The Dead Season (4 page)
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
"Is that everything?" asked Joe.
"Maybe," answered Frank, reaching around the bottom of the chest. "Wait a second. False bottom."
He released the catch of the false bottom and pulled out a large sheaf of papers bound by a leather strap. The papers were dry and yellow and looked as if they could crumble in Frank's hands.
When Frank undid the leather strap, he found that the papers were separated into several batches. One was a sheaf of documents stamped by the colonial government of Barbados.
"What do they say, Frank?" Callie asked from the edge of her seat.
"I want to go over these more closely," said Frank, "but they seem to cover the years 1925 through 1928 and, if I read them right, give Wiley Reed permission to transport rum off the island."
"It's hard to believe those papers are so old," said Callie. "It makes Wiley Reed seem almost alive."
Joe gave her a disapproving look and said, "You're beginning to sound like everyone else around here."
"Very funny," she said. "What about the rest of the papers, Frank?"
"It's hard to make out a lot of them," he said. "These, though, look like receipts for payments from Wiley to someone with the initials EBJ." He handed the documents to Joe, who studied some and passed others on to Callie.
"Excuse me," said a woman who had just walked up to them.
Callie and the Hardys were so caught up in their discovery that they didn't hear her at first, so she had to repeat herself more loudly. "Excuse me?"
Frank turned to acknowledge her. "Hello. Good morning," Frank greeted her.
"Good morning," she said in a tone that suggested it was anything but a good morning. "Could you please tell me where I can find Mr. and Mrs. Shaw?"
Callie said, "They're in the kitchen preparing lunch. Is there anything - "
"Thank you," said the woman, and she turned abruptly and walked into the hotel.
The Hardys and Callie looked at one another, quickly collected the papers, replaced the trunk, and without saying a word followed the woman.
Callie's sore ankle slowed them a bit, so that by the time they got to the kitchen much of the excitement had ended.
Once again the woman was making an abrupt exit, this time from the kitchen. "I'm afraid this is my last warning," she said. "Good day."
"What was that all about?" asked Joe.
"That was trouble," said Gary.
"Who is she?" asked Callie.
"Theresa Farr," explained Janet. "She runs the local tourist bureau and controls the licenses for all the hotels. The Wilkersons complained to her, and she's just given us our last warning."
"There've been other warnings?" asked Frank.
"A couple," answered Gary. "It took us a long time to get everything up to code, and someone reported us before we were done."
"What will you do now?" asked Frank.
"We'll just have to make certain nothing else happens," said Gary.
"What can we do to help?" asked Callie.
"Have a good time," said Janet. "This is your vacation and you should be at the beach right now."
Janet's right," said Gary. He looked at Callie for a moment before he asked, "Why are you standing that way - as if you're about to hop off somewhere?"
Frank answered before Callie could respond. "She tripped while we were taking a walk and twisted her ankle."
"Oh, dear, is it bad?" asked Janet. "We should take you to a doctor."
"No, it's fine," muttered Callie. "I'll be okay. Really.'
***
That afternoon the Hardys and Callie did go to the beach because they had to decide what to do next, and the beach would be a great place to talk. The three of them lay on the white sand and let the sun warm them. No one spoke. Their minds were too occupied with all they had seen.
Finally Joe broke the silence. "None of this adds up. Snakes and two ghosts and granddaughters and pianos that play themselves."
"Joe's right," said Callie. "Nothing makes sense. Are we just making things up because we love mysteries?"
"We didn't invent that snake," answered Frank. "Heather Reed is real, and we all saw that strange gunman, and we all heard the piano. I believe Joe saw Millicent."
Joe and Callie considered this, and then Callie said, "But it still doesn't make sense."
"No, it doesn't," Frank agreed, "but it will. Eventually it will - it's just we're overlooking the logical explanation."
"Why didn't you want Gary and Janet to know about the trunk?" asked Joe.
"From this point on," Frank said, "I think we should keep all the information we gather to ourselves."
"Are you saying you don't trust my cousins?" Callie asked in alarm.
