Read Night of the Werewolf Online
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
Night of the Werewolf (2 page)
“Thanks, Nick.” Frank waved and backed out of the lot.
They were almost home when Joe said, “Frank, you forgot your jacket in the diner.”
“I thought I left it in the back seat.”
Joe squirmed around to look. “It's not there. You must have forgotten it.”
Frank hesitated for a moment. Should he drive back and get his coat? He decided it was more important to meet the client who was waiting for them. “I'll pick it up tomorrow,” he said and drove straight home.
A small red station wagon was parked in front of their white frame house on Elm Street. The boys scrutinized it quickly on their way to the garage.
Somewhat to their surprise, the unknown client turned out to be an attractive, though rather plump, teenage girl named Alena Tabor. She had curly brown hair and a fresh, apple-cheeked face.
“I didn't mean to call at such a late hour,” she explained, “but I had car trouble on the way to Bayport. ”
“That's a shame,” said Joe. “Can we help?”
“Thanks, it's fixed now. Just a broken fan belt, but it took hours getting road service.”
“And now that you're here, Dad's away. I'm sorry about that,” Frank said politely. “Is there anything we can do? Joe and I sometimes assist him on his cases.”
“I know, and you also investigate mysteries on your own, which is why I'm here.” Alena smiled. “Actually, you two are the ones I came to see. I'm the daughter of Karel Tabor.”
“The architect!” Joe exclaimed, recognizing the name. “I believe Dad interviewed him recently.”
Alena nodded. “Yes, in connection with that case Mr. Hardy's working on for the insurance underwriters. So we knew he would be busy. But my father thought you might help us with our problem.”
“We'll sure try,” Frank said. “What is your problem?”
“Werewolves.”
The Hardys were startled. They stared at her, wide-eyed, as if not quite sure they had heard her correctly.
“You did say werewolves, didn't you?” Joe inquired.
Alena smiled. “I know, you probably think I'm crazy. But it so happens there's a tradition of werewolves in our family.”
“Tell us about it,” Frank said.
Alena related that the Tabors were descended from a Bohemian soldierâa native of what is now Czechoslovakiaâwho had come to the United States in Revolutionary War days. He had deserted from King George's hired Hessian troops, joined Washington's army, and later settled in the Mohawk Valley in northern New York.
“We still live up that way,” Alena added, “in the Adirondack Mountains near Hawk River.”
Joe looked puzzled. “From what Dad said, I thought your father's office was in New York City.”
“It is. He commutes there every day by helicopter,” Alena explained.
She said that her twenty-four-year-old brother John was also an architect and had recently graduated from college. A brilliant student, his building designs had won prizes in several competitions, and he expected to join their father's firm.
“But then he suffered a nervous breakdown from overwork,” Alena went on unhappily, “and now we're wondering if he's going out of his mind.”
Frank frowned. “What gave you that idea?”
“The family legend. It says that every seventh generation, some member of the Tabor family becomes a werewolf.” She glanced nervously at the Hardys. “You know what a werewolf is, of course?”
“According to superstition, it's a human being who turns into a wolf, usually during the full moon every month,” Joe said.
“That's right,” Alena said. “And my brother and I are the seventh generation since the last reported werewolf in the Tabor family.”
“You don't believe such yarns, do you?” Frank asked.
Alena shivered. “I don't know what to believe! Lately John has been behaving very strangely. And now there are stories about some awful creature attacking people and livestock around Hawk River during the full moonâsupposedly a werewolf with luminous fur that glows in the dark!”
“Fiddlesticks!” said Aunt Gertrude, who had been hovering in the living room after serving the young people cocoa. “Some local busybodies have probably heard of your family legend, dear.”
Alena shook her head. “That's just it, they haven't heard it yet. We never talked about it in public. But Father mentioned it once to a magazine writer who was interviewing him. Now we're afraid someone may dig up that story.”
“What exactly do you want us to do?” Joe asked.
