The Secret of Skeleton Island

  THE SECRET

  OF

  SKELETON ISLAND

  Robert Arthur

  A Word from Alfred Hitchcock

  WARNING! Proceed with Caution!

  THE ABOVE WARNING is meant for you if you are of a nervous nature, inclined to bite your fingernails when meeting adventure, danger and suspense. However, if you relish such ingredients in a story, with a dash of mystery and detection thrown in for good measure, then keep right on going.

  For this is the sixth adventure that I have introduced for The Three Investigators, and I can only say that never have they been in any tighter spots than they encounter here. You don’t have to take my word for it – read the book and see!

  Just in case you haven’t met The Three Investigators before, they are Jupiter Jones, Pete Crenshaw, and Bob Andrews, all of whom live in the town of Rocky Beach, on the Pacific Ocean a few miles from Hollywood, California. Some time ago they formed the firm of The Three Investigators to solve any riddles, enigmas or mysteries that might come their way, and so far, they have done well.

  Jupiter Jones, the First Investigator, is the brains of the firm. Pete Crenshaw, the Second Investigator, is tall and muscular and excels at athletics. Bob Andrews, the most studious of the three, is in charge of Records and Research.

  Now on with the show! Turn the page and travel with the Three Investigators to Skeleton Island!

  ALFRED HITCHCOCK

  A Case for The Three Investigators

  “HOW ARE you lads at Scuba diving?” Alfred Hitchcock asked.

  Across the big desk from him in his office at World Studios, The Three Investigators

  – Jupiter Jones, Pete Crenshaw and Bob Andrews – looked interested. It was Pete who answered.

  “We’ve just been checked out on our final tests, sir,” he said. “Our instructor took us down to the bay day before yesterday and okayed us.”

  “We’re not exactly experienced, but we know what to do and all the rules,” Jupiter added. “And we have our own face masks and flippers. When we do any diving, we rent the tanks and breathing apparatus.”

  “Excellent!” Mr. Hitchcock said. “Then I think you are definitely the three lads for the job.”

  Job? Did he mean a job investigating some mystery? Mr. Hitchcock nodded when Bob asked him the question.

  “Yes, indeed,” he said, “and doing some acting, too.”

  “Acting?” Pete looked doubtful. “We’re not actors, sir. Although Jupiter did some acting on TV when he was a very small kid.”

  “Experienced actors aren’t needed,” Mr. Hitchcock assured them. “Natural boys are what they want. I’m sure you know, Pete, that your father is at the moment in the East working with director Roger Denton on a suspense picture called Chase Me Faster.”

  “Yes, sir.” Pete’s father was a highly experienced movie technician and his job took him all over the world. “He’s in Philadelphia right now.”

  “Wrong.” Mr. Hitchcock seemed pleased at Pete’s astonishment. “Right now he’s on an island in Atlantic Bay, down on the south-east coast of the United States, helping rebuild an old amusement park for the final scene of the picture. The name of the island is Skeleton Island.”

  “Skeleton Island! Wow!” This came from Bob. “It sounds like a pirate hangout.”

  “It was indeed once a pirate hangout,” the director told them. “Skeleton Island – a strange and sinister name! A ghost is said to haunt it. Bones are still uncovered in its sands. Sometimes when the sea is stormy, a gold doubloon washes up on its beaches.

  However, before you get your hopes up, let me say there is no treasure on the island.

  That has been proved. There may still be small bits of treasure scattered on the bottom of the bay but none on Skeleton Island.”

  “And you want us to go there?” Jupiter Jones asked eagerly. “You say there’s a mystery to be solved?”

  “It’s like this.” Mr. Hitchcock put the tips of his fingers together. “Your father, Pete, and a couple of other men are camped there, using local workmen to fix up part of the park for the final scenes of the movie, most of which is being shot in Philadelphia.

  “They’re having trouble. Pieces of equipment have been stolen, and their boats have been tinkered with at night. They have hired a local man as a guard, but the nuisance hasn’t stopped, just slowed down.

