THE STRANGE MESSAGE
The Hardy boys expected that the next day would find them busy on
a more detailed investigation of the circumstances surrounding the
mysterious kidnapping. But, to their surprise, when they came down to
breakfast next morning they found that their father had gone away.
Mrs. Hardy could not enlighten them.
“He went out early this morning and didn’t say when he would be back.
But he didn’t take any baggage with him, so I imagine he hasn’t gone
very far. He’ll probably be back some time to-day.”
Mrs. Hardy was accustomed to the comings and goings of her husband,
and nothing surprised her. She realized that his profession demanded
that he do many things that were mysterious enough on the surface but
reasonable enough when the time came to explain them. But the boy were
taken aback, for they had looked forward to seeing their father in the
morning and had hoped that he would lay a plan of campaign before them.
They went to school in disappointment.
On the way they met Callie Shaw and Iola Morton, two girls who were
particular friends of the boys. Callie Shaw, a brown-eyed, brown-haired
girl was an object of special enthusiasm with Frank, who was apt to
cast an appreciative eye upon the other sex, while Iola, a plump, dark
girl, a sister of Chet Morton’s, was “all right, as a girl,” in Joe’s
reluctant opinion.
Chet had told his sister about the affair at the Polucca place on the
previous Saturday, and she, in turn, had told Callie.
“Well, how are the ghost-hunters this morning?” asked Callie.
“Fine,” replied Frank, with a smile.
“What a brave bunch of boys you all are!” exclaimed the girl. “Running
away from an empty house!”
“That house wasn’t empty!” put in Joe warmly. “I suppose you think our
motorcycle tools walked away!”
“Somebody played a pretty good practical joke on you. Just wait till
you get to school. Whoever played that trick will be sure to tell
everybody.”
“Oh, well, we can stand it. If Chet Morton hadn’t been with us at the
time I would have blamed him. It’s like one of his pet ideas.”
“He can prove an alibi this time,” said Iola. “He was right with you,
and by the way he talked when he got home I think he was as badly
frightened as any one.”
But when the boys reached school they found that although news of their
experience at the house on the cliff had preceded them, no one was
laying claim to having originated the joke. Chet and the other boys
had told of the escapade, but although they momentarily expected that
some practical jester would come forward and take credit for the whole
affair, nothing of the sort happened, and when noon came it was as much
a mystery as ever.
“I’m beginning to think it wasn’t a joke at all,” admitted Joe, on
the way home. “Believe me, if it had been a trick played on us the
fellow who did it wouldn’t have lost any time coming around to have the
horselaugh.”
“It was a little too well done to be a joke. I think some one started
this ghost rumor just to keep people away from the Polucca place.”
“If everybody gets the same reception we got, I don’t blame ’em for
staying away. What with weird yells and shrieks, with walls falling in
and tool boxes being robbed, it’s a mighty active ghost they have on
the job.”
“I wonder—could it have anything to do with the smugglers, Joe?”
The Hardy boys looked at one another.
“There’s a thought!” exclaimed Joe. “We had two mighty strange things
happen to us on the same day. Perhaps they _have_ something to do
with each other.”
“It might be only a coincidence. But when you come to think of it, that
house on the cliff would be a mighty handy hang-out for smugglers if
they could keep strangers away. And what better way than by starting a
story that the place is haunted?”
“Gosh, I never thought of that! I wonder what dad thinks of it.”
“Perhaps he’s at home now. We’ll mention it to him.”
But when they returned home for lunch they found that Fenton Hardy had
not come back. Neither was he at home when school closed for the day;
and when the Hardy boys went to bed that night there had not been the
slightest word from their father nor any indication of where he had
gone. In spite of the fact that they were accustomed to these sudden
absences, the lads felt vaguely uneasy.
“I don’t know why,” said Frank next morning, “but I have a sort of
feeling that everything isn’t all right.”
“I’ve been feeling that way myself. Of course, dad has often gone away
from home like this without telling where he was going, and he has
always turned up all right. But this time—”
“Well, we’ll just have to wait and see. He knows his own business best,
and it’s ten chances to one we’re worrying over nothing, but I have a
sort of a hunch that there’s a nigger in the woodpile.”
Mrs. Hardy, however, was not alarmed.
“Oh, he’ll walk into the house when we’re least expecting him,” she
laughed reassuringly. “You boys are just anxious to get to work on the
Snackley case. Perhaps that’s what he’s working on now, he’ll probably
come back with a lot of information.”
“We’d rather he’d let us in on that,” returned Joe.
“And keep you out of school! Oh, no. He doesn’t mind letting you do
detective work as long as it’s in your spare time.”
So the Hardy boys had to make the best of it. They concealed their
impatience during the remainder of the week, doing their school work
faithfully. The following week was the start of vacation, and the lads
were deep in examinations for several days so that they had not much
time to think of detective activities.
But on Friday afternoon the mystery of their father’s absence took a
strange turn.
They came back from school to find their mother sitting in the living
room, carefully examining a note that she had evidently just received.
“Come here, boys,” she said, as they came into the room. “I want you to
look at this and tell me what you think of it.”
She handed the note over to Frank.
“What is it?” he asked, quickly. “Word from dad?”
“It’s supposed to be.”
The Hardy boys read the note. It was written in pencil on a torn sheet
of paper and the handwriting seemed to be that of Fenton Hardy. The
note read:
“I won’t be home for several days. Don’t worry.”
It was signed by the detective. That was all. There was nothing to
indicate where he was, nothing to show when the note had been written.
“When did you get this?” asked Frank.
“It came in the afternoon mail. It was addressed to me, and the
envelope had a Bayport postmark.”
“What is there to worry about?” Joe asked. “It’s better than not
hearing from him at all.”
“But I’m not sure that it’s from him.”
“Why?”
“Your father has an arrangement with me that he would always put a
secret sign beneath his signature any time he had occasion to write
to me like this. He was always afraid of people forging his name to
letters and notes like this and perhaps getting papers or information
that they shouldn’t. So we arranged this sign that he would always put
beneath his name.”
Frank snatched up the note again.
“And there’s no sign here. Just his signature.”
“It _may_ be his signature. If it isn’t, it is a very good
forgery. And it may have been that he forgot to put in the secret sign,
although it isn’t like him to do that.”
Mrs. Hardy was plainly worried.
“If he didn’t write it, then who did?” asked Joe.
“Your father has many enemies. There are relatives of criminals whom he
has had arrested and there are criminals who have served their terms
and have been released. If there has been foul play the note might be
meant to keep us from being suspicious and delay any search.”
“Foul play!” exclaimed Frank. “You don’t think something has happened
to dad?” he added, his face showing his alarm.
“The fact that he didn’t put the secret sign underneath his name makes
me anxious. What other object could any one have in sending us a note
like that, if not to keep us from starting a search for him?”
“Well, whether he wrote that note or not, we _will_ start a search
for him,” declared Frank firmly. “He merely said not to worry about
him. He didn’t order us not to look for him. If he really did write
the note he can’t say we were disobeying instructions. And then, the
absence of the secret sign makes it all different.”
“I’ll say we’ll look for him!” cried Joe. “Vacation starts next week,
and we’ll have plenty of time to hunt for him.”
“Wait until then, at any rate,” Mrs. Hardy advised. “Perhaps he will
return in the meanwhile.”
But as she glanced at the note again and once more regarded the
signature, strangely lacking its secret sign, her forebodings that
Fenton Hardy had met with foul play increased.