Читать книгу The Mystery of Hidden Harbor - John Stephen Doherty - Страница 4

Pete Dana leaned on the railing at the edge of the boat yard and looked out toward the sound. It was a perfect day. A warm sun beat down from a clear blue sky and a light breeze sent ripples across the waters of Hidden Harbor.

Below Pete, the gas float rocked gently. For the fifth time that day Pete looked at the new sign that had been put up the day before, the same day he had been graduated from high school. It stood just above the steps that led from the yard down to the gas float and said:

HIDDEN HARBOR BOAT YARD

—Pete & Wesley Dana—

GAS * ICE * FUEL

BAIT * STORAGE * REPAIRS

The new sign was the same as the old one, except for one new word—Pete’s name.

Pete and his father looked like father and son. Both were tall, neither had an ounce of spare flesh. Their blond hair was almost the same color, but where the father’s was turning gray Pete’s was almost white from the sun.

Far across the water the buzz of a fast motor boat floated back to Pete. He turned and his eyes searched the entire harbor, but he could not see it.

Turning back to the yard, he saw his father painting a boat. And at the far end of the yard, Nick Zenos was piling up timbers. Nick was the Greek-American who had come to Hidden Harbor after a hitch in the Navy, to work at the yard.

Seeing them together, Pete wondered if he should be going off on a one-week camping trip. The new sign over his head reminded him that he was now a real partner in the yard. It didn’t seem fair for Pete to have a vacation. But Wesley Dana had insisted.

“You have earned a few days off, Pete,” he had said. “You did pretty well in your final grades. You are almost eighteen years old and you have a long life of work ahead of you. So do some fishing while you can. The work will be here when you come back.”

Pete picked up his sleeping roll and sea bag full of clothes and equipment, and walked down to the float to put them in his sailboat. Dropping them in, he heard the sound of the fast motor boat again. As he started back to the main dock for his box of food, the sound of the boat grew louder. When he reached the upper dock and turned, Pete saw a red speed boat coming in to the boat yard’s gas dock.

When the red boat was less than fifty yards out, it was still coming at full speed. Pete jumped back.

“Hey! Slow down!” he shouted.

Even as he called out, the driver’s arm came up in a wave. At the last second, the man behind the wheel cut the power and threw the motor into reverse. As he neared the dock, he gunned the motor, bringing the boat to a sudden stop. With a roar, the boat rocked and a wave rolled across the gas float, soaking Pete’s sneakers and pants.

Before Pete could say anything, the driver jumped out and on to the dock. He walked right past Pete. He wore clothes, Pete noticed, the way he handled a boat—loud and splashy. He paused on the dock.

“Make you jump, eh, boy?” he said. “Well, that’s what this sick town needs—a shot in the arm! I told your father that the other day and he agreed with me.” He gave Pete a big smile. “Fill her up, boy, and hop!”

He turned and was gone up into the yard, walking toward Wesley Dana. Pete was so surprised he just stood there without saying a word. Who was this character with the loud mouth, and how did he have the nerve to call Hidden Harbor “sick”? Pete loved his home town and he didn’t like strangers finding fault with it.

Then Pete thought that the man probably was Jeffrey Fannin, who had rented the old factory at the far end of the harbor. Pete’s father had told him that Fannin was opening a boat business—selling a line of red speed boats called Sea Sharks. One thing was sure, Jeffrey Fannin was a nut when it came to handling boats.

Still, it was none of his business, Pete thought. He filled the gas tank on the boat and made out a sales slip.

A minute later Fannin—if it was he—came down to the float, looked at the sales slip Pete gave him and handed Pete a couple of dollar bills. “Keep the change, boy,” he said.

Then he jumped into his boat, started the engine and swung away from the dock in a wide turn, without looking where he was going. Fifty yards off the end of the dock he started moving at top speed through the fleet of boats in the mooring area. He paid no attention to the big red and white sign that said:

MOORING AREA

TOP SPEED

5 MPH

Finally, the red boat disappeared in the direction of the old factory. Pete walked up into the yard.

“Who is that?” he asked his father.

“You don’t sound as if you thought much of him.”

“Not the way he handles a boat.”

Wesley Dana stepped back. “Well, Pete, I guess if you are selling speed boats you just naturally want to show people how fast they can go.”

“We don’t want that kind of boat man around here, do we, Dad?”

“We may not want him,” Wesley Dana said, “but we sure need him.”

Pete was surprised. “Why, for crying out loud?”