"Of course not," said Frank, "but the less other people know - even people we trust - the better."
They spent the remainder of that day on the beach trying to relax, but the same questions continued to haunt them.
Frank was especially troubled, though he tried not to let Joe and Callie see it. He felt he was overlooking something, and that always bothered him.
***
Frank was so restless that he had difficulty falling asleep that night, and when he did, his dreams were filled with jumbled images that were confusing and made no sense.
A noise aroused him.
At first he thought it had been part of one of his dreams, but then he rolled over to discover someone in his room.
He almost called out, "Joe?" but stopped himself.
Frank was fully awake now and realized it wasn't his brother in his room.
It looked as if the Ghost Gunman had returned and was rifling Frank's chest of drawers.
As quietly as he could Frank eased out of bed, hoping to surprise the intruder, but the box spring squeaked and gave him away.
The Ghost Gunman turned, his face averted, and lifted a Thompson submachine gun and held it dead on Frank.
Then he squeezed the trigger!
Frank froze where he was and waited for the inevitable, but the inevitable didn't happen.
The old machine gun jammed.
The Ghost Gunman furiously squeezed the trigger time after time, but nothing happened.
Frank heard the useless clicking of the weapon's ancient workings and knew he'd been saved.
The Ghost Gunman then raised the gun like a club over his head and swung it at Frank.
Steadily Frank circled his foe, ducking the repeated blows and searching for an opening to attack himself.
The swings were coming in a regular rhythmic pattern, and Frank waited for the next upswing. Timing his leap, he knocked the gun out of the man's hand and was on top of him instantly.
The two men struggled in the darkness. As they fought, Frank told himself with certainty: This is no ghost. If he'd had any doubts before, they were gone the moment he saw the masked attacker this time. The intruder connected with a hard right cross to Frank's head.
Frank countered with a karate kick to the man's stomach. The intruder was momentarily stunned and out of breath, and Frank finished him with a quick, powerful left to the jaw.
The Ghost Gunman stumbled back and slammed into a dresser, sending a glass vase crashing to the floor.
The noise surprised both of them, and they were momentarily distracted. The gunman recovered first and picked up a lamp and smashed Frank over the head, dropping him to his knees and then onto the floor.
The Ghost Gunman picked up his submachine gun and in two strides was at the doorway. He paused, turned to Frank, and said in a low, cruel voice, "This was your last warning. Get out of Runner's Harbor."
***
The next thing Frank knew, he was lying in bed and Joe and Callie were hovering over him with looks of concern on their faces.
The intense searing pain in his head reminded Frank that they had some reason to be concerned.
"What?"
"Don't try to talk, big brother. The doctor says you'll be fine but you need to get some rest."
Callie gave Frank a glass of water. The cool water felt good. Frank ignored their advice and asked Joe, "Did you get him?"
"No," said Joe quietly. "Was it our friend in the funny clothes?"
Frank nodded a yes.
"What was he after?"
"I don't know. He did warn me, though," mumbled Frank with some difficulty. "We're supposed to leave Runner's Harbor."
"Frank," Joe said quickly, "where are those papers you and Callie found today?"
Frank could only motion to the closet. Joe crossed the room and found Frank's suitcase. In it was the bound sheaf of papers.
"I'll keep these in my room tonight," Joe said.
"Get some sleep, Frank," Callie said quietly.
"We'll talk more in the morning," Joe said.
Joe and Callie quietly stole out of the room and in seconds Frank was sound asleep.
***
Everyone but Allistair Gaines was at the breakfast table when Frank entered the dining room. He noticed that, as usual, Logan was sitting far from the others at the other end of the table, a sullen look on his face as he squinted through his own clouds of cigarette smoke.
It was Callie who saw Frank first. She stood up immediately and walked over to help him, scolding him all the while.
"What are you doing out of bed, Frank Hardy? You should be resting."
Easing himself into a chair, Frank grinned, then sighed. "Don't I get anything to eat?"
"I'd have brought you breakfast," said Callie. "In fact, Janet just finished making you this tray."
