The Ghost at Skeleton Rock (10 page)

Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

BOOK: The Ghost at Skeleton Rock

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“You're probably right, son,” said his father, furrowing his brow. “But we may have a hard time convincing the police of that.”

He and the boys discussed the mystery for nearly an hour before retiring, but arrived at no solution. The next morning they breakfasted together in the pleasant hotel dining room.

“Mmm, boy, this iced pineapple juice is sure good!” Chet smacked his lips.

Just then a bellhop came to their table. He informed Mr. Hardy that a visitor was waiting in the lobby. The detective asked to be excused and left. When he returned, there was a grave expression on his face.

“Who was it, Dad?” Frank asked.

“A United States federal agent,” Mr. Hardy replied quietly. “Something new and serious has come up on my case. I'm not free to tell you any more just now, but it looks as though you boys will have to carry on here by yourselves.”

Frank, Joe, Chet, and Tony enthusiastically said they were ready. Mr. Hardy informed them that he and Jack Wayne would have to take off at once for a secret destination. He quickly finished his meal and said good-by.

After breakfast the four boys assembled in Frank and Joe's room.

“It seems to me,” said Joe, “that the house we searched last night is still our best lead. I think we ought to watch it.”

“Check and double check,” Tony said.

Frank agreed but said that to avoid suspicion they should not all take on the job at once. “We'd surely be spotted. Tony, how about you taking the first watch? With your olive complexion, you could pass for a native.”

Tony grinned. “That's fine with me.” He promptly left by taxi for Columbus Plaza.

The other three boys decided to look through the telephone directory on the off-chance that “Cabezona” might be a person's name. Chet offered to check on this.

“Only one person in the whole city of San Juan named Cabezona,” he informed the others after he ran his finger down the page. “And his initials are F. X.ânot N.”

“Let's talk to him, anyhow,” urged Joe.

The boys left the hotel and asked the doorman for directions to the Avenida Ponce de Leon. At the address Chet had jotted down was a haberdashery shop. The owner, Senor F. X. Cabezona, was a stout, jolly man who spoke excellent English.

“And what may I show the young men? Shirts? Socks?” He beamed at his three customers.

“A necktie,” Frank replied.

The proprietor showed them an assortment of gay ties, then said there were some that they might like in a new shipment just unpacked. He disappeared into a back room.

While he was gone, Chet whispered, “This can't be the right Cabezona.”

“He sure doesn't look like a racketeer,” Joe agreed.

When the owner returned, Frank said casually, “Your name is rather unusual.”

“Ah,
sÃ!”
The jolly man chuckled. “In Puerto Rico the word means the big pineapples which grow on the south coast.”

Pineapples! The Hardys and Chet were elated. They had picked up another clue! Maybe the word in the Hugo instructions and on the card Frank had found referred to the pineapple tattoo! It must be the gang's identification!

The affable haberdasher went on, “So far as I know, my wife and young son Carlos and I are the only Cabezona family on the island.”

Frank and Joe wondered if there could be another Cabezona in Puerto Rico, perhaps living there secretly and leading the underground group.

After buying a tie, the boys returned to their hotel. When they reached their room, the phone was ringing. Joe answered. It was Tony calling.

“I just saw a tall guy with a large head sneak into the alley back of the house. How about you fellows getting over here? I have a hunch something's up!”

“We're on our way!” Joe promised. “Meet you at the statue of Columbus.”

He put down the phone and relayed the news to Frank and Chet. Both were jubilant.

“That man might be the one who trailed us on our way to the trucking company last night,” Joe pointed out.

“Not only that,” said Frank, “but maybe his nickname is Cabezona!”

CHAPTER XIII

Pursuit at El Morro

WHEN the Hardys and Chet reached Columbus Plaza in a taxi, they saw Tony standing in the doorway of a small souvenir shop. It was on the corner of the narrow street to which Joe had traced the mystery man.

“Okay, right here, driver!” said Frank. The passengers got out and Tony came over to join them.

“Now tell us everything, Tony,” Joe requested when the group walked off a distance, out of anyone else's hearing.

“Well, first of all, I want to tell you I've hired a swell observation post for us. Cost a buck,” Tony explained. “It's a room in a house right across the street from the hideout. We'll have a clear view of both the pink stucco place and the alley.”

“Good work!” said Joe.

The boys hurried down the narrow, cobblestoned street, then ducked into the side entrance of the house where Tony had rented a room. They posted themselves at the front windows of the room. Latticed shutters enabled them to peer out without being seen. Almost an hour went by without results.

“You sure you weren't seeing things?” complained Chet, who was getting warm.

“Positive!” said Tony. “Give the man in there a chance. If he went in, he's bound to come out some time!”

“Unless we've already missed him,” Chet retorted.

The words were hardly out of his mouth when Tony exclaimed in a low voice, “There he is!”

A tall man, with an unusually large head, emerged from the alley. He was swarthy and had an aquiline-shaped nose.

“Abdul!” Frank exclaimed excitedly.
“He's
the fellow who was shadowing us, Joe.”

His brother nodded. “We couldn't place him then with that hat over his face, plus not wearing his fancy Oriental getup.”

The assistant to Hugo the fortuneteller, hatless now, wore dungarees and a striped jersey.

“There is a hookup between those Hugodummy smugglers and the freight thieves!” said Frank.

“Let's follow him!” Joe urged.

The four started out at once, keeping a safe distance behind the man. Abdul headed away from Columbus Plaza. At Calle San Justo he turned right and walked for several blocks, then walked to the left on the Boulevard del Valle.

