THE HARDY BOYS
THE HOUSE
ON THE CLIFF
By FRANKLIN W. DIXON
AUTHOR OF
THE HARDY BOYS: THE TOWER TREASURE
THE HARDY BOYS: THE SECRET OF THE OLD MILL
_ILLUSTRATED BY_
WALTER S. ROGERS
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Made in the United States of America
GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
Copyright, 1927, by
GROSSET & DUNLAP
[Illustration: “WE’VE FOUND THE PASSAGE!” (Chapter XVII)]
CONTENTS
I THE HAUNTED HOUSE
II THE STORM
III EMPTY TOOL BOXES
IV THE CHASE IN THE BAY
V THE RESCUE
VI SNACKLEY
VII BOUND AND GAGGED
VIII THE STOLEN WITNESS
IX THE STRANGE MESSAGE
X THE VAIN SEARCH
XI THE CAP ON THE PEG
XII POINTED QUESTIONS
XIII A PLAN OF ATTACK
XIV PRIVATE PROPERTY
XV SMUGGLERS
XVI THE SECRET PASSAGE
XVII THE CHAMBER IN THE CLIFF
XVIII A STARTLING DISCOVERY
XIX CAPTURED
XX DIRE THREATS
XXI QUICK WORK
XXII INTO THE HAUNTED HOUSE
XXIII RESCUE
XXIV THE ROUND-UP
XXV THE MYSTERY EXPLAINED
THE HARDY BOYS:
THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF
CHAPTER I
THE HAUNTED HOUSE
Three powerful motorcycles sped along the shore road that leads from
the city of Bayport, skirting Barmet Bay, on the Atlantic coast. It was
a bright Saturday morning in June, and although the city sweltered in
the heat, cool breezes blew in from the bay.
Two of the motorcycles carried an extra passenger. All the cyclists
were boys of about fifteen and sixteen years of age and all five were
students at the Bayport high school. They were enjoying their Saturday
holiday by this outing, glad of the chance to get away from the torrid
warmth of the city for a few hours.
When the foremost motorcycle reached a place where the shore road
formed a junction with another highway leading to the north, the
rider brought his machine to a stop and waited for the others to
draw alongside. He was a tall, dark youth of sixteen, with a clever,
good-natured face. His name was Frank Hardy.
“Where do we go from here?” he called out to the others.
The two remaining motorcycles came to a stop and the drivers mopped
their brows while the two other boys dismounted, glad of the chance to
stretch their legs. One of the cyclists, a boy of fifteen, fair, with
light, curly hair, was Joe Hardy, a brother of Frank’s, and the other
lad was Chet Morton, a chum of the Hardy boys. The other youths were
Jerry Gilroy and “Biff” Hooper, typical, healthy American lads of high
school age.
“You’re the leader,” said Joe to his brother. “We’ll follow you.”
“I’d rather have it settled. We’ve started out without any particular
place to go. There’s not much fun just riding around the countryside.”
“I don’t much care where we go, as long as we keep on going,” said
Jerry. “We get a breeze as long as we’re traveling, but the minute we
stop I begin to sweat.”
Chet Morton gazed along the shore road.
“I’ll tell you what we can do,” he said suddenly. “Let’s go and visit
the haunted house.”
“Polucca’s place?”
“Sure. We’ve never been out there.”
“I’ve passed it,” Frank said. “But I didn’t go very close to the place,
I’ll tell you.”
Jerry Gilroy, who was a newcomer to Bayport, looked puzzled.
“Where is Polucca’s place?”
“You can see it from here. Look,” said Chet, taking him by the arm and
bringing him over to the side of the road. “See where the shore road
dips, away out near the end of Barmet Bay. Do you see that cliff?”
“Yes. There’s a stone house at the top.”
“Well, that’s Polucca’s place.”
“Who is Polucca?”
“Who _was_ Polucca, you mean,” interjected Frank. “He used to live
there. But he was murdered.”
“And that’s why the place is supposed to be haunted?”
“Reason enough, isn’t it?” said Biff Hooper. “I don’t believe in
ghosts, but I’ll tell the world there are some funny stories going
around about that house ever since Polucca was killed.”
“He must have been a strange fellow, anyway,” commented Jerry, “to
build a house in such a place as that.”
Indeed, the Polucca place had been built on an unusual site. High above
the waters of the bay it stood, built close to the edge of a rocky and
inhospitable cliff. It was some distance back from the road, and there
was no other house within miles. The boys had traveled a little more
than three miles since leaving Bayport, and the Polucca place was at
least five miles away. It could hardly have been seen, had it not been
for its prominent position on top of the cliff, silhouetted clearly
against the sky.
“He _was_ a strange fellow,” Frank observed. “No one knew very
much about him. He didn’t welcome visitors. In fact, he always kept a
couple of vicious dogs around the place, so nobody cared to hang around
there if they weren’t invited.”
“He was a miser,” came from Joe Hardy.
“He may have been. At least that was the theory. Everybody said Polucca
had a lot of money, but after his death there wasn’t a nickel found in
the house.”
“Felix Polucca always said he wouldn’t trust the banks,” put in Biff
Hooper. “But if he had any money I don’t know where he made it, for he
didn’t work at anything and he mighty seldom came into the city.”
“Perhaps he inherited it,” Jerry suggested.
“Maybe. He must have had money at some time, to build that house. It’s
a great, rambling stone place that must have cost thousands.”
“Is anybody living there now?”
