The Hooded Hawk Mystery (3 page)

The Hardys crossed the street to police headquarters, and five minutes later were seated in Chief Ezra Collig's office.

“What mystery have you boys turned up now?” the officer asked with a smile.

Frank handed over the rubies. “Mr. Bickford told us these are valuable stones. Have you had a report of any robbery involving gems like these?”

Chief Collig said he could not recall any, but would ask one of his detectives, and buzzed for him.

“Nothing like that has been reported missing,” the detective replied to Frank's inquiry. “And we'd sure hear about such a theft from other departments.”

The chief thanked him and the man withdrew. They talked about the stones and the carrier pigeon for some time but could come to no conclusions.

The boys left the rubies with Chief Collig for safekeeping. When they rejoined Chet, they decided to forego his dinner treat for the time being and return home, since it was time to feed the hawk. Chet suggested that they let him off at his father's real-estate office. Mr. Morton would drive him back to the farm.

When Frank and Joe reached home their mother was setting the table for dinner. Mrs. Hardy was a small, slim woman with blond hair and sparkling blue eyes.

“What a noble-looking bird!” she remarked. “Your aunt told me all about her.”

Aunt Gertrude appeared from the kitchen just as Frank noticed there was a plate at his father's place.

“Dad's home from Washington!” he cried out.

“He's in town all right,” Aunt Gertrude replied, adding with a frown, “And when he hears about that vicious hawk you boys have, he's not going to like it.”

“Perhaps he won't mind when we tell him about the rubies our bird got for us,” Frank said, grinning.

When the boys related the story, the women gasped in amazement.

At Aunt Gertrude's insistence, Frank and Joe took the falcon to the garage. They set up the block perch and put the falcon on it. The boys fed her some parrot seed, set the burglar alarm, and locked the door.

Fenton Hardy arrived a few minutes later. He was a tall, dark, distinguished-looking man. His sons loved his keen sense of humor and admired his brilliant mind. Mr. Hardy's preoccupied manner as the family sat down to dinner could mean only one thing. He was busy on an important case.

Sensing his sons' curiosity, he said, “I've been asked to help on an interesting problem which has the authorities baffled. Immigration officials have learned of the large-scale smuggling of aliens from India into the United States somewhere along the Atlantic coast. One suspected spot is Bayport.”

“Bayport!” Frank repeated in astonishment, adding, “Any other clues?”

“None. But maybe you boys can find some,” Mr. Hardy replied with a twinkle in his eye. “I'm working on another case right now that I'll have to finish before I can concentrate on this smug gling racket.”

“In other words, Dad, you're asking Joe and me to start from scratch. No leads or anything?”

“You know I wouldn't do that, son,” Fenton Hardy replied, smiling. “I have two possible leads.

“While I was in Washington, I called on an old friend—an Indian importer. I talked with him about the illegal entry of aliens from his country and told him I was going to ask you boys to work on the case. He naturally frowns on anything that will detract from his country's good reputation, and has offered to assist in every way he can.”

“Did he give you any leads?” Frank asked.

“No, but I mentioned to him that there must be some means of communication between the smugglers and their confederates on shore. We eliminated radio and telegraph because they could be monitored. But it occurred to me that secret messages, instructing the contact here to pick up the smuggled men, might be sent by carrier pigeons from the ships offshore to the racketeers' hideout on land. Ghapur agreed.”

“Ghapur!” Joe burst out. “Dad, is your Indian friend's name Rahmud Ghapur?”

“Why, yes, son,” Mr. Hardy answered.

The boys told their father about the falcon they had received from Ghapur, the attempted theft of the bird, and the ruby-bearing carrier pigeon which the peregrine had downed.

“That's very interesting,” Mr. Hardy said. “I'll phone Ghapur at once.”

Fortunately the importer was at home. The detective talked with him for some time, then returned to the table.

“Mr. Ghapur says he sent the falcon to aid you boys in bringing down pigeons you might be suspicious of. He mailed a letter of explanation. Didn't it arrive?”