Alena said her family owned a small cottage near Hawk River. She suggested that the Hardys drive up to the Adirondacks on Monday, bringing friends if they liked, and stay there during the ensuing full-moon period. By posing as vacationers, they could keep an eye on the situation without attracting attention or causing any gossip.
“Sounds like a great idea. We'll enjoy it,” Frank said, and Joe agreed.
Just as Alena was leaving, weird howls echoed outside the house. Frank saw a look of fear pass over the girl's face. He told her to wait in the hall while he and Joe searched the area with flashlights.
Soon the boys returned. “Don't worry, no lurking werewolves,” Joe reported. “Come on, we'll walk you to your car.”
Alena smiled with relief. A few minutes later, she drove off and the boys returned to the house. Frank switched on the electronic alarm system before everyone settled down for the night.
“What do you make of this werewolf story?” he asked his brother later in their room.
“Don't know,” Joe replied, pulling off his T-shirt. “Funny coincidence, that glowing wolf-dog turning up at the diner. But I think it's just as wise we didn't mention it to Alena, or to Aunt Gertrude or Mother, for that matter.”
“Check,” Frank agreed.
Some time later, the boys awoke with a start from the sound of a gunshot. It was followed instantly by a heavy thud at the front of their house!
2
A Silver Clue
Frank and Joe were out of bed in a jiffy, hastily flinging on clothes.
“Where'd that loud thump come from?” Joe asked excitedly, tugging on his jeans.
“Our front door, I think!” Frank replied.
They were met in the hallway by their mother and Aunt Gertrude, both in night robes, their aunt with her hair pinned up in curlers.
“One of you call the police, please!” Frank suggested as he and Joe hurried downstairs.
“What about you two?” Mrs. Hardy asked as the women followed anxiously.
“Don't be foolish!” Gertrude Hardy scolded her nephews. “If you go out the front door, you may be making targets of yourselves.”
“Smart thinking, Aunty,” Joe agreed. “We'll use a window instead.”
He and Frank squirmed out a side window in case either the front or back door was being covered by the unknown enemy. Splitting up, they searched the grounds cautiously, only to meet again ten minutes later. Neither had sighted any intruder.
Just then they heard the front door open, and their aunt, who had been watching them through the window, called out, “The phone's dead!”
“No wonder, the line's been cut,” Joe reported after picking out the dangling wire with his flashlight.
“I'll go find a police car or a public phone booth,” Frank said. “You stay with Mom and Aunt Gertrude, Joe.”
He quickly backed their car out of the garage and headed for the nearest storefront street. After beaming out a call over the police waveband, he soon sighted a responding prowl car and guided the officers to the Hardy house.
When they arrived, Joe was busy with a knife at the front door. “You were right, Frank,” he reported. “Look what I dug out of the wood!” He held up a small, gleaming lump of metal.
“That looks like silver,” exclaimed one of the policemen. He stared at the Hardys. “You mean this was fired into your front door?”
Frank nodded.
“Seems as if you have a new enemy,” the other officer added.
Frank shrugged. “Or an old one. Who knows?”
The two patrolmen promised to cruise around the area, keeping a sharp lookout for suspicious characters. Later they would take the bullet to the police lab for ballistic examination.
As they drove off, Joe glanced at his brother. “A silver bullet! You know what that means?”
“You bet I do! According to superstition, that's the only kind that will kill a werewolf!”
“Boy, I wouldn't believe this if I heard it on the news,” said Joe. “Do you suppose it means someone in town really thinks a werewolf is haunting Bayport?”
“Could be,” Frank mused. “It could also mean that someone's warning us not to meddle in the Tabor case.”
Even though the next day was Sunday, the telephone company sent out a special repairman to reconnect the Hardys' line. Meanwhile, Frank and Joe went to church with their mother and aunt. Afterwards they drove to the Morton farm, where they found Chet building a birchbark canoe.
