The Pentagon Spy (2 page)

Hammerley looked crestfallen. “That's too bad. I wanted him to handle a case for me. I came all the way from Pennsylvania just to see him.”

“Mr. Hammerley, what's your case about?” Joe asked.

“Weather vanes!” Hammerley exclaimed.

The Hardy boys were mystified.

“What have weather vanes got to do with a criminal investigation?” Frank inquired.

“They've been stolen!” Hammerley informed him.

Joe scratched his head. “Who would want to steal weather vanes? And what for?”

Their visitor threw up his hands in astonishment. “Young man, I see you don't understand. These are not ordinary weather vanes. They come from the Pennsylvania Dutch country, where we have them on our houses, barns, churches, and public buildings.”

“We have some around Bayport,” Joe pointed out.

“I'm sure you do,” Hammerley agreed. “But the Pennsylvania Dutch weather vanes are special. Many are large, ornate heirlooms up to two hundred years old. They are immensely valuable as antiques. My neighbor's missing weather vane, the figure of a man on horseback called the
Galloping
Rider, would bring twenty thousand dollars, and more than that if it could be smuggled out of the country. American antiques sell for a king's ransom abroad.”

Joe whistled. “Twenty thousand bucks just to tell which way the wind's blowing!”

“That would bring the crooks running,” Frank declared.

“Right,” Hammerley said. “I represent a group in my county who have lost their valuable weather vanes and want them back!”

“Did you have one stolen yourself?” Frank asked.

The visitor shook his head. “No. My own is still on the barn, and I want it to stay there. It's called the
Flashing Arrow,
an arrow with a two-foot eagle perched on top. The whole thing is of beaten copper. A beautiful work of art! Thieves could sell it for a fortune!”

“But why don't you take it down?” Joe asked. “That way the crooks won't get it.”

Hammerley gave him a sly look. “I'm setting a trap for the thieves. My foreman sleeps in the barn loft, and he'll sound the alarm if anyone tries to seize the
Flashing Arrow.
So far, nothing has happened. But other people have lost their valuable antiques. I was hoping your father would find them before they disappear into private collections or leave the country.”

“How and when were they taken?” Frank asked.

“The thieves who raided my county worked quickly and precisely,” the farmer replied. “They struck on four consecutive nights, grabbing the weather vanes before anyone realized what was happening. They knew what they were doing. They took only the most valuable ones.”

“How did they get the weather vanes down?” Joe wondered aloud.

“They took the stairs to the roof whenever they could, as in the case of the county courthouse. Then they broke a window and got in while the building was empty. Otherwise, they used ladders to climb up on the outside of buildings. That's how they got the
Galloping Rider.
The police found the marks of the ladder in the mud near the foundation of the barn.”

Hammerley sighed, then went on, “Some owners were away at the time, others did not notice at first that their weather vanes were gone from the roofs. A few angry people who were robbed called the police, and then the story broke on the radio. About twenty were taken. The sheriff and his men inspected every site without finding a clue to the thieves. We're up a tree, so to speak, and there aren't enough officers to stay on the case until it's solved. That's why we need a private investigator.”

“Sorry Dad isn't here,” Frank said.

“I'm sorry, too,” Hammerley confessed. “I was depending on him.”

“Maybe he can take your case when he finishes the one he's on,” Joe suggested.

Hammerley shook his head vigorously. “Young man, we cannot wait. The trail will grow cold and the thieves will get away. We need a detective right away.” He balanced his deerstalker hat on his knee with one hand, tugged on his earlobe, and looked hard at Frank and Joe. “I've heard you boys are detectives, too,” he remarked.

“We've worked on several assignments,” Joe said modestly, not adding that he and Frank had been involved in more than fifty investigations.

“And you solved them all, I am told,” Hammerley commented shrewdly.

“We've got a pretty good batting average,” Frank admitted.

Hammerley looked hopeful. “Perhaps you'd be willing to take my case? Judging by your success in the past, I'm sure you could handle it.”