Wesley Dana turned and looked at his son. “Pete, Hidden Harbor needs business. And the Dana Boat Yard needs business. We need new life around here. Jeffrey Fannin may be just the man to give it to us.”

Pete knew that what his father said made sense but it did not make him like Fannin any better.

“Did you see the way he came in through our fleet?”

“No, I did not,” Wesley Dana said, “but I could tell by the sound that it was pretty fast.”

“I will never forget how you read me the riot act when I did that once.”

“Oh, he will learn!”

“And did you see that smile of his?” Pete asked. “It was about as honest as a sand shark’s.”

Wesley Dana paused again. “Come on, now, Pete, don’t judge the man so soon. Give him a chance to learn. We need Jeffrey Fannin. Times are changing, Pete. And now that you are a full partner, you have to think of the boat yard.”

Pete suddenly found the thought of being on vacation—far from Jeffrey Fannin—a very pleasant idea indeed.

“I guess it is time to shove off,” he said.

As they headed across the yard, Wesley Dana said, “Are you going to stay the week?”

Pete nodded. “I will if the weather holds.”

They had reached the dock. Pete began to raise his main sail. Wesley Dana cast off the lines. The breeze picked up and Pete steered away from the dock.

“Check in every other day, just so I know you are all right,” his father called.

“I will,” Pete promised. He waved and his father waved back. Pete had the wind in his favor and was soon making good time.

Sailing across the water, Pete enjoyed watching for all the familiar signs. Hidden Harbor was a small town, with less than 10,000 people. Pete knew at least half of them by sight if not by name.

Around the rim of the harbor he saw the pine trees on the rocky slopes that ran down to the water’s edge. At the east end, to Pete’s left, were shallow water and the marsh. Few boats went there, but a deep channel led up to the old factory dock. Northwest of the factory the land became a sand bar that swung out into the Atlantic Ocean, and curved around to the west. It ended at Lighthouse Point, which marked the main channel into Hidden Harbor from the sea. This long sand bar was named the Dunes. It had no buildings on it, but was a public recreation area for all the people who lived in the town.

At the south end of the harbor was Fish Town, where the men of the fishing fleet lived and kept their boats. And all along the west shore, the town of Hidden Harbor ran right down to the edge of the water front. The public dock was there, for the use of visiting boats.

Pete’s favorite place was the Dunes. With one side of it facing the ocean and the other facing the harbor, it had given Pete every kind of lesson that a boy could learn living on the edge of the sea. It had taught him about wind, weather, tides and storms. He knew every mood of the sea from violence to calm, and he could handle a small boat in any kind of sea.

When Pete was half way across the harbor, he remembered that the Professor would be on the Dunes. The Professor was John Nevins, a 30-year-old college teacher, and an expert on sea birds. He came to Hidden Harbor every summer to camp out. Pete had taught the Professor how to sail and the Professor had promised that this summer he would teach Pete to use skin diving gear.

Knowing that the Professor liked to make his camp at the east end of the Dunes, Pete pointed his sailboat that way. He could tie up at the end of the old factory dock and walk along the shore to find the Professor.

Ten minutes later, Fannin’s huge red house boat came into view. As he drew closer, Pete decided he did not like it. The house boat did not look like a real boat, and the red color was too loud for his taste. Sailing past it, he was surprised to see no one around. Dropping the sails quickly as he reached the end of the dock beyond the house boat, Pete climbed up and threw a knot around a piling with his docking line. When another look around showed him that no one was there, he turned and walked toward the place where the Professor always made his camp.

He found it five minutes later, a large tent pitched in a spot sheltered from the wind.

“Hello!” he yelled. “Professor Nevins!”

There was no answer. The Professor, he guessed, must be over on the ocean side of the Dunes. Pete started climbing. Ten minutes later, he saw the Professor far down the beach, leaning over a small camp stove not far from where the waves washed up on the sand.

“Hi, Professor,” he called out. “How are you?”

Professor Nevins turned, saw Pete and smiled. “Hello, Pete,” he said. “Good to see you. I’ve been wondering where you were.” They shook hands.

“I was just graduated from high school yesterday.” Pete answered.

“That’s right! Good for you. I guess you won’t have much time for skin diving this summer, though, if you are going to work.”

“I have a whole week,” Pete answered. “But right now I want to put up my tent before it gets dark. How about having supper with me? Bring your stuff over.”

“Sure! Always glad to share a good meal,” the Professor said. He ran his hand across the top of his head, a habit he had when he was pleased. “In about half an hour?”

Waving good-by, Pete walked off.

When he reached the top of the dune behind the Professor’s tent, Pete looked down at the calm waters of the harbor . . . and got the shock of his life.