“No,” Frank replied, adding thoughtfully, “The letter could have been intercepted by the smugglers if they suspected what the falcon was to be used for.”

“True,” Mr. Hardy declared. “Ghapur asked you boys to get in touch with a fellow countryman of his who lives here in Bayport. He's Ahmed, the rug dealer. You know him. He'll teach you how to handle the falcon properly.”

This statement caused Aunt Gertrude to speak up sharply, deploring the fact that the boys were getting involved in such a cruel sport.

“Aunty,” said Frank, “it's in the line of duty. And anyway, wild hawks eat ten times as many pigeons and other birds in a year than we'd let a trained falcon like Miss Peregrine go after.”

“Humph !” Aunt Gertrude was unconvinced, and was about to continue her tirade when Mrs. Hardy arose and started clearing the table. Her husband and sons got up too and went to the garage to see the falcon. After examining her trappings, Mr. Hardy said with a smile:

“It will be rather unique to solve a mystery with a hooded hawk.”

“Yes,” agreed Frank. “Dad, do you think there might be a tie-in between the smugglers of aliens and the rubies?”

“Yes, I do,” Mr. Hardy replied. “And I have a hunch we'll find that carrier pigeons are the link between our two mysteries.”

They talked for a while longer, then Fenton Hardy concluded with, “Well, boys, it will have to be your job for the time being to solve these mysteries. I must get back on my other case. From time to time I'll be in touch with you, though.”

“You're leaving?” Joe asked.

“Yes. I'm flying back to Washington. Will you drive me to the airport?”

“Certainly, Dad.”

After the boys had dropped Mr. Hardy at the airport, Joe suggested, “Let's phone Ahmed. It's not too late, and I'd like to get to work.”

“Good idea,” replied Frank. “We should know more about training and flying the bird. We were just lucky this afternoon.”

He put through a call to the elderly rug merchant. After identifying himself, Frank told him about the message from Rahmud Ghapur.

Though surprised, Ahmed gladly consented to teach the Hardys how to handle the falcon. He said that they must first obtain permission from the State Fish and Game Department to fly the hawk. It was agreed that the boys would do this the next morning, then the three would drive out to the country.

“The Morton farm is a good place,” Frank suggested.

At the Bayport office of the Fish and Game Department the next day, the clerk looked quizzical when the boys made their request. But when they explained it was in connection with one of their father's cases, he gave them each special hunting permits.

With their falcon and a bag containing its equipment, the Hardys drove to Ahmed's place of business. The rug dealer was standing in the doorway, waiting for them. He was close to sixty years old, but straight as a spear and lithe in his movements.

When the elderly man was seated in the car, he turned his attention to the hawk. Putting on the gauntlet, Ahmed wristed the bird. As he stroked it, he remarked:

“This hawk is well trained. As a fledgling she was probably lured into a net, then hooded, and carried constantly on the glove until she lost her fear of man and became tame. This is called ‘manning.'

“The trainer strokes her, talks gently to her, and feeds her. The falcon becomes completely dependent on her master and learns that he intends no harm. Gradually she is made hungry or ‘keen' and thus learns to respond to the falconer. At first she jumps a short distance to the glove for food. Gradually the distance is increased until she is flying several hundred yards on a string. Finally she can be flown free.”

“Then she's actually trained through her appetite ?” Frank asked.

“Yes,” Ahmed replied. “And a young bird's instincts are channeled so that she performs in a natural way for her trainer. She is never taught to do anything that she would not normally do in the wild.”

“Will she bring her quarry back to her master?” Joe queried.

“No,” Ahmed replied. “She goes to the ground with her kill, then the falconer hurries to his bird. The hawk does not come to him. However, if the bird misses her quarry, she will return to the lure to be fed.”

“It's a complicated sport,” Frank remarked. “And I can see why it requires lots of time and patience.”

“Well, one thing we do know,” Joe spoke up. “Pigeons are a hawk's favorite food.” He grinned “But we didn't have a squab in our refrigerator, so I gave her raw oatmeal and parrot seed for breakfast.”

