The Viking Symbol Mystery (12 page)

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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

BOOK: The Viking Symbol Mystery
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“Thanks,” Mr. Hardy said. “We will.”
The detective and his sons followed the officer down a corridor to a small, dimly lighted room fronted by long steel bars. A wizened little man sat forlornly on a narrow cot. He looked up glumly when the detective addressed him. “Has the prisoner next door talked to you?”
“Nope,” the man answered. “The only time that Yank talks is in his sleep. Snores and talks all night long,” the man complained. “I haven't had any shut-eye since he came.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Hardy said, turning abruptly and walking back down the hall. His sons followed quickly.
“What's up?” Joe asked when they were back in the Mounties' office.
“I think we're going to listen in on Hank Fogert tonight,” Mr. Hardy replied. “He might say something interesting in his sleep.”
“Terrific idea, Dad!” Frank said enthusiastically.
The Hardys conferred with the Mountie inspector about the idea. The officer agreed, and it was decided to have tape-recording equipment and a microphone hidden in Fogert's cell.
“Let's hope the noisy ‘Yank' tells us more in his sleep than he does when he's awake,” Joe said as they started back to the schoolhouse.
“And that what he says will give us a solid clue,” Frank added, “either about the Viking stone or where the rest of the gang are.”
The Hardys' friends were enthusiastic when they heard of the hidden-recorder setup and discussed this new angle in the case. After lunch Mr. Hardy looked around the group. With a chuckle he said:
“I think we deserve a little vacation from detecting work. How about trying some of the famous fishing in this area?”
Everyone cheered the suggestion, and spent the afternoon on the waters of Great Slave Lake. When the fishermen returned to the schoolhouse, Chet and Biff carried creels full of lake trout and grayling.
“This
is the life,” Chet declared later, as he and the others ate a hearty supper of succulent fried fish.
“Enjoy it now.” Joe grinned. “Something tells me we won't have much chance to fish from now on.”
Chet groaned in mock dismay. “Meaning—back to the mystery full time.”
“Tomorrow bright and early,” Frank assured him.
Immediately after breakfast the next morning, Mr. Hardy, Joe, and Frank hurried directly to the RCMP station. The officer greeted them and indicated a tape recorder on his desk. “All set for you to play back,” he said. “I cut out most of the silent parts.”
Frank started the machine, and the four bent over the tape, listening intently. There was a short interval of quiet—then a raspy muttering could be heard.
“Fogert!” Joe hissed excitedly.
Another silence, followed by some unintelligible phrases. The Hardys glanced at one another in disappointment—was their plan to prove a fruitless one?
Suddenly they tensed as Fogert's recorded voice spoke again. “Stone—shay,” he mumbled. “—Dulac—lake—”
The listeners strained their ears, but no further words could be distinguished from the rest of the tape. The recorder was shut off and Joe burst out, “Stone! Dulac!
Abner
Dulac? The
rune
stone?”
Elatedly the Hardys speculated on the words muttered by the sleeping prisoner.
“I think Dulac is the key word,” Frank stated. “He and Fogert know each other! Which means —Dulac is one of the rune stone gang.”
Joe agreed. “And trailed us from Edmonton after Caribou spotted him.”
Quickly they revealed what they knew of the unscrupulous trapper.
“Shay—lake—” Frank repeated. “I don't get ‘shay'—and
which
lake? I doubt the gang would dare go back to Great Slave—” He broke off as a sudden thought struck him. “Say! Maybe the lake's in Wood Buffalo Park!”
Mr. Hardy concurred. “I suggest heading straight for the park.”
“You bet, Dad!” Joe said eagerly.
“Shall we go back to Fort Smith and pick up the float plane for the trip?” Frank asked.
“Yes,” his father replied. “Flying is the best way. We can check with the Mounties there, and get a permit to enter the park.”
The Hardys hastened to the schoolhouse and briefed their friends on the latest findings. The group had a quick lunch, packed their rucksacks, and went to the Hay River airport. They were in time to board the early-afternoon plane for Fort Smith.
When they landed at Fort Smith, Frank went to the terminal and telephoned Corporal Fergus.