  “Skeleton Island is picturesque and the waters of Atlantic Bay around it are shallow.

  Roger Denton thought that as long as he is working on the island, his assistant, Harry Norris, could direct a short subject about three boys on a holiday who dive for pirate treasure for fun.”

  “Yes, sir, an excellent idea,” Jupiter said.

  “It would cost very little more, and the company has a man, Jeff Morton, who is an expert diver and underwater photographer. That’s where you come in. You boys could be the three actors, do enough Scuba diving to qualify, and on your time off wander round the town, hunting for clues to this mysterious thievery. We will keep your identity as investigators secret, so no one will suspect you.”

  “That sounds great!” Bob said with enthusiasm: “If our families will let us go.”

  “I’m sure they will, with Mr. Crenshaw there, too,” Mr. Hitchcock said. “Of course, the mystery may not amount to anything, but in view of your past record, you may discover more than any of us suspect.”

  “When do we start?” Pete asked.

  “As soon as I can make the arrangements with Mr. Denton and your father, Pete,”

  Alfred Hitchcock said. “Go home and pack and be ready to fly East tomorrow. Here, Bob, since you are in charge of Records and Research, you may want to look at these articles about Skeleton Island – how it was discovered, the pirates who once made their headquarters there, and other interesting data. Familiarize yourself with it. The trip should be an interesting experience for you.”

  An Unexpected Meeting

  “THERE’S Skeleton Island!” Bob Andrews exclaimed.

  “Where? … Let me look!” Jupiter and Pete exclaimed. They leaned over Bob to peer out of the window of the sleek silver airliner.

  The plane was gliding down over a long narrow bay – Atlantic Bay. Bob pointed to a small island almost directly below them. Its shape bore a curious resemblance to that of a skull.

  “I recognize the shape from the maps Mr. Hitchcock gave us,” Bob said.

  They stared at the island with eager curiosity. Skeleton Island had once, more than three hundred years before, been a pirate hangout. Although Mr. Hitchcock had said there was no pirate gold buried there, maybe he was wrong. Maybe there was still some treasure to be found. They hoped so. In any case, the island held a mystery which they would attempt to solve.

  Another island, much smaller, came into view.

  “Then that must be The Hand!” Jupiter said.

  “And those are The Bones,” Pete added, pointing to a scatter of narrow reefs between Skeleton Island and The Hand. “Golly, think of it! We left Rocky Beach after lunch and here we are in time for dinner.”

  “Look,” Bob said. “The Hand does look sort of like a hand. The fingers are rocky reefs that are under water most of the time, but from up here they’re very clear.”

  “I hope we get a chance to explore The Hand,” Jupiter said. “I’ve never seen an actual blowhole before. That magazine article Mr. Hitchcock gave us said that in a storm, water spouts out of the blowhole just like a whale.”

  Now the islands fell behind them. So did the small village on the mainland called Fishingport which was their immediate destination. A room was waiting for them there at a boarding house.

  As the plane slid down out of the sky, a fairsized city appeared on their ri
ght. This was Melville, where the airport was. A few moments later the boys were unfastening their seat belts as the plane rolled to a stop in front of the air terminal building.

  They climbed down the stairs and stood looking around them at the small crowd which waited behind a wire fence.

  “I wonder if your dad will meet us, Pete,” Bob said.

  “He said he’d try to, but he would send someone else if he couldn’t,” Pete answered.

  “I don’t see him.”

  “Here comes someone who seems to be looking for us,” Bob said in a low voice as a short, pudgy man with a red nose approached them.

  “Hi,” he said. “You must be the three kid detectives from Hollywood. I was told to pick you up.” He stared at them with small, shrewd eyes. “You don’t look much like detectives to me,” he said. “I thought you’d be older.”

  Bob felt Jupiter stiffen. “We’re supposed to act in a picture,” he said. “Why do you think we’re detectives?”

  The man gave them a broad wink.