Ahmed smiled. “You'll have to feed her starlings, sparrows, mice, and lean beef. It's obvious that she is used to people and normal sounds, since neither of these bother her.”

When they arrived at the Morton farm Iola informed them that Chet had gone to market with a load of sweet corn. She promised to tell him where the Hardys were as soon as he came in.

The visitors strolled to one of the large open fields and Ahmed began his instruction. He suggested that Frank undertake flying the hawk first. Compared to Ahmed's dexterity, the boy felt very clumsy in putting on and taking off the jesses and the hood. He also felt that due to his inexperience the hawk must be tiring from the procedure.

“Let's give the poor bird a rest,” he suggested. “In the meantime, I'd like to learn more about the history of falconry.”

Ahmed agreed, and holding the falcon, he walked around the field with the Hardys. As they strolled along, the rug dealer told them about the short-winged hawks that are flown from the fist at such quarry as game birds and rabbits.

“These birds,” Ahmed said, “such as the goshawk, the sharp-shinned hawk, and the Cooper's hawk are the best ones for a beginner to practice with.

“In my country, and in yours too, the peregrine falcon is considered the prize bird and only experienced falconers capture and train them. It is an unwritten law that novice falconers start on the less noble birds, and as they gain experience, they earn the right to train the peregrines.”

“We're fortunate to start off with a trained one,” said Joe,

“Indeed you are,” replied Ahmed.

As the three walked back across the field, Ahmed gave the boys additional pointers on the care of their falcon, advising them to keep the bird with them at all times, so that she would recognize them as her masters.

“Remember,” he said, “to put water out for her bath, to keep her in the shade, and to place her perch where she can't get tangled up. Above all,” he cautioned, “be kind and gentle to her and she will reciprocate. Always bear in mind that she puts great trust in you; don't fail her.”

Frank and Joe were assuring him that they would certainly do their best when they heard a loud yell.

“Hey, fellows!” It was Chet, standing at the edge of the field and waving at them. “Quick! I've got news!”

“Good or bad?” Joe shouted back as he and Frank started running toward their friend.

“Don't know. But you'll find out at police headquarters!”

 

 

 

 

FRANK and Joe sprinted across the field to where Chet was waiting for them.

“What's this news from police headquarters about?” Joe demanded excitedly.

“All I know,” said the stout boy, “is the department called and said you should report there pronto!”

The same thoughts flashed through the brothers' minds: Was it news of the rubies or of Joe's masked assailant?

“We're on our way,” said Joe as Ahmed caught up to them, the falcon still on his wrist.

They hurried to the convertible and drove to Bayport. After leaving Ahmed at his shop, the boys headed for police headquarters. Frank remained in the car with the falcon while Joe went inside. Officer Smuff was waiting for him.

“You have news for us?” Joe asked.

Smuff nodded. “I saw a man lurking around your house. Swarthy complexion, red-and-white bandanna around his neck, and wearing a battered felt hat.”

“You mean you've caught our hawk thief?”

“I don't know if he's the one, Joe. You'll have to identify him. But he certainly fitted your description!”

Smuff led the boy into a small room. A sun-tanned figure slouched on a bench. When the man saw Joe, he jumped up.

“Am I glad you're here,” he said with a slight Italian accent. “I went to your house and looked for the lawn mower, and this cop took me down here for I don't know what!”

Joe grinned. “Sorry, Nicolo. It's a case of mistaken identity!”

Nicolo looked at the policeman defiantly. “See? I told you!”

“Nicolo is our gardener,” Joe explained to Smuff. “He comes every week to cut the lawn.”

Smuff shrugged and apologized to the man.

“That's okay,” Nicolo said when he heard about the hawk thief. “Now can I go back to work?”

Since it was nearly lunchtime, the boys drove Nicolo to the Hardy home. As Joe carried the falcon toward the back door, Mrs. Hardy appeared and said: