The Mystery of Cabin Island (9 page)

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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

BOOK: The Mystery of Cabin Island
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“Anyway, here's a phone.” Joe pointed to an outside booth. He stood by and listened while his brother dialed Ike Nash's number.
“No answer,” Frank reported. “I'll try Tad.”
The Carson boy was home, but his responses to Frank's queries were rude and uncooperative.
“I don't know anything,” Tad insisted. “Hanleigh told us to scram and not to snoop around. So we left.”
“How about a man wearing a white robe? Did you taxi him to Cabin Island too?”
“White robe? You're nuts!” Tad guffawed and hung up abruptly.
“That didn't accomplish much,” Frank said wryly as he and Joe walked away from the booth. “Let's see if we can find a place to buy food.”
Presently the boys stopped at a small frame building. A sign above the door proclaimed:
GENERAL STORE, AMOS GRICE, PROP.
As the boys entered, a short, elderly man with a bald crown and skinny wattled neck eyed them intently from his chair beside a black potbellied stove.
“And what might you lads be after?” he chirped.
“Hello,” said Frank. “We're here for some groceries. Are you Mr. Grice?”
“Yep. Odd to see strange faces around these parts here this time o' year,” the storekeeper remarked.
“We're roughing it near here,” Joe told the man.
Amos Grice clucked. “Most folks prefer sittin' by a fire when winter comes on. Well, you're out early this mornin‘!”
“Necessity,” Joe replied. “Somebody stole our supplies.”
“I declare!” The old man looked startled. “Don't tell me there's more folks trekkin' about in all this cold and snow!”
“Seems that way.” Joe grinned as he and Frank began to pick out canned goods and other food items.
“Where'd you boys say you're stayin‘?” the storekeeper asked when the Hardys brought their purchases to the counter.
“On Cabin Island,” Joe replied.
“Cabin Island!” Mr. Grice repeated in surprise. “Has Elroy Jefferson sold the place?”
“No,” Frank told him. “Mr. Jefferson is letting us use his cabin during our Christmas vacation.”
Frank paid the storekeeper, who then commented, “Elroy Jefferson's a fine sort. Haven't seen him in a while. What's he doin'?”
“He seems to keep busy traveling and collecting antiques,” Joe replied.
Mr. Grice propped his elbows on the counter and said thoughtfully, “Elroy Jefferson used to come in here every Tuesday for supplies, and the little fellow with him. He loved Johnny like his own son. And where's the youngster nowadays?”
“We don't know, Mr. Grice,” Frank answered, not wishing to reveal anything about their case to the friendly but gossipy proprietor.
“Mr. Jefferson was always crazy about antiques,” the storekeeper went on. “I recall how upset he was when his medal collection disappeared.”
“Have you any idea what happened to it?” Joe asked.
“Nope. All I know is the medals disappeared and so did John Sparewell.”
“Do people believe he stole the medals?” Frank asked.
“Not that I've heard. But it was odd he van ished at the same time.”
The Hardys exchanged glances but did not comment, and Grice went on:
“You know, boys, just about a week ago a fellow was in here askin' about Jefferson's medals. I hadn't thought of ‘em in years, before this fellow came by. Somehow I didn't feel right to tell him a thing, so I didn't.”
“Who was this man?” Frank asked.
“Don't know. Never seen him before. He was a scary sort—dressed up like Halloween. He had somethin' wrapped around his head.”
The Hardys' thoughts flew to the “ghost.” Joe asked, “Do you remember anything else about the person? Did he tell you why he was interested in the medals?”
Amos Grice wrinkled his brow. “I got rid of that spooky fellow soon's I could.”
After a few more minutes of conversation, the boys said good-by and left. They walked quickly toward the
Sea Gull.
“What do you think of Mr. Grice's ‘scary' visitor?” Joe asked his brother.
Frank replied, “I'm sure it was the man in the turban and the white robe. And he's apparently interested in the medals, too.”
“Say!” Joe exclaimed. “Maybe he is in league with Hanleigh. I'll bet they're both after the collection and think there's some clue to it on the island.”