  “There isn’t much I don’t know,” he said with a grin. “Now follow me. I have a car waiting. There will be another car to pick up your baggage – got a lot of stuff coming in from Hollywood on this plane, too much for my car.”

  He turned and led them out of the gate to an old station wagon.

  “Hop in, boys,” he said. “It’s a good half hour’s ride and by the looks of it, we’re in for a storm.”

  Bob looked up at the sky. Although the sun still shone, low on the horizon, black clouds were whipping towards them from the west. A flicker of lightning played along the front of the clouds. It did look as if a storm was coming, a real whopper. The boys climbed into the back seat, the man got in behind the wheel, and the station wagon started away from the airport, heading north. “Excuse me, Mr. –” Jupiter began.

  “Just call me Sam,” the man said. “Everybody calls me Sam.”

  As he spoke, he stepped on the gas and the car hurtled along at a high speed. The sun had gone behind a cloud, and suddenly it was almost dark.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Sam,” Jupiter asked, “but do you work for the movie company?”

  “Not regularly, boy,” Sam answered. “But I agreed to pick you up as a favour. Say, look at that storm coming. This will be a good night for the phantom of the merry-go-round to show herself. I wouldn’t want to be out on Skeleton Island tonight.”

  Bob felt little prickles of excitement go up his spine. The phantom of the merry-go-round! The magazine articles they had studied so carefully had told them all about the ghost that supposedly haunted Skeleton Island. According to legend, it was the ghost of lovely but headstrong Sally Farrington, a young woman who had been riding the old merry-go-round one night twenty-five years before.

  A sudden storm had blown up and the merry-go-round had stopped. Everyone else had got off, but Sally Farrington refused to climb down from her wooden horse.

  According to the legend, she cried out that no storm was going to stop her from finishing her ride.

  As the operator of the merry-go-round was arguing with her, a bolt of lightning had crackled down from the sky and struck the metal pole in the middle of the carousel. To the horror of everyone, Sally Farrington was killed.

  Her last words had been, “I’m not afraid of any storm and I’m going to finish this ride if it’s the last thing I ever do!”

  Everyone agreed that the tragedy was her own fault. But no one was prepared for what followed. A few weeks later, one stormy night when Pleasure Park was closed down and empty, people on the mainland saw the lights of the merry-go-round blaze up. The wind brought the sound of carousel music to their ears.

  Mr. Wilbur, the owner of the park, had taken some men in a boat to investigate.

  They got close enough to the island to see the merry-go-round spinning and a white-clad figure clinging to one of the painted horses.

  Then the lights had abruptly gone out and the music stopped. When the men reached the scene a few minutes later, they found the park utterly deserted. But lying on the ground beside the carousel they found a soaking wet handkerchief, tiny and feminine, with the initials “S.F.” embroidered on it. It was easily recognized as one of Sally Farrington’s handkerchiefs.

  A wave of superstitious fear spread among the townspeople. It was said that Sally’s ghost had come to finish her interrupted ride. The amusement park soon had a reputation for being haunted. Many people stayed away from it, and the following year it had not reopened. The roller coaster, the Ferris wheel, the merry-go-round – everything had been left to rot and decay as the years passed.

  But the legend of Sally Farrington’s ghost did not die. Fishermen claimed to have seen it, especially on stormy nights, wandering about the island. In the last few years it had been reported a dozen times, sometimes by two or more men. The popular belief was that Sally Farrington was doomed to haunt the island, waiting to finish her fatal ride on the merry-go-round. And now that the merry-go-round was no longer able to run, she would wait forever.

  Therefore Skeleton Island had been deserted for years. There was no real reason to go there, with the amusement park closed, except perhaps to have a picnic in the summer. And picnickers were few and far between because of the island’s reputation.

  “I hear,” Sam called back to the three boys, “that these motion-picture fellows are fixing up the old merry-go-round again. Sally’s ghost will be mighty happy about that.

  Maybe if it gets running again she can finish her ride.”

  He chuckled. Then, as the first wind from the approaching storm struck them, he devoted himself to driving.

