Night of the Werewolf (6 page)

“I'm afraid you're right.” Frank nodded. “It might even lead to accusations that your son was responsible for tonight's werewolf scare, if the news ever leaked out.”

“John is awfully drowsy and heavy-lidded,” Joe pointed out. He had risen from the sofa with his brother to examine young Tabor more closely. “I'll bet he'll drop off to sleep and tomorrow he won't even remember all this.”

“Probably not,” Frank agreed, opening John's eyelids more widely with his thumb and forefinger in order to check his pupils. “From what Dad's told us about such things, I don't think he's been drugged, but he looks as if he's in a trance!”

John stood limply now, staring off into the distance, utterly indifferent to, or not even aware of, what was going on around him.

The Hardys helped his father lead him upstairs and put him to bed.

Next morning at their cabin, Frank and Joe were awakened by a radio call. They had taken a special transceiver with them to ensure communications with Bayport and their father in case of an emergency. Now a red light was flashing on the set, and a repeated buzz was coming from the loudspeaker.

Joe leaped out of bed and switched on the mike and scrambler. The tuning dial had already been set to the agreed-on frequency.

“H-2 here. Come in please. Do you read me?”

“Loud and clear. F-H calling.”

“Hi, Dad. What's up?”

Fenton Hardy replied that he had returned to Bayport the previous night, only to find the boys gone. “I was interested to hear about your werewolf case,” he went on.

Joe filled him in quickly and added, “Mr. Tabor says he's met you at his company office.”

“That's right,” the famous detective replied. “I'm investigating a case for Federal Insurance Underwriters. It involves three buildings that were designed by Karel Tabor, with the actual construction work supervised by his firm, Chelsea Builders. All three have suffered recent disasters.”

“Wow! That's pretty unusual, isn't it?”

“So the insurance underwriters think. They feel it stretches coincidences a bit far.”

“Exactly what sort of disasters were they?”

“A fire, a gas explosion, and an apparent structural collapse.”

“Hm, interesting.” Joe frowned thoughtfully. “Still, all three occurrences
could
be due to accidents, couldn't they, Dad?”

“Maybe, or to poor design or sabotage, or even a plain old jinx. It's my job to find out.”

“Any leads yet?”

“Nothing sufficient to act on. But while you fellows are up in the Adirondacks region, there's something you can do for me.”

“Sure, Dad. Just name it.”

Mr. Hardy explained that Karel Tabor was known to be working on two new projects at the moment. One was the design of a Manhattan skyscraper. The other was the restoration of an historic timbered mansion not far from Hawk River, dating back to Revolutionary days.

The private investigator gave the exact location and continued, “I'd like you and Frank to drive there and look around. See if you can spot any clues or signs of possible trouble. If anything's about to go wrong, the insurance company would like to know beforehand, not after it's too late.”

“We'll check it out,” Joe promised.

“Good,” Mr. Hardy replied. “Incidentally, don't mention any of this to Karel Tabor.”

“Understood, Dad. We won't say a word.” The younger Hardy boy hesitated a moment before asking, “If there is anything crooked about those three building disasters, do you really think Mr. Tabor could be mixed up in it?”

“Too early to tell, Joe. At this moment I wouldn't even speculate as to why an architect or builder might want to damage his own work. But until we know more, I guess my answer would have to be yes. Tabor is under a certain amount of suspicion.”

So far, the Hardys and Chet had tended to sympathize with Mr. Tabor's werewolf trouble and his son's seeming involvement in the weird mystery. The possibility that the architect might be implicated in anything unethical or criminal shocked all three boys.

As soon as breakfast was over, Frank and Joe started out in their car, leaving Chet behind to hold down the fort. After stopping for gas at Hawk River, they drove north on Route 30.

The old timbered mansion of which their father had spoken was perched on a steep, wooded hill overlooking Indian Lake. Hardhatted workmen were busy restoring it, while a number of tourists and local people stood by, watching idly.

