Terror at High Tide by Franklin W. Dixon

might be able to crack this case,” Joe finished with a grin. “Come on—let’s do it.”
    Ten minutes later the Hardys were sitting in the library at the Island News, thanks to a quick call from Callie to the librarian okaying theirvisit. Huddling over the microfiche machine, Frank and Joe reviewed articles about the Ebony Pearl that had appeared in the Island News forty years earlier.
    â€œMan,” Joe said, “look at this. It says that all of the ship’s officers went down with the ship—the captain, plus the first and second mates, and the purser—”
    â€œThat’s the rule when a ship sinks,” Frank cut in. “Passengers go first into the lifeboats. The captain is always the last to leave the ship.”
    â€œAnd here’s a photo of the crew,” Joe said. “The captain’s name was Ross Harper,” he read from the caption. “The first mate was Luis Rodriguez, the second mate was Henry Zukerman, and—Frank, listen to this—the purser’s name was Carter Harris. He was twenty-three years old.” Joe looked up from the paper. “Frank, does that name ring a bell?”
    Frank sat up straight as he considered Joe’s question. “Carter Harris,” he said. “That sounds sort of like Harrison Cartwright, with the first and last names switched.”
    Frank leaned over the microfiche machine and studied the photograph. “If this man Carter Harris were alive today, he’d be in his early sixties—same age as what Cartwright would be.”
    â€œThere’s got to be a connection,” Joe said withmounting excitement. “I mean, this guy in the picture sort of looks like Cartwright—though it’s hard to tell because forty years have gone by.”
    â€œLet’s go back to the Great White Whale and wait for the background checks from Con,” Frank said. “Then we’ll head to Cartwright’s. There might be a hideout on the property we couldn’t see from the air. Plus, there’s the eastern edge of the cranberry bog still to search.”
    â€œGood plan,” Joe said, pushing back his chair. “Let’s move.”
    Back at the Great White Whale, Frank and Joe were walking through the front door when they heard the telephone ringing. Frank sprinted across the lobby and lunged for the receiver. “Hi, Con, thanks for getting back to us,” he said, catching his breath.
    Frank was silent for a full minute, scribbling notes as he listened. “We owe you one, Con,” Frank said, and hung up. Turning to Joe, Frank recapped what he had just heard. “Con told me that Harrison Cartwright bought a house on Nantucket thirty years ago, so we know he’s been here for that long. But there’s no record of his background before that—where he lived, or anything.”
    â€œInteresting,” Joe said. “Maybe Cartwright is Harris. After all, the cuff link was found near his property, and Scarlatti said it could have been aship officer’s. Maybe Mr. Geovanis pulled off Cartwright’s cuff link while he was being abducted.”
    Frank looked thoughtful. “Cartwright has part of his little finger missing. That’s the kind of thing that would make a real impression on a ten-year-old kid. Could Mr. Geovanis have recognized Harris after all these years?”
    â€œAnd Harris didn’t want to be recognized—so he kidnapped Mr. Geovanis?” Joe shrugged. “Sounds possible, but who knows?”
    â€œI wish we could get into the museum and look around for Mr. Geovanis’s manuscript,” Frank said. “Alicia’s right—I’ll bet it would clue us in to what’s going on. But remember, the police have closed up the museum.”
    â€œThat’s never stopped us.” Joe’s blue eyes twinkled. “Let’s get in later.”
    â€œIf we don’t find answers at Cartwright’s, maybe