Frank pointed out that they would have to check with Mr. Hardy first. “If Dad doesn't need us, it's okay with me.”

“Me too!” Joe exclaimed. “I'd like to lasso in the
Galloping Rider
and get it back for you.”

“That suits me,” Hammerley declared. “How soon can you begin?”

“If we take the case,” said Frank, emphasizing the first word, “the timing will depend on our father. He told us to call him tomorrow.”

Hammerley brightened up. “Then you could start the day after tomorrow?”

“Maybe,” Joe agreed. “How do we get in touch with you?”

Hammerley took a road map of Pennsylvania from his pocket and spread it on the coffee table. “Fly to Lancaster,” he said. “Then take Route 222 south to Quarryville. About a mile beyond Quarryville, turn east on a dirt road between two tall pine trees. Keep going for about ten miles, and you will see a sign reading ‘Hammerley Homestead.' Drive right on up to the house. I'll be waiting for you.”

“You live in the middle of Pennsylvania Dutch country,” Frank said with a smile. “That's where people still ride around in buggies drawn by horses, right?”

“That's right,” Hammerley said. “Good people, the Amish. We're proud to have them.”

The Hardys and their guest chatted for a while about the Germans who arrived in William Penn's colony back in the eighteenth century. Although Germans, they were called “Dutch” because they referred to themselves with the German word “Deutsch.”

“The Pennsylvania Dutch are still there,” Hammerley told the boys. “The Amish are the most restrictive group among them. They teach separation from the rest of the world and that you shouldn't go to war, swear oaths, or hold public office. They strive for a simple way of life without modern conveniences and technology.”

“I understand they don't even use telephones or electricity on their farms,” Joe put in.

Hammerley nodded. “And if someone's property gets damaged, the whole community pitches in and rebuilds it. The barn that belongs to me now was erected in this manner over a century ago.”

Hammerley stood up. “I'd better go now. If you want to call me, the number is on my card.” Before he walked out the door, he hesitated. “I suppose I should tell you one more thing,” he said.

“What's that?” Joe asked eagerly.

The farmer's voice sank to a hoarse whisper. “Beware of the hex!”

Joe raised his eyebrows in surprise. “The hex?” he repeated. “That's a magical spell, isn't it?”

Hammerley nodded. “That's right. The hex can kill or cure!”

Frank looked puzzled. “Do people still believe in that stuff?”

Hammerley answered him in a stern voice. “The hex may be stronger than you think. Strange things have happened in the Pennsylvania Dutch country, and the local people attribute them to the hex.”

“But what has that to do with the stolen weather vanes?” Joe wanted to know.

“There are hex signs on many buildings in our county, including my barn,” Hammerley went on. “But the people who lost their weather vanes also lost their hex signs. They believe that the thieves employ a more powerful hex, since they have been so successful. There are also witches who cast spells—white witches who cure illnesses and black witches who harm their victims. Many people feel that the thieves have at least one black witch among them!”

He adjusted his deerstalker hat in a mirror on the wall. “Are you willing to face the hex?” he asked.

Frank and Joe grinned. “I think so,” Frank replied.

“Good. I'll be hearing from you then,” Hammerley concluded and walked out the door.

Frank and Joe returned to the living room. “Well, brother, what do you think about this hex business?” Joe asked, flopping into an overstuffed chair.

“Let's read up on it,” Frank suggested and went into his father's study. He returned with a large, leather-bound tome on mystical lore and found a chapter on the hex. He flattened the book on the coffee table and began to turn the pages, while Joe peered over his shoulder.

They learned that the hex originated in Germany. People believed that hex signs could ward off danger from those who used them. Or, the signs could be applied to focus uncanny forces on victims. German immigrants brought these ideas to America in colonial days, and they have survived to this day in the Pennsylvania Dutch country.

“The owl is the bird of the hex,” Frank read, “and talking owls are frequently the pets of witches.”