"Good," said Frank, pulling the napkin off the tray to reveal a huge breakfast. "I'm starved."
Frank took a long drink from a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and then took a bite from a piece of toast.
Janet walked in then. "Judging by recent events, I guess we aren't the world's best hosts," she said, apologizing to Frank.
Before Frank could disagree, Logan muttered something under his breath and excused himself from the table.
"We've had people see Wiley's ghost before," Gary said, joining his wife, "but no one has ever been harmed."
"Something, maybe our presence here, has raised the stakes somehow," Frank said.
Frank asked, "Did anyone see Logan or Gaines around last night while I was hurt?"
"I checked last night," said Joe. "Whoever hit you may as well have vanished into thin air."
Callie said, "I saw Logan as I was running to your room. He opened his door and looked out at me. You know that sneer of his. Then he slammed his door and I forgot about him."
"Could you see what he was wearing?" asked Frank.
"Not really. It was dark and I was in a rush," answered Callie. "You think Logan hit you?"
"I don't know."
"How could Logan, or anybody, have disappeared so fast?" asked Joe.
"I may have the answer to that," said Gary. "We've never been able to find them, but the stories are that the hotel is laced with secret passages. Maybe you can find them," Gary suggested as he made his way back to the kitchen.
"Well, that's what we'll look for first," said Frank.
Right after breakfast the three began their search of the upstairs hallway.
"You'd think there'd be some sign of an opening," Joe said as he stared intently at the wallpaper for any clue that might indicate a hidden doorway.
"I sure don't see anything," agreed Callie. "A man can't just disappear. We heard your scuffle. So he'd have to go by us, but he didn't."
"Well, a man has disappeared, and more than once," said Frank. "I've got a bad feeling that we better find some answers soon."
Carefully they searched every inch of the hallway and all three of their rooms. They turned up nothing.
"This is getting us nowhere," said Joe, eager to do something else. "I'm no good at going over the same ground twice. This is your territory, Frank. I've got to move or I'll go nuts."
"Okay," said Frank. "You check outside and we'll keep searching in here."
***
The vastness of the ocean and the steady pounding of the late-morning waves helped Joe calm down, and in a. few minutes the frustration he had felt inside eased. He'd left the hotel with no real plan but was formulating the bare bones of one as he walked. He had scouted the beach to the south for perhaps a mile the day he encountered Heather Reed. Now he would concentrate his attention on the beach to the north.
The beach north of the hotel was markedly different from that to the south. The south beach was basically one long stretch of white sand, but the north beach was a series of curves that formed numerous small inlets and coves.
Joe first passed the dilapidated boathouse that looked as if it hadn't been used in years. The only entrance faced the ocean, and a dock jutted out from it into the water. The rear wall was built right into a hill. It looked as if the hill was the building's only means of support.
What was that? There, inside the old boathouse, Joe saw the shadow of a man.
Joe approached quietly. Peering through a dusty window, he could just make out that the man inside appeared to be searching for something. Joe ducked beneath the window and scooted around to the dock and the only entrance to the boathouse.
"What are you doing in here?" demanded Joe fiercely.
"I - I was looking for my sunglasses," said a terrified Paul Wilkerson.
"Wilkerson?" said Joe, relaxing a little.
"There," said Wilkerson, nodding to a shelf near the entrance. "There they are." He walked to the table and picked up the sunglasses that were lying there and put them in his jacket pocket. "See you," he said, and quickly left without another word.
After Wilkerson had gone, Joe searched for clues, but there was nothing. He had all but given up and was ready to return to the hotel when a voice behind him said, "Hello."
He turned to find Heather Reed standing in the doorway.
"Hi," said Joe. "How're you?"
"Good. And you?" she asked.
"Can't complain," Joe said.
Heather asked, "What brings you to the boathouse?"
"I could ask you the same question," said Joe.
"I keep my sailboat tied up near here,' Heather said with a nod toward a trim fourteen-foot sailboat that bobbed in the gentle waves nearby. "I was getting ready to sail when I saw you in here. Like to come along?"
