BOUND AND GAGGED
The Hardy boys were astonished by this information. Their father,
tapping a pencil quickly on the desk, leaned forward in his chair.
“You may have stumbled on some information of great value,” he said to
them quietly. “I need hardly tell you that it is best to keep it to
yourself. If Ganny Snackley is operating in this vicinity it will be a
great feather in our cap to catch him.”
“It’s an unusual name,” remarked Frank. “I’ll bet that’s the Snackley
our man meant, all right.”
“And the farmer said there was smuggling going on in the Bay,” Joe
pointed out.
“Of course, there always has been more or less smuggling carried on in
Barmet Bay. But it’s been on a small scale. Ganny Snackley and his gang
are international smugglers. The last I heard of him he was operating
up on the New England coast. But probably things grew too hot for him
and he moved down here. He seems to have dropped completely out of
sight for the past six months or so.”
“Perhaps this man Jones, at the farmhouse, will talk later on.”
“I’m going out there to interview him,” said Fenton Hardy. “I’ll wait
a few days until he is feeling better. Of course the matter is one for
the United States authorities, and as I haven’t been assigned to the
case I can’t do very much. But perhaps I’ll get some information I can
use at some other time.”
“Joe and I will go out to-morrow and see how he is getting along.”
“Do so. But don’t ask any questions. Don’t let him think you are
suspicious of him. Otherwise he’ll be liable to sneak away as soon as
he can, and we’ll lose him altogether. He is under an obligation to you
now because you saved his life, so it will seem quite natural for you
to come back to see him. If you think he is recovering quickly, let me
know and I’ll go out right away and talk to him. If you think he will
be there for several days yet, we’ll just let him stay until he feels
better.”
“Perhaps he is a detective himself,” Frank suggested.
“That had occurred to me,” admitted Mr. Hardy. “If that’s the case,
I’ll keep out of the affair. It’s just probable that he is a Secret
Service man who discovered Snackley’s hang-out and was shot for
his pains. That would explain why he wouldn’t tell you anything
about himself. But there’s always the possibility that he is one of
Snackley’s enemies; and in that case I may be able to persuade him to
talk.”
Fenton Hardy asked the boys more questions about their adventure, but
beyond a few trivial details they were unable to throw any further
light on the mystery. However, it was decided that they should go back
to the Kane farmhouse on the following day, which was Sunday, and
report on the condition of the mysterious Mr. Jones.
With that they left their father, spending the rest of the afternoon in
eager discussion and speculation concerning the strange events of the
day. It had been an eventful holiday for them, and although they went
over the incidents time and again they were unable to arrive at any
solution of the puzzling affair in Barmet Bay. As for the happenings
at the house on the cliff, they were inclined to accept their father’s
theory that some practical joker had been to blame.
Next morning, after church, they took the motorcycles out of the garage
and prepared to ride out to the Kane farmhouse, there to make inquiry
as to the condition of the man they had rescued on the previous day.
“Remember!” warned their father. “Don’t ask him too many questions or
he’ll get suspicious. Just find out how long he is likely to remain at
the farm. If his injuries aren’t very serious he’ll be leaving in a day
or so and we want to check up on him.”
The boys promised to follow the detective’s instructions. Unlike the
day previous, this Sunday was clear and bright, and the rain of the
afternoon before had laid the dust so that they enjoyed their journey
out along the shore road.
“It would be a bad joke on us if Mr. Jones left before we got there,”
remarked Joe.
“I don’t think he will. That wound in his side was enough to keep him
laid up for a few days. And, anyway, he lost so much blood yesterday
that it would take him a while to get back his strength.”
“I hope he isn’t a detective.”
“Why?”
“It would be great if we could get a chance to do some work on this
case ourselves. If Ganny Snackley is in this neighborhood and the
government detectives don’t know of it, we would help dad land him.”
“It _would_ be a great chance,” admitted Frank. “But I think we’ll
find our friend Jones is a detective. That is, if we ever find out
anything definite about him. Why else should Snackley and his men try
to kill him? For there’s no doubt they left him for dead.”
“Perhaps he was another smuggler that they wanted to get rid of.”
“Maybe. But I think it’s most likely he is a Secret Service man.”
At length they arrived at the lane leading from the main road to the
farmhouse. As their motorcycles roared down the drive they watched for
some sign of life about the place. But there was no one in the orchard
or in the barnyard. No one came out of the house. The place appeared to
be deserted and, although it was a warm day, the doors were closed.
“This is queer,” remarked Frank, as they brought their motorcycles to
a stop and left them in the shade of a large tree near the back of the
house. “Mr. and Mrs. Kane couldn’t have gone away and left Jones there
alone, could they?”
The boys went up to the door and rapped.
There was no answer.
“Try the front door,” Joe suggested.
After a number of futile efforts, they went to the front door of the
farmhouse. But here, although they banged on the panels, there was
likewise no response.
“They must have gone out,” said Joe.
“But what about Jones? They wouldn’t leave him here alone. I can’t
understand this.”
They went to the back door and rapped again and again. Still there was
no answer. Frank tried the doorknob and found that the door swung open.
“They didn’t lock the place up, anyway,” he said. “Let’s go in. If
Jones is upstairs we’ll go up and see him. Mr. Kane won’t mind.
Probably they didn’t expect callers to-day.”
They went into the kitchen and here they were surprised by the scene
of disorder that greeted their gaze. The previous day they had been
impressed by the neatness of the room, for Mrs. Kane was evidently the
soul of tidiness. Now the kitchen looked as though an earthquake had
shaken it.
Pots and pans were strewn about the floor. The table had been
overturned. A chair lay upside down in a corner. A few cups and saucers
lay in shattered bits beside the stove. The wood-box had been upset and
the wood was scattered about. One window curtain had been partly torn
from its fastenings.
“What on earth has happened here!” Frank exclaimed, in profound
astonishment.
“Looks as if a cyclone came through.”
“There’s something queer about this! There’s been a fight or a struggle
of some kind here. Let’s see what the rest of the house looks like.”
The Hardy boys rushed into the next room. There an unexpected sight
met their eyes.
Mr. and Mrs. Kane were seated in chairs in the middle of the room. They
were unable to move, unable to speak, scarcely able to make a struggle.
The farmer and his wife were bound and gagged, tied to their chairs!