Eventually he came to a broad iron gate standing open to visitors. It was the entrance to Fort Brooke, the big United States military post at the western tip of Old San Juan. With a casual salute to the soldier on guard, Abdul strolled on through.

“Gallopin' gooseberries!” Chet burst out. “What's he up to now? Is he going to steal some military secrets?”

“Only one way to find out,” Frank replied, hurrying toward the fort.

As the boys passed through the gate, a grassy green plateau stretched ahead of them. It swept out toward the ocean and was used as a golf course. Men and women were playing golf. Tourists' cars stood parked along the road, which curved to the left of the course. Facing this was a row of Army buildings and officers' homes.

“Let's separate and act like sightseers,” Frank advised his companions.

Each of them started wandering around alone, but kept a wary eye on Abdul. The man headed straight for the old Spanish battlements of El Morro. This ancient fort stood poised on a bluff jutting out over the sea, beyond the end of the golf course.

When Abdul reached the massive stone walls of the fortress, he glanced around for a moment. Seemingly satisfied that no one was following him, he ducked hastily into a round, stone sentry house at the very tip of the rock-walled point. Below it, the surf pounded itself into foam over the coral rocks.

“Now why did he do that?” Chet asked himself, puzzled.

The boys began closing in. Frank reached the spot first and made his way along the wall of the steep parapet where an ancient bronze cannon offered a convenient hiding place. Frank crouched down behind it to watch Abdul.

Inside the sentry box the man took a mirror from his pocket and aimed it to catch the sun. Then he began shooting flashes of light out to sea. Frank had a clear view.

“He's signaling in international code!” the boy realized with a gasp of excitement.

Slowly the message was spelled out: “3-4-8- 9-P-M-Skeleton.”

Frank wondered what it meant and who was receiving the message. He stood up and glanced across the water. Half a mile out he could see a blue speedboat.

Just then Abdul turned to leave the sentry house. With a start he noticed Frank standing behind the cannon. At the same moment, the other three boys burst from their hiding places.

Muttering a threat, Abdul took off like a bolt of lightning, heading for the road. Joe tried to nail him with a flying tackle, but the huge man swept the boy aside with a single blow of his great arm.

“Stop him!” yelled Frank to a soldier and several sightseers. “He's wanted by the police!”

Most of the tourists were bewildered by the sudden commotion, but some of the onlookers grabbed for the fugitive too late. Startled golfers watched the chase wonderingly.

By this time, Abdul was streaking across the links with the boys in hot pursuit. Despite his weight, the man covered the ground with amazing speed. Even Joe and Frank, who were track stars at Bayport High, could not catch up to him.

Abdul gained the road just as a delivery truck passed. He leaped on the tailboard, and in a matter of seconds, the vehicle rumbled through the gate.

“He's getting away!” Joe shouted, clenching his fists in bitter disappointment.

At that moment one of the golfers rushed forward. “Jump in my car!” he cried, sprinting toward a white convertible.

Panting their thanks, Frank and Joe piled in with him. As the car shot forward, the boys poured out their story in bits and snatches.

“That fellow's wanted by the police,” Frank explained. “He's part of a smuggling ring.”

“I hope we can catch him,” the driver said.

Fortunately, due to the town's narrow streets, traffic had to move slowly. Swinging down Calle Cristo, they soon caught sight of the delivery truck. It had turned left into Calle Sol only to find the way blocked by a pushcart peddler.

Frank wondered who was receiving the signals

“This'll do!” Joe said to their driver. “A million thanks.”

The boys leaped from the car and ran toward the truck, Joe in the lead. To his dismay, Abdul was no longer aboard!

“Pardon me,” Joe said to the man at the wheel. “Where's the big fellow who hitched a ride with you?”

The driver leaned out of his cab and pointed down the street. “He jumped off the truck and went into that restaurant, seÃ±or!
Caramba!
What kind of game is going on here?”

Without waiting to explain, the boys dashed off. A moment later they pulled up to a sliding halt as Joe caught sight of the restaurant's name.

“Look!” he gasped.
“El Calypso CalienteâHot
Calypso! It's the password used at the airport back in Eastern City!”

“Hold it a second,” Frank cautioned as his brother started inside. “Tony, you and Chet wait outside in case Abdul tries another fast one. If you see him come out, grab him.”

“Right!”

Frank and Joe entered the restaurant and glanced around swiftly. Abdul was not in sight, so they headed toward the rear of the place.

The white-jacketed proprietor bustled forward to bar the way. He was a rather sinister-looking man with a heavy beard.

“You wish something to eat, senores?”

“We're looking for a man who's wanted by the police,” Frank told him. “He came in here a few minutes ago.”

“What did he look like?”

“A big fellow in a striped jersey.”

The proprietor bared his teeth in a wide smile. “You are wrong, seÃ±ores. No one of that description has entered the restaurant.”

“Suppose we look in the kitchen, just in case,” Frank suggested.

The owner hesitated, then raised his voice slightly and said in Spanish, “Visitors coming to the kitchen.” To the boys he added,
“Muy bien,
seÃ±ores. You may go in, if you wish.”

He gestured toward the swinging doors that led to the kitchen.

“Thanks,” Frank said crisply, and strode forward, ahead of Joe.

But as Frank pushed the doors open, his face suddenly blanched in alarm.

CHAPTER XIV

The Unseen Enemy

“LOOK out, Joe!” Frank yelled as he ducked to the floor of the restaurant's kitchen.