“The lodge gang seems to be operating near the Yellowknife area,” the Mountie reported. “Two lodges there have been robbed, but the thieves have eluded us.”
“Yellowknife?” Joe repeated in surprise, when his brother relayed Corporal Fergus's message. “That's way up on the other side of Great Slave Lake—the gang is back in that area! Why?”
“You think we've been wrong about there being just
one
gang?” Sam asked.
Mr. Hardy frowned. “Perhaps. But it could also be a manuever on their part to split our forces.”
“I see what you mean, sir,” Chet put in. “Now we don't know whether to go to Yellowknife or to Wood Buffalo Park.”
“Exactly. Well, we can't take any chances,” Mr. Hardy said. “Sam—you, Biff, and Tony go on up to Yellowknife and check on the gang's activities there. Chet, Frank, and Joe—you scout Wood Buffalo Park.”
“What are you going to do, Dad?” Joe asked.
“I'm going to stay here in Fort Smith,” the detective answered. “I'll maintain radio contact with both groups. Frank, you can rent a short-wave portable at the Hudson's Bay store. Sam, of course, has his own. I'd join you on the trip into the park, but I must admit my knee's been giving me a few twinges since my bout with Fogert. I wouldn't be good for any long hikes!”
“You take it easy, Dad,” Joe advised. “We're going to nab those thieves one place or another!”
“We'd better get moving,” Frank said.
“Right,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “Sam, there's a flight to Yellowknife leaving in a half hour. You three can take it.”
The two groups separated, with Biff, Tony, and Sam going off to buy tickets for the trip to Yellowknife.
“We'll be in touch with you soon, sir,” Biff said to Mr. Hardy as they all exchanged farewells.
Then Frank, Joe, and Chet, accompanied by Mr. Hardy, headed for the Wood Buffalo Park office. When they arrived, a helicopter was just landing in the small clearing outside the administration office. A stocky, muscular man, with a ruddy, weathered face, stepped from the cockpit. He smiled at the Hardys and Chet as he jumped to the ground.
“Hello,” he said, coming toward them. “I'm Breen Connor. Were you looking for me?”
Mr. Hardy introduced himself and the boys and shook hands with the rugged-looking park superintendent.
“Have you had any recent visitors applying for passes into the park?” Frank asked the official.
“Yes, Frank,” Mr. Connor answered. “Quite a few. Only one stranger though, a fellow named Fontain.”
When Breen Connor described the man, the brothers and Chet looked excited. “That sounds like Abner Dulac!” Joe cried. “Where was he going?”
“To Shag Lake,” Breen Connor replied. “He seemed to know the country well.”
“Shay—Shag!
That's
what Fogert mumbled in his sleep!” Frank exclaimed. “Joe, we have a terrific clue!”
CHAPTER XV
The Gray Terror
“SHAG Lake!” Chet echoed in excitement. “That must be the gang's hideout!”
“The sooner we get there the better!” Frank said eagerly.
“How about today?” Joe turned to the park superintendent, “Can you issue us a pass now?”
“Yes,” replied Breen Connor. “But if you're going up there, you'd better study the area first. It's wild, dangerous country!”
He took the visitors into his office, and from a desk drawer pulled out a sheaf of papers. After he gave the required permit to the boys, the visitors sat down around a large table. The official brought over a detailed map of the area and spread it out.
“Shag Lake is named for the shaggy buffalo in this area,” Breen Connor told them, pointing to the lake, in the park's southeastern corner. “Watch those buffalo,” he warned. “They're ferocious—and so are the wolves.”
“Great!” Chet muttered, growing a shade paler.
“The Shag Lake region is strewn with great boulders, a result of an Ice Age moraine.”
“It sounds like a good place for a hideout,” Joe said.
Breen Connor nodded in agreement, then asked, “How do you plan to get into the park?”
“We're going by float plane,” Frank answered. “Where is the best place to keep it?”
“Here on the south shore,” the man said, pointing, “is a small cove. It's barely visible from the air. You could taxi in there and tie the plane to the rocks.”
“Fine,” Frank said, standing up. “Thanks for all the information, sir. It'll be a big help.”
