The House on the Cliff E-Book

Franklin W. Dixon

• Herausgeber: Wildside Press
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Serie: The Hardy Boys
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 208

Beschreibung

The House on the Cliff (first published in 1927) is the second of the original Hardy Boys adventures.

When Fenton Hardy, the famous private detective and father of the Hardy Boys, asks his sons to help him with his latest case, Frank and Joe find themselves up against a ruthless criminal named Felix Snattman, whose business is smuggling stolen drugs.

Includes a new introduction by award-winning mystery author John Betancourt

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF

FRANKLIN W. DIXON

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Originally published in 1927.

Published by Wildside Press LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

INTRODUCTION

Like many people, I was introduced to Frank and Joe Hardy at an early age—I must have been about 9, in third grade, which places it around 1972. I had already read all the mysteries in my elementary school library (which didn’t have the Hardy Boys or Nancy Drew—but it did have The Three Investigators, the Boxcar Children, and many standalone stories.) Then one day my mother showed up with a copy of the first Hardy Boys book, and I was hooked.

After much begging and pleading, I was allowed to have one Hardy Boys book per week after that, and it wasn’t long before I had read them all. These were the blue-spine hardcover editions from Grosset and Dunlap. After that, I dabbled with other series: The Happy Hollisters, The Bobbsey Twins, and even (ahem!) some of the “girl” series, like Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden when none of my peers was looking. (Kid books could often be found at garage sales and church rummage sales for 10 cents or 25 cents per copy in those days.)

At some point, after I had read the entire Hardy Boys series, my father casually mentioned that he had some old mysteries from his childhood in storage, and the next time we were in St. Louis we could go and see them. Since we lived in New Jersey, we didn’t get to St. Louis very often. So I waited...and waited...and waited...

When we finally did get there, visiting my uncle and aunt for Christmas, we did indeed make a pilgrimage out to a run-down storage facility. There, my father dug around and finally handed me a box of old books. Sure enough, it had about a dozen mysteries in it. I had inherited 1930s and 1940s hardcover Hardy Boys books—all with bright, colorful dust jackets—and some Mercer Boys titles. The cover illustrations were different on the Hardy Boys books, but the titles were the same.

Of course, I had already read all the Hardy Boys titles—or so I thought—so I started with the Mercer Boys books. Like Frank and Joe, the Mercers were brothers, but they were attending a military academy, where they and their friends found plenty of adventures. The stories were written by Capwell Wyckoff—solid, action-packed tales. I liked them.

Then, bored and stuck at my uncle’s house, I picked up my father’s copy of the 18th Hardy Boys book, The Twisted Claw—first published in 1938.

To my amazement, it wasn’t the same book. A few elements were the same, but it was wildly different. Rougher, more suspenseful, and a lot more exciting. More on this later.

* * * *

Let’s back up to a man named Edward Stratemeyer. Stratemeyer (1862–1930) was an American publisher, a writer of children’s fiction, and the founder of the Stratemeyer Syndicate, a book packaging company. He was one of the most prolific writers in the world, producing in excess of 1,300 books himself and selling in excess of 500 million copies. He created many well-known book series, including The Rover Boys, The Bobbsey Twins, Tom Swift, The Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, and many, many more. They sold hundreds of millions of copies, and many (in different form) are still in print today. On Stratemeyer’s legacy, Fortune wrote: “As oil had its Rockefeller, literature had its Stratemeyer.”

He set in motion the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew series, which long outlived him. When his daughter took over the company, she made the difficult—but necessary—decision to update their more popular series to keep them relevant to modern (1950s) youth. As a result, all of the Hardy Boys books were rewritten—often jettisoning the original storylines in favor of plots that were more believable and accessible to a 1950s audience. Thus violent, seagoing pirates in the original version of The Twisted Claw became timber pirates in the updated version.

Not even close to the same. Sanitized. Not as violent. Not as exciting. Not as much fun.

Look at the old versions as a set of “lost” adventures for Joe and Frank Hardy, but in technicolor instead of black and white. I know you’ll enjoy them as much as I did.