“Talking owls!” Joe marveled. “I wonder what they say.”

“To-whitt, to-whoo, the old woodoo,” Frank joked. He turned more pages of the book until he reached a plate showing hex signs. Many were geometrical forms in various colors, squares surrounded by a series of triangles, sunbursts inside concentric circles, and so on. The chief hex sign, they learned, was the pentagram, a star pattern of five points that can be drawn without lifting a pencil from a piece of paper.

“We learned how to do that at school and called it a star,” Joe said. “But they never told us it was a hex sign.”

“Well, it isn't always a hex sign,” Frank pointed out. “But when it is, it's a good luck charm, like a rabbit's foot.”

“Unless it's being used against you,” Joe stated. “That's what the book says. When two people are using the hex, I suppose the winner is the one who's got the toughest witch for a friend.”

“Like those weather vane thieves,” Frank grumbled and closed the book.

“Hey, what if they steal ours?” Joe said.

“You mean the tin arrow atop our lab over the garage?” Frank grinned. “The one Aunt Gertrude picked up at a tag sale? I'll let you have it for three bucks.”

“I'll pass.”

Just then the phone rang. “Maybe that's Dad!” Frank exclaimed, jumping to his feet and lifting the instrument from its cradle.

“Is this one of the great Hardys?” a familiar voice inquired.

Frank smiled. “The greatest. What's up, Chet?”

“Arrows!” their friend announced. “I'm getting so good at it I shot ten straight bull‘s-eyes in a row earlier this morning!”

“You should. After all, you've practiced archery long enough!”

“You really know how to put a guy down,” Chet complained. “Even an expert archer doesn't get ten bull‘s-eyes in a row every day!”

“Okay, okay. Congratulations. Want us to bring you a medal?”

“No, but you could bring yourselves. How about it, Frank? We've got a contest going on here.”

Frank conferred briefly with his brother, then promised their pal to be over in fifteen minutes.

Chet Morton, their best friend, was a roly-poly youth who preferred eating to danger. But the Hardys knew he would never let them down if they were in a tight corner. Chet had proved that when he helped them on a number of dangerous investigations.

“Maybe Chet will come up with an idea on those weather vane thefts,” Joe said as the brothers drove across Bayport to the farm where their friend lived with his family.

Frank laughed. “You've got to be kidding! All he's interested in is food and his hobbies.”

They turned into the driveway to the Morton home and saw a large target with a number of arrows in it on the front lawn near the house. Several of their friends were standing near the gate, watching Chet go through excited motions with his arms and hands.

Frank stopped the car and the boys got out.

“The Hardys have arrived!” Chet announced as the brothers walked toward the group. “Now we can proceed!” He was dressed in dungarees and a corduroy shirt, two buttons of which remained open because his expansive waistline would not permit them to be closed. A quiver was slung across his left shoulder from which protruded the feathered ends of a dozen arrows, and a baseball cap perched jauntily on his head.

Chet obviously relished the role of director of the archery contest. “Go ahead, Phil,” he said to the boy next to him. “Let's see what you can do.”

Phil Cohen, dark-haired and slender, enjoyed reading as much as sports, even though he was famous for his quickness and agility. He released his arrow with a determined motion. It flew through the air and hit the target in the third ring surrounding the bull‘s-eye. “Aw, that's not good enough,” he grumbled disgustedly.

“Don't worry, you're getting better!” Tony Prito said cheerfully. “A few minutes ago you didn't even hit the target!”

“Thanks, pal,” Phil replied, looking at Tony darkly. “Do you have to advertise my mistake? I explained to you that it was only a momentary lack of concentration.”

Tony grinned. “Some mistake! You almost killed Biff!”

“He was in my way,” Phil said.

Biff Hooper, a husky football player for Bayport High, winced. “I think you did it on purpose, because I ate your sandwich.”

Chet interrupted the friendly banter and raised his hand for silence. “We're not here to gab but to learn the skills of archery!” he announced. “Joe, how about trying a shot?”