Mr. Hardy and his sons started to leave. As they walked outside, Breen Connor called after them.
“Be careful, boys!” he advised. “The buffalo are often uneasy this time of year. If you don't bother them, they shouldn't bother you, but anything unusual might start a stampede. Good luckl”
“We'll need it!” Joe remarked, as the group hurried over to the Hudson's Bay store. Here they bought provisions, rented a short-wave radio, and as a precaution, several rifles. Next, Joe called the airport. The float plane would be fueled and ready for them in a half hour.
After eating supper, the detective went with the boys to the airport jetty. “Keep me informed via radio,” he reminded the three boys, as they climbed aboard. “And be carefull”
“Sure thing, Dad. So long!”
With Joe at the controls, they took off and headed straight for Wood Buffalo Park. It was just dusk when they flew over it in the direction of Shag Lake. Joe located the hidden cove on the first pass. As he turned for his final approach, he switched off the engine.
“I'm going to make a dead-stick landing,” he told Frank and Chet, “so if the gang is down there they won't hear us.”
With nothing but the whistle of the wind in the wings to betray its presence, the float plane swooped down over the trees. Joe pulled back on the stick as the plane dropped into the water for a perfect landing.
“Well done, Joe,” Frank said. The aircraft was pointed toward shore and drifted into its berth in the cove neatly and silently.
Quickly the boys unloaded their gear and moved far into the woods, away from the plane. Frank and Joe walked ahead, while Chet covered their trail with leaves and brush as they went along. When they reached a small clearing located near some protective rocks, the boys set up camp.
“Let's take turns standing watch,” Frank said, as they spread out their sleeping bags.
“I'll take first watch,” Chet offered. He sat down and leaned against a nearby tree.
Frank and Joe were soon asleep and the camp was quiet. “It's almost too quiet,” Chet told himself uneasily.
But as the time passed uneventfully, and the bright, arctic moon rose, the chubby boy relaxed. Suddenly he sat upright. “What's that?” Chet's hair stood on end as an eerie howling came to his ears.
The bloodcurdling sound again floated in the still night. Chet sat rigid, as the howling came closer and closer. “I'd better wake up the fellows,” he decided. But before he had a chance to do so, Chet saw a stealthy movement in the shadows near the Hardys. He gulped, standing up slowly and peering into the darkness.
Suddenly Chet saw two red glowing eyes staring at him. The next moment a hulking, gray shape emerged into the moonlight and sniffed around. A chill of terror went down Chet's spine.
“A wolf!”
Quickly he nestled the rifle stock against his cheek and centered the animal in his gunsights. The gray beast stood still, his jaws open and his head down, ready to attack.
Chet increased the pressure on the trigger, squinting his eyes. Then he released his grip abruptly. A rifleshot would surely kill the wolf, but it would also warn the thieves that the boys were in the vicinity.
Leaning over, Chet picked up a large rock. With careful aim, he hurled it at the animal. The missile hit the wolf squarely on the side of the head. Giving a sharp yelp of pain, he sped away.
“What was that?” Frank called out, as he and Joe awoke with a start. They scrambled from their bags and jumped up.
“A wolf,” Chet explained, somewhat shakily. “I didn't want to risk a shot, so I threw a rock at him.”
“Smart thinking, pal,” Joe praised him, and Frank added, “Took a lot of nerve, too. You deserve a medal, Chet.”
Their friend beamed. “But I think I can use some sleep, fellows,” he said. “You keep away the next wolf!”
A quick search of the area proved that the creature was not lurking nearby, and the boys settled down again, with first Frank, then Joe on watch.
As soon as it was daylight the three friends had a quick breakfast, then began their search for the gang's hideout. They picked their way along silently, being careful to stay under cover.
Just as the boys started along the base of a hill, Frank, who was leading, waved for the others to stop, and ran back himself.
“Behind that boulder, quick!” he hissed. “Someone's coming.”
As the boys dropped behind the huge rock, they heard heavy footsteps approaching, then rough voices. The Hardys, crouching, peered cautiously around the boulder. Four men were trudging single file past their hiding place. Two were burly and husky, another pudgy and grizzled-looking. As the fourth man came into view, Joe started.

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