So here is the original, 1927 version of The House on the Cliff. If you’re only familiar with the revised versions of the stories, you’re in for a treat. Enjoy!

—John Betancourt

Cabin John, Maryland

CHAPTER I

The Haunted House

Three powerful motorcycles sped along the shore road that leads from the city of Bayport, skirting Barmet Bay, on the Atlantic coast. It was a bright Saturday morning in June, and although the city sweltered in the heat, cool breezes blew in from the bay.

Two of the motorcycles carried an extra passenger. All the cyclists were boys of about fifteen and sixteen years of age and all five were students at the Bayport high school. They were enjoying their Saturday holiday by this outing, glad of the chance to get away from the torrid warmth of the city for a few hours.

When the foremost motorcycle reached a place where the shore road formed a junction with another highway leading to the north, the rider brought his machine to a stop and waited for the others to draw alongside. He was a tall, dark youth of sixteen, with a clever, good-natured face. His name was Frank Hardy.

“Where do we go from here?” he called out to the others.

The two remaining motorcycles came to a stop and the drivers mopped their brows while the two other boys dismounted, glad of the chance to stretch their legs. One of the cyclists, a boy of fifteen, fair, with light, curly hair, was Joe Hardy, a brother of Frank’s, and the other lad was Chet Morton, a chum of the Hardy boys. The other youths were Jerry Gilroy and “Biff” Hooper, typical, healthy American lads of high school age.

“You’re the leader,” said Joe to his brother. “We’ll follow you.”

“I’d rather have it settled. We’ve started out without any particular place to go. There’s not much fun just riding around the countryside.”

“I don’t much care where we go, as long as we keep on going,” said Jerry. “We get a breeze as long as we’re traveling, but the minute we stop I begin to sweat.”

Chet Morton gazed along the shore road.

“I’ll tell you what we can do,” he said suddenly. “Let’s go and visit the haunted house.”

“Polucca’s place?”

“Sure. We’ve never been out there.”

“I’ve passed it,” Frank said. “But I didn’t go very close to the place, I’ll tell you.”

Jerry Gilroy, who was a newcomer to Bayport, looked puzzled.

“Where is Polucca’s place?”

“You can see it from here. Look,” said Chet, taking him by the arm and bringing him over to the side of the road. “See where the shore road dips, away out near the end of Barmet Bay. Do you see that cliff?”

“Yes. There’s a stone house at the top.”

“Well, that’s Polucca’s place.”

“Who is Polucca?”

“Who was Polucca, you mean,” interjected Frank. “He used to live there. But he was murdered.”

“And that’s why the place is supposed to be haunted?”

“Reason enough, isn’t it?” said Biff Hooper. “I don’t believe in ghosts, but I’ll tell the world there are some funny stories going around about that house ever since Polucca was killed.”

“He must have been a strange fellow, anyway,” commented Jerry, “to build a house in such a place as that.”

Indeed, the Polucca place had been built on an unusual site. High above the waters of the bay it stood, built close to the edge of a rocky and inhospitable cliff. It was some distance back from the road, and there was no other house within miles. The boys had traveled a little more than three miles since leaving Bayport, and the Polucca place was at least five miles away. It could hardly have been seen, had it not been for its prominent position on top of the cliff, silhouetted clearly against the sky.

“He was a strange fellow,” Frank observed. “No one knew very much about him. He didn’t welcome visitors. In fact, he always kept a couple of vicious dogs around the place, so nobody cared to hang around there if they weren’t invited.”

“He was a miser,” came from Joe Hardy.

“He may have been. At least that was the theory. Everybody said Polucca had a lot of money, but after his death there wasn’t a nickel found in the house.”

“Felix Polucca always said he wouldn’t trust the banks,” put in Biff Hooper. “But if he had any money I don’t know where he made it, for he didn’t work at anything and he mighty seldom came into the city.”

“Perhaps he inherited it,” Jerry suggested.

