Franklin Dixon - The House on the Cliff

steps. With pretty, dark-haired Iola was her best friend Callie Shaw. Callie, a blond, vivacious,

brown-eyed girl, was Frank's favorite among all the girls in his class.

"How are the ghost hunters this morning?" she asked with a mischievous smile. "Iola told me about your

adventures on Saturday."

"Chet was really scared," Iola chimed in. "I think somebody played a good joke on all of you."

"Well, whoever it was had better return the telescope eyepieces and our motorcycle tools," Joe said

defiantly.

But as the day wore on and none of their classmates teased them or brought up the subject, the Hardys

became convinced that the "ghost" had been serious and not just playing pranks.

"It was no joke," Joe said to Frank on the way home. "If any of the fellows at school had done it, they'd

have been kidding us plenty by now."

"Right," Frank agreed. "Joe, do you think the smugglers had anything to do with what happened at the

Pollitt place?"

"That's a thought!" exclaimed Joe. "That house on the cliff would be a great hide-out. If the smugglers

could make the house appear to be haunted, everyone would stay away."

"I wish Dad would get home, so we could take up this idea with him," Frank said thoughtfully.

But Mr. Hardy did not come home that day. He had often been away for varying lengths of time without

sending word, but on this occasion, since he had not taken a bag, the boys felt uneasy.

"Let's not worry Mother about this," Frank said. "But if Dad's not back by Wednesday-at the latest-I

think we should do some inquiring. Maybe Pretzel Pete will be able to help us."

Joe agreed. Wednesday was the start of their summer vacation and they could give full time to trying to

locate their father.

On Tuesday afternoon the mystery of Mr. Hardy's absence took a strange turn. Frank and Joe came

home from school to find then-mother

seated in the living room, carefully examining a note that she evidently just had received.

"Come here, boys," Mrs. Hardy said in an apprehensive tone. "Look at this and tell me what you think."

She handed the note to Frank.

"What is it?" he asked quickly. "Word from Dad?"

"It's supposed to be."

The boys read the note. It was typed on a torn sheet of paper and the signature looked like Fen-ton

Hardy's. It read:

I won't be home for several days. Don't worry. Fenton.

That was all. There was nothing to indicate where the detective was; nothing to show when the note had

been written.

"When did you get this, Mother?" asked Frank.

"It came in the afternoon mail. It was addressed to me, and the envelope had a Bayport postmark."

"Why are you worried?" Joe asked. "At least we've heard from Dad."

"But I'm not sure he sent the note."

"What do you mean?"

"Your father and I have an agreement. Whenever he writes me, he puts a secret sign beneath his

signature. Fenton was always afraid that someone would forge his name to a letter or note, and perhaps

get papers or information that he shouldn't have."

Frank picked up the note again. "There's no sign here. Just Dad's signature."

"It may be his signature. If not, it's a very good forgery." Mrs. Hardy was plainly worried.

"If Dad didn't write this note," Joe asked, "who did and why?"

"Your father has many enemies-criminals whom he has been instrumental in sending to prison. If there has

been foul play, the note might have been sent to keep us from being suspicious and delay any search."

"Foul play!" exclaimed Frank in alarm. "Then you think something has happened to Dad?"

CHAPTER VII

The Hidden Trail

JOE put an arm around his mother. "Frank and I will start a search for Dad first thing tomorrow," her son

said reassuringly.

Next morning, as the boys were dressing, Joe asked, "Where shall we start, Frank?"

"Down at the waterfront. Let's try to find Pretzel Pete and ask him if Dad talked to him on Monday. He

may give us a lead."

"Good idea."

The brothers reached the Bayport waterfront early. It was the scene of great activity. A tanker was

unloading barrels of oil, and longshoremen were trundling them to waiting trucks.

At another dock a passenger ship was tied up. Porters hurried about, carrying luggage and packages to a

line of taxicabs.

Many sailors strolled along the busy street.

Some stepped into restaurants, others into amusement galleries.

"I wonder where Pretzel Pete is," Frank mused. He and Joe had walked four blocks without catching

sight of the man.

"Maybe he's not wearing his uniform," Joe surmised. "You know, the one Dad described."

"Let's turn and go back the other way beyond the tanker," Frank suggested.

The boys reversed their direction and made their way through the milling throng for six more blocks.

Suddenly Joe chuckled. "Here comes our man."

Strolling toward them and hawking the product he had for sale came a comical-looking individual. He

wore a white cotton suit with a very loose-fitting coat. Around his neck was a vivid red silk handkerchief,

embroidered with anchors.

The vendor's trousers had been narrowed at the cuff with bicycle clips to keep them from | trailing on the

ground, with the result that there | was a continuous series of wrinkles from the edge of his coat to his

ankles.

The man wore a white hat which came down to his ears. On the wide brown band the name Pretzel Pete

was embroidered in white letters.

"Boy, that's some gear!" Frank murmured.

Pretzel Pete's garb was bizarre, but he had an

open, honest face. He stopped calling "Pretzels! Hot pretzels! Best in the land!" and smiled at the

Hardys. He set down the large metal food warmer he carried. From the top of it rose three short aerials,

each ringed with a dozen pretzels.

"You like them hot, or do you prefer them cold?" he asked the brothers.

Joe grinned. "If they're good, I can eat them any way." Then he whispered, "We're Mr. Fen-ton Hardy's

sons. We'd like to talk to you."

At that moment a group of sailors brushed past. Pretzel Pete did not reply until they were out of earshot,

then he said to the boys, "Come into this warehouse."

The brothers followed him down the street a short distance and through a doorway into an enormous

room which at the moment was practically empty.

"You've brought a message from your pop?" the vendor asked.

Quickly Frank explained to him that their father seemed to be missing. "We thought you might have heard

this."

"Yes, I did," Pretzel Pete answered. "But I didn't think nothing about it. I always thought detectives

disappeared-sometimes in order to fool people they were after."

"They sometimes do," Joe told him. "But this time seems to be different. Dad said he often came down

here to get information from you-because you always give him good tips-and we wondered if you had

seen him lately."

"Yes."

"When?"

"Monday morning."

"Dad has been gone ever since."

"Hmm." The man frowned, picked up a pretzel from one of the aerials, and began to munch on it. "Help

yourselves, fellows."

Frank and Joe each took one of the pretzels.

They had just bitten into the delicious salted rings when Pete continued, "Now you got me worried. Your

pop's a fine man and I wouldn't want to see anything happen to him. I'll tell you a place you might look

for him."

Pretzel Pete said that he had picked up a bit of information that led him to think an East Indian sailor

named Ali Singh might be engaged in some smuggling. The vendor did not know what ship he sailed on,