff Kane's in town. He's a good man," Frank suggested.

When the brothers reached Bayport, Frank telephoned the detective. Kane readily agreed to take over the a.s.signment, leaving the boys free to track down their other clues.

Early the next morning, after feeding the falcon, 106 they took turns phoning the three pet shops which they had not had time to call the day before, plus several in nearby counties. This time they were more successful. Two of the owners supplied them with the names of six carrier-pigeon fanciers. Three of these were in Bayport, while the others were some distance away. With Frank at the wheel of the convertible, the boys started on their quest. The first place was only half a mile from their home. The pigeon keeper, a young man about twenty-five, proved to be a squab breeder who kept a few carrier pigeons as a hobby. He showed them to Frank and Joe.

"I enter these in cross-country races," he said. "It's a swell sport." The pigeon fancier smiled. "My birds have brought me several cups and ribbons," he added, stroking one of the racers fondly.

In reply to a question from Frank, the young man said he had never taken his birds out on the water and released them.

"In fact, I don't know anyone around here who would have reason to," he said, "because the contests are always from inland cities to the coast."

The Hardys thanked him for the information and went on their way. Both of the other local men proved to be above suspicion as well.

The next name on their list was that of a Reed Newton who lived about five miles away.

When Frank and Joe reached his home, they found him to be a retired man in late middle age, who had flown 107 pigeons as a hobby for many years. He had a large cote and several breeding cages.

"You raise more pigeons than you train and fly, don't you, Mr. Newton?" Frank asked.

"Oh, yes," the fancier replied. "I sell them." He smiled boyishly. "I may sound a bit vain, but my pigeons are becoming known all over the world."

"Has anyone purchased a large number of birds from you recently?"

Reed Newton wrinkled his brow for some moments, then replied, "Not recently. But about two years ago I had a big order. A young man from India, named Bhagnav, bought a whole flock of pigeons."

"Bhagnav!" Joe exclaimed, but recovered quickly and added, "That's an unusual name."

"Can you describe this man?" Frank asked.

Mr. Newton hesitated, then answered, "Well, as I remember, he was a tall, slender, rather handsome fellow of about twenty-six. One thing I do particularly remember was that he had a scar at the base of his chin. It stood out clearly because it was a slightly lighter shade than the rest of his face."

Frank and Joe could hardly believe their good fortune in picking up this clue. Was the Bhagnav who had purchased the pigeons related to the maha-rajah's cousin who was now using the name of Delhi?

After the brothers had left Mr. Newton and were on their way to interview the next fancier, they began to speculate about the man named Bhagnav who had bought the pigeons.

108 "It's possible," said Frank, "that he was an impostor who had planned this smuggling racket as far back as two years ago."

"Right. Figuring that if anyone uncovered the plot, the real Bhagnav would be blamed.

We must phone Mr. Delhi about this as soon as we get home."

The drive to the farm of John Fenwick, the last pigeon fancier on the boys' list, took them some time and on the way they stopped at a roadside restaurant to have lunch. During the last part of the journey both boys breathed deeply of the clean country air and enjoyed the verdant rolling landscape. When Joe suddenly spotted a sign reading 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 the convertible into the driveway.

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. At first the Hardys mistook him for a telephone lineman because of the climbing hooks he held in one hand.

"We're looking for John Fenwick," Frank announced.

109 "I'm your man," he replied, smiling. "What can I do for you?"

"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. It's an exciting sport, particularly if you begin by capturing the young hawks yourself to train."

"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 att.i.tude, son," Mr. Fenwick declared. "Since you're interested in the birds yourself, you might like to come along with me today. I'm going up to Cliff Mountain to get a young hawk from an eyrie-that's a nest-that I've been observing."

Frank and Joe were thrilled at this idea. "If you don't think we'd be in the way, we'd like to!" the older boy said.

"Not at all. In fact, you might be of great service."

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 duck hawks.

"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 were four of 110 them. I will take only one young hawk out of the eyrie and leave the rest to fly away and raise broods of their own. Then, too, 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 explained how he used his ropes for climbing down the rock face to the eyrie.

He tied a heavy rope around a st.u.r.dy oak which seemed to be growing right out of the rocks. The loose end was dropped over the side of the cliff, falling until its entire one hundred and twenty-five feet hung 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."

The hawk hunter then took a smaller rope and tied a Spanish bowline in it. He stepped into this and tied the loose ends of the rope around his waist to make a sling, which would enable him to rest when he got tired of climbing the heavy vertical rope. It would also protect him from falling if he were hit by a tumbling rock or struck by a hawk.

111 The Hardys tended the ropes while Mr. Fenwick went over the edge of the cliff. He lowered himself about sixty feet, then called back: "The mother isn't here, but there are three fledglings. One egg didn't hatch."

The mother hawk was not in sight but Mr. Fen-wick 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."

But the falcon did not return and in a few minutes the hawk hunter announced that he had a young bird 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."

Joe, curious to see the nest, asked, "Do you think I could get a look at the hawks in the eyrie?"

"Sure," replied John Fenwick. "You can see them by leaning over the ledge and looking down."

Joe moved along toward a good vantage point, 112 dropped to his knees, and wriggled to the edge of the cliff.

He was disappointed not to be able to see the young hawks because of a shaly overhang which hid the nest. He inched farther over.

Just then Frank happened to glance up. The mother hawk was banking overhead. The next second she plummeted toward Joe like a rocket!

"Look out! Get back!" Frank screamed.

But there was not time for his brother to pull himself back. The falcon slammed into Joe's head, brus.h.i.+ng his face with her talons. As Joe threw up both arms to protect his head, he lost his balance and disappeared over the edge of the cliff!

CHAPTER XV.

Chet in Trouble.

horrified at seeing his brother slip off the cliff, Frank ran toward the brink where Joe had been. John Fenwick followed.

But the earth, loosened by Joe's plunge, made the footing unsure and it seemed for a moment as if they too would go over into the chasm. All this time the falcon was circling and screaming overhead.

"Joe!" Frank wailed. "Joe!"

But his brother could not answer. Plunging down the steep face of the cliff, Joe had clutched frantically at roots and vines, only to have them snap off or slip through his fingers.

At last, however, his hands gripped a large tree root. It held, and the muscles in his arms and shoulders jerked painfully as they caught the full force of his descent.

Now, coughing and half blinded from the dust stirred up by his slide, he could only grit his teeth 113.

114 and hang on. Blood from the deep scratches made by the falcon's sharp talons was running down his cheek, and the whole experience had left him weak.

Gradually, however, his strength returned and he looked below. There was a smooth shelf of rock a short distance beneath him and in relief he dropped to it. The overhang of the cliff made it impossible for Frank and Mr. Fenwick to see him without leaning out dangerously over the cliff.

Frantic now, Frank cried, "Joe! Joe!"

"I'm all right!" his brother called back, but a grim smile crossed his face as he watched the mother hawk heading toward her nest and young.

"Where are you?" Frank called down.

"On a ledge below the rim of the cliff."

Moments later Joe saw a lifeline swinging toward him. Because of the cliff's overhang, the rope was a bit beyond his reach, and for a while it looked as though he might still plummet to the depths in trying to reach it. Finally, Joe broke off a length of curling root, and using it for a hook, managed to bring the rope close enough to grasp it.