“Maybe. He must have had money at some time, to build that house. It’s a great, rambling stone place that must have cost thousands.”

“Is anybody living there now?”

The others shook their heads. “No one has lived there since the murder and I don’t think any one ever will,” said Frank Hardy. “The house is too far out of the way, for one thing, and then—the stories that have been going around—”

“Well, I won’t say I believe any place is haunted, but the Polucca place is certainly strange. There have been queer lights seen there at night. On stormy nights, particularly. And once a motorist had a breakdown near there, so he went up to the house for help. He didn’t know anything about the history of the place. He got the scare of his life!”

“What happened?”

“He decided when he went into the front yard that the place was deserted, and he was just going to turn away when he saw an old man standing at one of the upper windows, looking at him. He called out, and the old man went away, and although the motorist hunted all through the house he didn’t find any trace of the old chap. So he left that place as quickly as he could.”

“I don’t blame him,” remarked Jerry. “But the house sounds interesting. I’m game to visit it.”

“So am I!” declared the others.

“Lead on!” laughed Chet. “It’ll be a brave ghost that will tackle the whole five of us.”

Jerry clambered on behind Chet, and Biff mounted Joe’s motorcycle. The machines roared, and the little cavalcade started on its way down the shore road toward the house on the cliff.

Instead of being an aimless trip, the outing had now assumed all the aspects of an adventure. With the exception of Jerry, the boys had all passed by the Polucca place at one time or another, but none had ever ventured off the main road to explore the deserted place.

The lane leading into the Polucca grounds, never kept in good repair even during the owner’s lifetime, was now almost indiscernible and was overgrown with weeds and bushes. The house itself was hidden from the roadway by trees. Most people gave the place a wide berth, whether they believed in ghosts or not, for the stories that had been told of the rambling stone building since the murder of Felix Polucca two years before were sufficient to indicate that there had been strange happenings in the old house. Whether or not they were of supernatural origin was a matter of debate.

The murder of Felix Polucca had been particularly brutal. He was an old Italian, suspected, as Frank said, of being a miser. He was very eccentric in his ways and most people considered that he was not quite sound mentally.

Be that as it may, Bayport was shocked one morning to learn that the old man had been found dead in the kitchen of his house, his body riddled with bullets. The motive, apparently, was robbery, for although it was popularly believed that the old man possessed a great deal of money that he kept with him in the house, it was never found, in spite of the most diligent search.

This was the gloomy history of the place the Hardy boys and their chums were now about to visit and explore. To add to the atmosphere of excitement that had possessed them from the moment the old house was mentioned, as they drew closer to the cliff, the sun retired behind a cloud and the sky gradually became darker.

Frank glanced up. Although the sky had been bright and clear when the party left Bayport, clouds had gathered in the east and it was plain that a storm was gathering.

“Looks as if we’ll have to go into the Polucca place whether we want to or not,” he called out to the others. “It’s going to rain.”

In a little while they came to the lane that led to the haunted house. In spite of the fact that it was overgrown with weeds and bushes, the boys were able to drive down the faintly defined roadway until at last a rusty iron gate barred their progress.

Frank, who was in the lead, got off his machine and kicked the gate open, the rusty chains clanking dismally as they fell from the staples. Then the party went on into the grounds.

Under the lowering sky that heralded the approaching storm, the grounds of the Polucca place were far from inviting. Dank, tall grass grew beneath the unkempt trees, and thistles and weeds sprouted up in the very center of the roadway. A rising wind stirred among the branches of the trees and the waving grasses rustled mournfully.

“Creepy sort of a place,” muttered Jerry.

“Wait till you see the house,” Chet advised.

Not one of them could restrain a slight shiver of apprehension when at last they came in view of the old stone building. It was framed in a mass of trees, bushes, and weeds that threatened to engulf it from all sides. Weeds obscured the front door. Bushes grew up level with the sills of the vacant downstairs windows. Trees on either side and beyond the house extended trailing branches down over the roof. A shutter hung by one hinge from an upstairs window, and banged with every passing gust of wind.