  They were driving through what seemed to be marshy, empty country. After half an hour, they came to a fork in the road. The main road turned left and in the headlights the boys could see a sign pointing in that direction Fishingport: 2 miles. To their surprise, Sam turned the car down the unmarked road to the right, which soon became two sandy ruts.

  “The sign said Fishingport was the other way,” Pete spoke up. “Why are we going this way, Mr. Sam?”

  “Necessary,” Sam said over his shoulder. “Been a crisis. Mr. Crenshaw wants you to come straight out to the island instead of going to Mrs. Barton’s in town tonight.”

  “Oh, I see.” Pete subsided. They all wondered what the crisis was. Had something very serious happened?

  After bumping along the sandy road for a couple of miles, the car stopped. The headlights showed a rickety pier. Tied to the pier was a small, rather dilapidated fishing boat.

  “Out you get, boys!” Sam cried. “Lively now! That storm’s ready to bust loose.”

  They climbed out of the car, a little surprised that the movie company didn’t have better transport than this. But probably it was Sam’s own boat.

  “Will our baggage follow us?” Jupiter asked as Sam joined them.

  “Your baggage is safe and sound, boys,” Sam said. “Climb in now. We’ve got a ride ahead of us.”

  They climbed into the boat. Sam bent over the motor. He turned a switch and the heavy flywheel began to spin. Soon they were chugging out into the choppy water, all three boys hanging on for dear life as the small craft pitched and plunged.

  Then the rain came. First it was a fine pelting spray mingled with tiny hailstones.

  Next came the big drops. The boys, crouched under a thin canvas cover, were soon soaked.

  “We need raincoats!” yelled Pete to Sam. “We’ll be the first boys to drown above water in Atlantic Bay!”

  Sam nodded and lashed the wheel. He went to a locker and pulled out four yellow plastic slickers with hoods. He put one on himself and handed the others to the boys.

  “Get into these,” he yelled. “I keep ‘em for fishing parties.”

  Jupiter’s was too tight to button and Bob’s was much too long. But they kept out the rain. Sam went back to steering. Now the sky was a bombardment of thunder. The tiny boat tipped dangerously in the high waves, and the boys were afraid that any moment they wou
ld overturn.

  After what seemed a long time, they could see land ahead lit by lightning flashes.

  They saw no dock or pier, and were surprised when Sam pulled the boat alongside a flat rock that projected out into the water.

  “Jump ashore, boys!” he yelled. “Lively now!”

  Puzzled, The Three Investigators leaped from the boat to the rock.

  “Aren’t you coming, Mr. Sam?” Jupiter called as the boat started drifting away.

  “Can’t,” Sam yelled back. “Follow the trail to the camp. You’ll be all right.”

  He gunned the motor. In a moment the boat had vanished into the stormy night.

  The boys bent their heads against the pelting rain.

  “We better try to find that path! “ Pete shouted. Jupiter nodded.

  Then Bob heard a strange sound, like a great beast breathing hoarsely.

  “Whooooo- whish!” it went. “Whooo- whish!”

  “What’s that sound?” he shouted. “Listen!”

  Again came the strange noise. “Whoo- whish! Whoo- whish!”

  “Something on the island,” Jupiter answered. “Let’s see if we can see it when the next lightning comes.”

  They all stared inland. Then came a vivid bolt of lightning. By its brilliant light they could see they were on a rather small island, certainly not big enough to be Skeleton Island.

  This one was all rocks, with a hump in the middle and a few straggly trees. There was no path, and no camp. And just before the sky darkened again, they saw a plume of water shoot upward from the centre of the hump. It went up like a spouting geyser, and as it did so they heard the “Whoo- whish!” sound again.

  “A spout!” Jupiter called. “It must come from a blowhole in the rocks. We aren’t on Skeleton Island at all. We’re on The Hand.”

  They looked at each other in dismay.

  For some unknown reason, Sam had marooned them on The Hand, at night in a storm. And they had no way to get off or call for help.

  The Phantom is Seen