The others shook their heads. “No one has lived there since the murder
and I don’t think any one ever will,” said Frank Hardy. “The house is
too far out of the way, for one thing, and then—the stories that have
been going around—”
“Well, I won’t say I believe any place is haunted, but the Polucca
place is certainly strange. There have been queer lights seen there
at night. On stormy nights, particularly. And once a motorist had a
breakdown near there, so he went up to the house for help. He didn’t
know anything about the history of the place. He got the scare of his
life!”
“What happened?”
“He decided when he went into the front yard that the place was
deserted, and he was just going to turn away when he saw an old man
standing at one of the upper windows, looking at him. He called out,
and the old man went away, and although the motorist hunted all through
the house he didn’t find any trace of the old chap. So he left that
place as quickly as he could.”
“I don’t blame him,” remarked Jerry. “But the house sounds interesting.
I’m game to visit it.”
“So am I!” declared the others.
“Lead on!” laughed Chet. “It’ll be a brave ghost that will tackle the
whole five of us.”
Jerry clambered on behind Chet, and Biff mounted Joe’s motorcycle. The
machines roared, and the little cavalcade started on its way down the
shore road toward the house on the cliff.
Instead of being an aimless trip, the outing had now assumed all the
aspects of an adventure. With the exception of Jerry, the boys had all
passed by the Polucca place at one time or another, but none had ever
ventured off the main road to explore the deserted place.
The lane leading into the Polucca grounds, never kept in good repair
even during the owner’s lifetime, was now almost indiscernible and was
overgrown with weeds and bushes. The house itself was hidden from the
roadway by trees. Most people gave the place a wide berth, whether
they believed in ghosts or not, for the stories that had been told
of the rambling stone building since the murder of Felix Polucca two
years before were sufficient to indicate that there had been strange
happenings in the old house. Whether or not they were of supernatural
origin was a matter of debate.
The murder of Felix Polucca had been particularly brutal. He was an
old Italian, suspected, as Frank said, of being a miser. He was very
eccentric in his ways and most people considered that he was not quite
sound mentally.
Be that as it may, Bayport was shocked one morning to learn that the
old man had been found dead in the kitchen of his house, his body
riddled with bullets. The motive, apparently, was robbery, for although
it was popularly believed that the old man possessed a great deal of
money that he kept with him in the house, it was never found, in spite
of the most diligent search.
This was the gloomy history of the place the Hardy boys and their
chums were now about to visit and explore. To add to the atmosphere of
excitement that had possessed them from the moment the old house was
mentioned, as they drew closer to the cliff, the sun retired behind a
cloud and the sky gradually became darker.
Frank glanced up. Although the sky had been bright and clear when the
party left Bayport, clouds had gathered in the east and it was plain
that a storm was gathering.
“Looks as if we’ll have to go into the Polucca place whether we want to
or not,” he called out to the others. “It’s going to rain.”
In a little while they came to the lane that led to the haunted house.
In spite of the fact that it was overgrown with weeds and bushes, the
boys were able to drive down the faintly defined roadway until at last
a rusty iron gate barred their progress.
Frank, who was in the lead, got off his machine and kicked the gate
open, the rusty chains clanking dismally as they fell from the staples.
Then the party went on into the grounds.
Under the lowering sky that heralded the approaching storm, the grounds
of the Polucca place were far from inviting. Dank, tall grass grew
beneath the unkempt trees, and thistles and weeds sprouted up in the
very center of the roadway. A rising wind stirred among the branches of
the trees and the waving grasses rustled mournfully.
“Creepy sort of a place,” muttered Jerry.
“Wait till you see the house,” Chet advised.
Not one of them could restrain a slight shiver of apprehension when at
last they came in view of the old stone building. It was framed in a
mass of trees, bushes, and weeds that threatened to engulf it from all
sides. Weeds obscured the front door. Bushes grew up level with the
sills of the vacant downstairs windows. Trees on either side and beyond
the house extended trailing branches down over the roof. A shutter hung
by one hinge from an upstairs window, and banged with every passing
gust of wind.
A deathlike silence hung over the old building. Under the black clouds
that now filled the entire sky it was imbued with an atmosphere of
gloom and terror.
“Come on!” said Frank. “Now that we’re here we may as well go through
the place.”
“Haven’t seen any ghosts yet,” laughed Chet, with an effort at being
light-hearted. But in spite of himself, his tone seemed forced.
They left the motorcycles beneath a tree and advanced toward the old
stone building. The front door was almost off its hinges, and it swung
creakingly open at Frank’s touch.
Frank stepped boldly into the hallway. The interior of the house was
veiled in gloom, for the rear windows were boarded up, but the lads
could see that everything was deep in dust. A staircase was before
them, leading to the upper stories of the building. To the left, was a
closed door.
“This must be the parlor,” said Frank, as he flung the door open.
The room was empty. A stone fireplace was at one side, and as the boys
came into the room a rat scuttled out of the fireplace and raced across
the floor, disappearing through a hole in the wall. The sound made
every one jump, for the boys’ nerves were at a tension on account of
the forbidding atmosphere.
“Just a rat!” said Frank.
His voice had the effect of calming the others.
They stood hesitantly in the middle of the deserted parlor. Joe went
over to the window and looked out, but the view from the front window
of the Polucca place was so lonely and gruesome, in its aspect of
tangled trees and weeds and undergrowth under the lowering darkness of
the sky, that he came back.
“Where shall we go next?” said Chet.
“Nothing much to see around here,” said Frank, disappointed. “It’s
just an ordinary, dirty, old, deserted house. Let’s explore upstairs,
anyway—”
At that moment there was a startling interruption.
A weird shriek, quavering as if with terror, rang out from the upper
part of the haunted house!