His boat was gone.

Slipping and sliding, he ran down the steep slope to the edge of the water. Then he saw it. The sailboat was out on the water, almost a mile away, drifting quickly with the tide.

Pete realized instantly that if he did not get the boat soon, the tide would carry it out to sea. But first he wanted to see something. He ran to the end of the dock and picked up his docking line: it was worn through. Pete could not believe it, but he had no time to think any more about it then.

Running back off the dock, he started down the beach. Fifty yards along, he had to splash through the shallow water that linked the ocean and the harbor.

Beyond North Inlet, Pete settled down to steady running. In the time since he had first seen it, the boat had drifted another half mile.

At last, when he was less than a half mile from Lighthouse Point, Pete caught up with his boat. He saw that he was lucky. It was only about a hundred yards off the beach. Quickly, he pulled off his shirt and blue jeans and plunged in.

The cool water gave him a lift and he began swimming strongly toward the boat. When he reached it, he clung to the side, resting. The tide continued to carry the boat toward the sea. With one try, Pete pulled himself into the boat and lay there breathing hard.

In a moment he recovered, raised the sails, swung the boat around and started back toward the spot where he had left his clothes. Pulling the boat up on the beach, he quickly slipped into his jeans and shirt. Setting sail again, he headed for the old factory.

Fannin and a huge man with red hair were standing on the end of the dock when Pete got there. One look at Fannin was all Pete needed. Without thinking twice, Pete shouted, “What’s the idea of cutting my boat loose?”

Fannin smiled. “Aren’t you being a little fast in accusing me?” He lifted the end of Pete’s docking line. “This doesn’t look to me as if it had been cut.”

“I never lost a boat that way in my life!” Pete answered hotly. “That is brand new rope. It could not have worn through.”

“It could not have, but it did,” Fannin said, and threw the end of the docking line into the boat.

The huge man spoke up. “Look, kid, stay off this dock and stay away from this factory. This is private property. If you had kept your boat where it belongs, nothing would have happened to it.” He paused. “Next time, maybe you won’t be so lucky. Maybe you will lose your boat altogether.”

Fannin cut in. “He is just giving you some good advice. We are busy around here and we don’t have time for kids.”

“Since when do you own the harbor?” Pete asked. “As far as I know, these are federal waters, open to everybody.”

Fannin turned and walked off. “Come on, Bucko,” he said. “This boy just won’t learn.”

Bucko pointed a finger at Pete. “You heard what the man said,” he growled. Then he followed Fannin.

Pete could feel the blood rush to his face. He picked up the breeze and headed for the place on the Dunes where he was going to make camp.

When the Professor arrived, he had a roaring fire going but his tent was still lying on the sand. It was almost dark.

“What happened, Pete?” he asked. “I came over twenty minutes ago and you weren’t here.”

As Pete finished telling his story, he said, “It must have been done on purpose!”

The Professor shook his head slowly. “You can’t prove it, Pete. And the rope was worn through.”

Pete nodded, but did not say anything. He had spoken to Fannin too soon, without thinking. Now he was doing the same thing with the Professor. He got busy with the food. In a few minutes he handed his friend a paper plate loaded with hot dogs and beans.

They ate in silence and, when they had finished, the Professor said, “Why don’t you sleep in my tent tonight? It will give me a chance to show you the skin diving gear.”

As they walked across the sand to the Professor’s camp, the sky grew dark and the stars came out. Wading through North Inlet, they heard the sound of hammering echoing across the water from the house boat.

“Now why would they be hammering in the middle of the night?” Pete asked.

“Beats me.”

“Something funny is going on over there,” Pete said.

“Forget it, Pete,” the Professor said. “Come on in and look over the equipment.”

They were talking quietly when the shattering noise of a speed boat engine cut through the night air. They listened in surprise as the boat roared away from the dock and headed out into the middle of the harbor.

“Now do you believe me?” Pete asked. “Why would anyone go buzzing around like that in the dark?”

The Professor puffed on his pipe for a few seconds. Then he said, “I don’t know, Pete, but that doesn’t mean there is anything wrong. When you get to know Fannin you may find yourself laughing at your suspicions. Come on, let’s hit the sack.”

As Pete stretched out in the Professor’s spare sleeping bag, the whole day went through his mind. His father had told him many times, “Pete, look before you leap. You have to think first, son, then act.” Pete knew his father was right.

But even as he fell off to sleep, he thought, “Something strange is going on in Hidden Harbor. I have to find out what it is.”