The stout youth was stripped to the waist and perspiring freely in the hot August sunshine. He struggled to shape a huge strip of bark to a framework of cedar ribs and gunwales fitted around maple thwarts.
“Hey, not bad,” Joe said admiringly.
“Except for one thing,” Frank pointed out.
Chet shot him a peevish glance. “What's that?”
“You're supposed to shape the skin first and fit the ribs inside it. At least that was the Indian way.”
“Listen! I know what I'm doing,” said Chet, puffing and grunting.
“You'd better.” Joe grinned. “You might just have to demonstrate that thing to us on a chilly mountain river before long.”
“What do you mean?”
“We're going to a cottage in the Adirondacks for a week or two and you're invited to tag along,” Frank replied. “Want to come?”
A dazzling smile burst over Chet's chubby face. “Wow! Do I!” he exclaimed, releasing his pressure on the birchbark.
Next moment he toppled over backwards as the tough, curling bark flapped back, knocking him galley-west. Roaring with laughter at Chet's surprised look, Frank and Joe helped him wrestle the birchbark back in place and secure it temporarily with clamps.
“I've been soaking that stuff since breakfast,” their roly-poly pal complained, “but it dries out faster than I get it on.”
Chet's usual good humor soon returned as he thought about their upcoming trip to the Adirondacks. “How soon do we leave?” he asked.
“Tomorrow morning,” Frank responded. “Can you be ready by then?”
“You bet! This'll really give me a chance to show you how those old mountain men used to live out in the wilderness! ”
“I can hardly wait.” Joe chuckled.
“Don't worry, you'll see,” Chet boasted. “Which reminds me. I've got something that belongs to one of you.”
He trotted off to the front porch of the Morton farmhouse and returned with a lightweight jacket, which he tossed to Frank.
“That's the one I left at the diner last night,” Frank said. “How'd you find it?”
“I didnât,” Chet replied. “Someone else did.”
“Who was it?”
“Search me. He never mentioned his name. I tried to call you last night but couldn't get through.”
“Someone cut our phone line,” Joe explained.
“No kidding!” Chet said that he had received a late call from a man who supposedly also failed to reach the Hardys by telephone. “The guy spotted your name tag in the jacket, Frank. When he couldn't get you, Nick Pappadopolos remembered seeing us all at the diner together and suggested he call me.”
“What happened then?” Frank asked.
“I told him I knew you, so he said he'd drop off the jacket.”
“Mighty nice of him,” Joe remarked.
“Sure was. And this must belong to him,” said Frank, picking up a key which had fallen out of a pocket when Chet tossed the jacket to him.
“How come?” his stout chum asked.
“It's not mine, and I'm sure it wasn't in my pocket last night.”
“He must've stuck it in there absentmindedly,” said Joe. “Tough break. He may be looking all over for that key. We ought to give it back to him. What'd the guy look like, Chet?”
“I don't know. He never rang our bell, so I didn't meet him. Probably came by late and didn't want to disturb us. I found the jacket lying on the porch this morning.”
Frank, wanting to return the favor, decided to drive to the diner and see if Nick Pappadopolos knew the man who had found his jacket. To the Hardysâsurprise, Nick had no idea what Frank was talking about.
“Nobody was in here last night asking about you,” the proprietor declared, “and I never told anyone Chet Morton was a buddy of yours.”
Frank and Joe looked at each other with puzzled frowns.
“Oh, Nick, sorry we bothered you,” Frank said. Then the Hardys returned to the parking lot and climbed in their car.
“How do you figure it, Frank?” Joe asked. “Do you suppose Chet got the story wrong?”
Frank shook his head. “I doubt it. But there's something fishy somewhere.”
“Like the way your jacket turned up on Chet's front porch, for instance.”
The older Hardy boy nodded. “Maybe the guy didn't want to be seen.”
“Let's have another look at that key, Frank.” Joe took it from his brother and examined it. The key was small and flat, with one serrated edge, and was stamped with the number 27.
“Looks like the kind that might open an airport locker,” Joe suggested.
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