A deathlike silence hung over the old building. Under the black clouds that now filled the entire sky it was imbued with an atmosphere of gloom and terror.

“Come on!” said Frank. “Now that we’re here we may as well go through the place.”

“Haven’t seem any ghosts yet,” laughed Chet, with an effort at being light-hearted. But in spite of himself, his tone seemed forced.

They left the motorcycles beneath a tree and advanced toward the old stone building. The front door was almost off its hinges, and it swung creakingly open at Frank’s touch.

Frank stepped boldly into the hallway. The interior of the house was veiled in gloom, for the rear windows were boarded up, but the lads could see that everything was deep in dust. A staircase was before them, leading to the upper stories of the building. To the left, was a closed door.

“This must be the parlor,” said Frank, as he flung the door open.

The room was empty. A stone fireplace was at one side, and as the boys came into the room a rat scuttled out of the fireplace and raced across the floor, disappearing through a hole in the wall. The sound made every one jump, for the boys’ nerves were at a tension on account of the forbidding atmosphere.

“Just a rat!” said Frank.

His voice had the effect of calming the others.

They stood hesitantly in the middle of the deserted parlor. Joe went over to the window and looked out, but the view from the front window of the Polucca place was so lonely and gruesome, in its aspect of tangled trees and weeds and undergrowth under the lowering darkness of the sky, that he came back.

“Where shall we go next?” said Chet.

“Nothing much to see around here,” said Frank, disappointed. “It’s just an ordinary, dirty, old, deserted house. Let’s explore upstairs, anyway—”

At that moment there was a startling interruption.

A weird shriek, quavering as if with terror, rang out from the upper part of the haunted house!

CHAPTER II

The Storm

That shriek was the most fearful and uncanny sound the boys had ever heard. There was a diabolical malignance about it, like the scream of some blood-thirsty animal, yet there was no mistaking the fact that it was uttered by a human being.

As the quavering notes died away, the bare walls of the old house flung back the echoes so that the shriek seemed to be repeated again and again, but on a smaller scale.

The boys stared at one another, aghast. For a moment they were dumbfounded. Then Jerry muttered:

“I’m getting out of here!” and with that, he started for the door.

“Me too!” declared Biff Hooper, and Chet Morton followed him as he rushed for the doorway.

“What’s the big idea?” asked Frank, standing his ground. “Let’s stay and find what this is all about.”

Joe, seeing his brother remain where he was, made no move to follow the others, although it was plain that the weird shriek had unnerved him.

“You can stay,” flung back Jerry. “I’m not. This place is haunted, and I don’t mean maybe!”

The three boys hastened through the doorway out into the hall and lost no time in regaining the front yard. Frank and Joe Hardy listened to their retreating footsteps. Frank shrugged his shoulders.

“I guess it gave them a pretty bad scare,” he said to his brother. “We may as well go with them.”

“I guess so,” replied Joe, greatly relieved. They were alone in the gloomy and deserted old house, and as they stepped into the hallway Joe cast a cautious glance up the stairway. But there was nothing to be seen. The upper floor was veiled in shadow. The house was in silence that seemed even heavier than before.

When the two Hardy boys got outside they found the others waiting for them in the shelter of some trees about a hundred yards from the house. The three were discussing the strange occurrence in excited tones, and when the Hardy boys came up to them Jerry said:

“I don’t have to be convinced any further. The place is haunted, sure. No other way to explain it.”

“There’s not much sense in running away from a sound,” remarked Frank lightly. “If we had seen something, it might be different. I don’t believe in ghosts and I’d like to get to the bottom of this. It’s foolish to run away. Let’s go back.”

Chet Morton and Biff Hooper looked a trifle ashamed of themselves because of their precipitous flight from the house while the Hardy boys had remained.

“I got the scare of my life,” Chet confessed. “Just the same, I’m game to go back if you want to.”

“How about you, Biff?”