Frank pulled off the road into a convenient parking spot. Then he and Joe got out and approached the work site.

“What a huge mansion up here in the wilderness!” Joe muttered.

“Sure is,” Frank agreed. “Looks as if it's been mouldering away for a while, too. I bet they'll have quite a job restoring it.”

The immense, weatherbeaten house was constructed of hand-hewn timbers, some of them visibly rotted. But the structure had obviously been built by an oldtime master craftsman.

As the boys clambered up the slope for a closer view, someone suddenly yelled in alarm. “Look out!” The Hardys turned just in time to see a long crane arm swinging overhead. A heavy balk of timber which it had been carrying was slipping out of its sling!

The next instant something struck them from behind, and both boys pitched headlong on the ground. A split second later the timber balk crashed to earth, almost on the very spot where they had been standing!

The Hardys picked themselves up breathlessly. When Joe saw what a narrow escape they had had, he let out a faint gasp.

The man who had pushed them out of the way, a tall young construction worker, was standing on the other side of the fallen timber. “You two all right?” he called.

“Yes, we're okay,” said Frank, dusting himself off. “Thanks for the shove.” The thought flashed through his mind that what happened might have been no accident. Perhaps one of the workmen had recognized them, or someone had found out beforehand that Fenton Hardy was sending them to the site. But Frank quickly discarded the idea of an attempt on their lives when he saw the crew's obvious concern over the matter and realized that the young workman had risked his own life to save them.

“Sorry if we got in the way,” Frank apologized.

“Wasn't your fault,” the man replied. “That crane sling was improperly secured. Besides, the crew should have roped off this area to keep spectators out of danger.”

He signaled the crane arm back into position and helped his mates put the balk of timber into its sling again. Then, after the load had been secured, it was hoisted over to the house to replace one of the rotted structural beams.

Joe noticed the muscular young fellow's bronzed hawklike features and long dark hair, tucked up under his steel hardhat. “Are you an Indian?” he asked curiously.

“That's right.” The workman grinned. “I'm Mohawk, and proud of it.”

“You must be one of those ‘high-steel Mohawks' we've read about,” said Frank.

“Right again.” The Indian explained that he and many of his fellow tribesmen had been employed on numerous construction jobs in the New York area. Experience had shown they were especially well fitted for work on skyscrapers and bridges because their superb natural sense of balance enabled them to keep their footing on high girders.

Thrusting out his hand, the Indian added, “My name's Eagle, by the way, Hank Eagle.”

“I'm Frank Hardy,” Frank said, returning the handshake. “And this is my brother Joe.”

Hank Eagle's face took on a pleasantly surprised expression. “Hey, don't tell me you're those two detectives, the sons of Fenton Hardy?”

The boys nodded. “We are.”

“Your father was at our company office not long ago, talking to my boss.”

“You work for Chelsea Builders?” Joe asked.

“Sure do,” said Hank. “Usually in New York City, but today I was sent out here to report on the progress of this job. Mr. Tabor knows this is my neck of the woods, and—well, I'm hoping to be an architect myself someday, if I can ever get my degree. But that takes a lot of night courses.”

“Good for you,” Frank said. “Stick with it.”

“You fellows doing any detective work right now?” the Mohawk inquired, giving them a shrewd glance.

“Oh, in a way,” Joe replied cautiously, remembering his father's admonition and trying to sound casual. “We were up here in the Adirondacks on vacation, and Dad's been investigating those disasters that happened to three other architectural projects of Mr. Tabor‘s, so he asked us to drop up to Indian Lake to look for any signs of trouble.”

“Confidentially,” Hank said, “that's why my boss sent me here, too. I'm sure glad to know I've got a couple of smart guys like you backing me up.”

He offered to show the boys the interior of the mansion, and Frank and Joe gladly accepted. The huge building had a high balcony jutting out from the upper floor. Its original wooden supports had rotted away, so it had been propped up with temporary piling until they could be replaced. The balcony offered a breath-taking view of the green forested hillside and the vast, crystal-blue lake spread out below.