The boys climbed into the
Sea Gull
with their bags of groceries. “I'll concentrate on your hunch while you take a turn at the tiller,” Frank told Joe.
“Swell with me!” Joe grinned.
Out on the bay, the
Sea Gull
swerved and dipped like a live thing. “The wind's picked up!” Joe called out.
“I'll say!”
Joe deftly guided the iceboat toward the narrow inlet, the wind pushing them faster every moment. But suddenly it changed direction sharply. A wild gust whacked the
Sea Gull‘
s sail. The craft hiked crazily and streaked straight for the rocky shore !
“Lean!” Joe shouted. The boys shifted their weight, and Joe threw all his strength against the tiller while Frank trimmed the sail. The boat began to turn, but the jagged rocks loomed close.
“We're going to hit!” yelled Joe, bracing himself for the splintering crash.
But the iceboat skimmed past—safe by no more than two inches.
“Whew!” Frank said with a big sigh of relief.
Joe looked grim. “We're not out of trouble yet. This wind is tricky!”
Strong gusts continued to buffet the craft, but the boys were able to control it. At last the wind moderated and Joe steered the iceboat through the narrow inlet to the island.
When the
Sea Gull
was safe inside the boathouse, Chet and Biff came bounding through the snow to meet the Hardys.
“That was great sailing!” Biff exclaimed. “We were watching you.”
“It was rough,” Joe admitted, handing the groceries to Chet, who reached out eagerly for the bags. “I'm afraid the eggs are scrambled!”
“If they aren't now, they will be!” the cook replied, and headed straight for the kitchen. A short time later the four sat down to a delicious breakfast.
After the Hardys had reported on the trip to Surfside, Biff and Chet told of their failure to locate the stolen supplies.
“Let's look once more,” Frank suggested, and explained that Tad and his pal knew nothing of Hanleigh's departure from the island.
“And he certainly didn't carry those heavy cartons across the ice!” Joe stated. All footprints had been obliterated by the wind-drifted snow, so their task was more difficult.
“Chances are they're hidden nearby,” Frank said. “We'll go without snowshoes this time so we can kick up the drifts.”
As soon as breakfast was over, they set out. First they searched in the snow which had piled against the cabin, but found nothing.
“Hanleigh probably carried the boxes out the back,” said Frank, leading the way to the kitchen door. “Where is the nearest big drift?”
The boys looked around. Joe pointed to a mound of snow banked high against a large spruce at the edge of the clearing.
The four hurried over and began kicking into the drift. Suddenly Biff cried, “Ouch!”
“What's wrong?” asked Joe.
“Stubbed my toe on the tree!” Biff answered. “Hey-no! It's a can of fruit!”
Chet dug eagerly into the snow and gave a whoop of joy. “Here's the chow!”
The boys carried the containers of food to the kitchen. “This time we unpack everything,” Chet declared. “Then it won't be so easy for someone to cart off!”
As Frank helped to remove the contents, his hand came upon a small brown notebook lying askew between two cans of beans. He plucked it out.
“Look at this!”
“Whose is it?”
Frank thumbed through the damp pages, most of which were torn loose.
“Could this be the notebook we saw Hanleigh using?” asked Joe.
Frank examined a few more pages and gave a low whistle of surprise. “I doubt it. See here. The name on the inside cover is John Paul Sparewell!”
“Sparewell!” Joe exclaimed.
Biff shook his head, bewildered. “What was Sparewell doing here? Did he take our stuff? How many people are wandering around this island, anyway?”
Frank placed the notebook on the table where they all could examine it and began turning more pages.
“Wow! See this!” Biff exclaimed.
One of the loose pages contained a crudely drawn map. “That's Cabin Island!” the boys cried out In unison.
Another entry concerned rental of a boat.
“Whether or not Sparewell has been here recently, it looks as though he was coming to Cabin Island regularly at one time,” Joe remarked. “Just like Hanleigh is now!”
On a page near the back of the notebook, the boys found a list of receipts for small sums. “Sparewell evidently had very little money,” Frank commented.