Biff Hooper scratched his head reflectively. “I’m none too anxious to go back in there again,” he admitted. “Not that I’m scared, of course!” he added hastily. “But I don’t see where we’d learn anything, anyway.”

“Well, Joe and I are going back. That’s settled,” declared Frank. “We want to get to the bottom of this mystery.”

“Mysteries are your meat!” observed Biff. “Well, when you come to think of it, this is a good chance for a little detective work.”

He alluded to the fact that the Hardy boys were amateur detectives of some renown in Bayport. They came by their gift naturally, for their father, Fenton Hardy, had been for years on the detective staff of the New York police. Of late years he had been living in Bayport conducting a private detective service of his own with great success. He was known from one end of the country to the other as an exceptionally brilliant investigator.

Frank and Joe Hardy, his sons, were ambitious to follow in their father’s footsteps, although their mother wished them to prepare themselves for medicine and the law respectively. But the lure of Fenton Hardy’s calling was persistent, and the two boys were bent on proving to their parents that they were capable of becoming first-class detectives.

They had given proof of this already by helping their father in a small way on a number of cases, but their first big success had been achieved when they solved the mystery of a jewel and bond robbery from Tower Mansion in Bayport. The story of this has been related in the first and preceding volume of this series, “The Hardy Boys: The Tower Treasure,” wherein was recounted how the Hardy boys solved the mystery of the robbery when the Bayport police and even Fenton Hardy himself were baffled.

“I’d rather tackle a good mystery than eat,” laughed Frank. “And here is one right to hand. Let’s go back.”

Biff Hooper did not care to seem guilty of cowardice by staying behind while his companions returned to the house, and he was on the point of a reluctant consent when the matter was suddenly solved for them all by a downpour of rain.

Storm clouds had been gathering in the sky for the past hour and there had been dull rumblings of thunder. Now an uneasy wind stirred the branches of the trees and rustled dismally among the undergrowth. There was a spatter of raindrops, and then the storm broke in abrupt violence. Rain poured down in sheets.

“The motorcycles!” cried Frank.

Turning up their coat collars, the boys ran through the thick grass until they reached the place where their machines had been parked.

“I saw an old shed near the house,” called out Joe. “We can put the bikes under cover.”

There was an abandoned wagon shed near the rear of the house, and toward this refuge the lads trundled the heavy motorcycles. Although the shed was almost falling to pieces, the roof was still in fairly good condition and the machines were safe from the downpour.

“Come on,” said Frank, when the motorcycles had been placed under cover. “Let’s go back into the house.”

He led the way, running across the open space from the shed, through the driving rain, and Joe followed. The others, after a moment of hesitation, came after them.

The back door of the house was open and the lads ran up the steps into the shelter of the building. They were in a room that had evidently been used as a kitchen, and although rain came in slanting streaks through the open windows, the glass of which had long since been shattered, they were at least sheltered from the downpour that had assumed redoubled violence. The rain drummed on the roof of the old house and poured from black skies on the near-by wagon shed. Thunder rolled and rumbled threateningly, and every once in a while a sheet of lightning tore a band of lurid light across the gloom.

Chet took off his cap, which was drenched, and tried to dry it out. The others stood by the window, looking out at the terrific downpour.

Then came the second shriek!

It rang out suddenly, at a time when none of the lads was talking and it was a replica of the first—a quavering, long drawn out yell, that seemed to freeze the blood in their veins.

No sooner had it died away than there came a terrific clap of thunder, and then the rain seemed to beat down on the roof of the old house in a frenzy.

In the gloomy, dusty kitchen, the boys stared at one another.

Frank broke the silence.

“I’m going to find out about this!” he declared firmly, striding over to the door that led to the interior of the house.

“Me too,” said Joe.

Taking heart by the Hardy boys’ example, the others crowded at their heels.

Frank flung open the door and strode into the room beyond. It was a very gloomy chamber, for the one window was boarded up, but when their eyes became accustomed to the meager light the boys saw that a door on the far side of the room led into a hallway. It was evidently not the hallway that they had already been in at the front of the house, but presumably one that led to a side door.