“Really beautiful!” Frank murmured, enjoying the scenery and inhaling the tangy mountain air. “Who ever built this place?”

“A British Indian agent, some time before the Revolutionary War,” their Mohawk friend replied.

“Over two hundred years ago!” Joe exclaimed.

“Right.” Hank nodded. “He was King George's personal envoy to the Indians in this part of America. He put up the mansion as his castle in the forest and got very buddy-buddy with all the Iroquois nations, including the Mohawks. In fact, he married a Mohawk squaw, whose brother was—well, the Iroquois nations didn't really have chiefs, but her brother was one of their tribal leaders or wise men, only younger than most. His Mohawk name, translated into English, meant ‘Dark Eagle,' and he was one of my ancestors,” Hank said proudly.

“No kidding!” Frank was impressed.

“Yup, my great-great-great grandfather, or something like that.”

“That means the British agent who was King George's personal rep was your great-great-great granduncle.”

“Which may connect you to British nobility,” Joe pointed out.

Hank Eagle burst out laughing. “You can't prove it by me, but in a way you're not so far off. You see, like most of the Iroquois, the Mohawks were close allies of the British, who had helped them fight the French. So when the American Revolution came along, they sided with their old pals, the Redcoats, against the Yankee settlers. And the British were anxious to keep it that way, so they invited Dark Eagle over to London and gave him the big hello. He actually met the King and hobnobbed with all the nobility at court. According to the history books, he was good-looking and his brother-in-law, the British agent, had had him well educated, so they made quite a fuss over him.”

Frank said, “But he still helped the Redcoats against our side, I presume.”

“Yup, he did,” Hank admitted. “He even led some of the Tory-Indian scalping raids on the American settlements. But you have to remember, those were pretty bloody times.”

After the war, Hank related, Dark Eagle made peace with his Yankee enemies and inherited his brother-in-law's timber castle, which he renamed Eagle's Nest. Years later, it lapsed into ruin. Now the wooden mansion had been purchased by a wealthy buyer, who had hired the architect Karel Tabor to restore it.

“Were you raised around here?” Joe asked as the boys walked outside again.

“Sure was, in a Mohawk village near Hawk River. You'll have to visit me there sometime. My uncle's the medicine man.”

Frank noticed a man watching them closely. He was elderly and wizened-looking, with dark glasses and long gray hair. When he realized he had been noticed, the stranger turned suddenly and hurried away.

“Wait a minute!” Frank called and went after him. But before he could overtake the eavesdropper, his quarry leaped into a green foreign-made car and sped off! !

The man gunned his engine hard. When he took off, his rear wheels churned up a cloud of dust, and the car's back end slewed around sharply as he swung onto the paved highway. As a result, Frank was not able to spot the license number.

Disgusted, the Hardy boy returned to his brother and their Mohawk friend, Hank Eagle.

“What happened?” Joe asked.

“That fellow was eavesdropping on us,” Frank said angrily. “Did you get a look at him?”

“Yes,” Joe replied. “Enough to recognize him again. He had on dark glasses—sort of an oldish guy, with long gray hair curling down over his ears.”

“Right.” Frank had noticed a strange look pass over the Indian's face on hearing the man's description. “Do you know him, Hank?”

The Mohawk shrugged. “We get a lot of people stopping by to watch us. I may have seen him before. Hard to say.”

Later, after thanking their newfound friend for his interesting guided tour of the work site, the Hardys drove back to Hawk River. “Did you notice the way Hank reacted when you described that eavesdropper?” Frank asked Joe.

“I sure did—as if he was covering up something.” Joe added wryly, “Something tells me he was attempting to be a poker-faced Indian, only he didn't get his poker face on fast enough.”

“You think he was lying?”

“I think he was trying not to lie.”

“Same here,” Frank said thoughtfully. “But I still like him.”