“He had problems, though,” Joe observed. “Read the next item.”
The scrawled script said, “Appointment with Dr. Bordan on Sat. My condition worse. Would appeal to J but am afraid.”
“I wonder if J is for Jefferson,” Frank mused. “It sounds as though Sparewell was very ill. Perhaps he didn't live long after making these notes.”
“I don't believe Sparewell was the one who dropped this notebook,” Joe reasoned. “He'd have frozen to death over here.” The boy frowned in perplexity as he turned to the last page. All four stared at it in astonishment.
“What kind of lingo is that?” Biff gulped.
The letters at the bottom of the page were:
HJOSW SHRJWN HLSEWPA RPAO A, EWO WSWP APPO LSUL
“A coded message!” Frank exclaimed.
CHAPTER XII
An Iceboat Clue
“IT's a coded message, all right!” Joe declared as the four boys continued to stare at the mysterious letters in the tattered notebook.
“How will we ever figure it out?” Chet asked.
“There are several methods of deciphering,” Frank replied. “Dad has told Joe and me something about it, and we've read a few of his books on cryptography.”
“Can you make anything out of this message?” Biff asked.
“Not right off,” Frank replied. “It's some kind of substitution system, at any rate.”
“The first thing to look for is transposition,” Joe explained. “All the letters of the actual text —what's really meant—may be present, but reversed or scrambled.”
“There must be countless possibilities,” remarked Biff, “once you start putting one letter in place of another.”
“Yes, which makes deciphering very difficult,” Frank agreed. “But I remember several of the standard patterns. I'll use some of the blank pages in the notebook and try them.”
Frank worked for more than half an hour, while the others looked on and made various combinations of the letters he jotted down.
“I'm stymied,” Frank admitted finally.
Biff frowned. “How did Hanleigh get hold of this notebook? Does he know Sparewell?”
“Hanleigh might have swiped it,” Joe said.
The Hardys pondered their next move. Joe suggested they take the iceboat model and the photo of the turbaned prowler to Mr. Jefferson for possible identification.
“And on the way show Amos Grice the picture, too,” Frank added.
A stop at the Hardy home also was included in the day's plans, in case the boys' father had any more information on the “alley cat.”
Chet heaved a huge sigh. “Which means Biff and I stand guard here.”
Joe grinned. “How'd you guess?”
After a quick lunch the Hardys put on their parkas and boots. I'm taking the camera along,” Joe said. ”It may come in handy again.”
The Hardys climbed into the
Sea Gull
and headed for Surfside. At the dock, Joe tied up while Frank braked and slackened sail. Then they strode off to the general store.
Amos Grice, seated by the stove, slapped his knee when Frank and Joe walked in. “Glad to see you two. Thief steal your food again?”
“No, sir,” Frank said. “We came to show you this.” He handed the snapshot to Mr. Grice. The storekeeper stared at it, then handed the picture back without comment.
“Mr. Grice,” Joe inquired, “is this the man who asked you about Mr. Jefferson's medals?”
Amos Grice drew his lips into a thin, firm line.
“Yep. It's him. But there's some spooky busi ness goin' on, and I don't want any part of it.”
“Did this man say something to frighten you?” Joe persisted. “Did he threaten you?”
Mr. Grice looked grim. “No. But I'm not mixin' in with any scary masqueraders.”
The Hardys could see that the storekeeper would say no more on the subject. They thanked him and returned to the
Sea Gull.
A brisk wind sped them toward Bayport. They tied up outside their boathouse and drove home.
Mrs. Hardy greeted her red-cheeked sons with big hugs, while Aunt Gertrude looked on apprehensively, as if trying to find something wrong with her nephews. Noting their excellent health, she turned her worrries to their companions.
“Has something terrible happened to Chet or Biff?”
“No. Why, Aunty?” Joe asked.
“That sudden snowstorm. I was scared stiff for you boys. Some trees blew down over here.”
Frank grinned. “We weathered it—howling banshee and all.”

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