The Ghost at Skeleton Rock by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

Delgado.
    â€œThis is Frank Hardy,” he told the plantation owner. “Did anyone come there looking for us after we left?”
    Joe saw his brother’s face tighten as he listened to the reply. When he hung up, Frank’s eyes were grim.
    â€œWell, that explains it,” he said. “Abdul must have trailed us to the pineapple plantation. He arrived there right after we left and said he had an urgent message for us. So of course Señor Delgado told him where we’d gone.”
    â€œHe must be a bad enemy,” the manager commented.
    â€œWe agree,” the Hardys chorused.
    Realizing that they were still in grave danger, the Hardys drove cautiously to Punta Cabezona. The dirt road twisted through palm groves and canopies of dense green vegetation. When the boys arrived, Frank stopped the car and they got out.
    â€œEasy to see how this place got its name,” he remarked, peering ahead.
    The spit of land, jutting out to sea, ended in a bulging mound. This was topped with bushy green foliage, which sprouted outward from the crown of the hill, giving the place the appearance of a huge pineapple.
    â€œBut I wonder how it ties in with the gang,” Joe said with a puzzled frown. “The place appears to be deserted.”
    The boys strolled out on the tiny peninsula, and climbed the hill. Reaching the top, they poked about among the bushes and vegetation. But the thick underbrush showed no sign of having been trampled by human feet!
    The Hardys were baffled. “I was sure we were on to something,” Frank said, disappointed. “Let’s walk along the shore.”
    They encountered several natives on the way. When questioned, none of them could recall having seen anybody lurking around the point.
    â€œWhy should a person go out there, señor?” said one old man in Spanish, shrugging his shoulders. “Without a machete to chop down brush, there is hardly even a place to sit down!”
    A few moments later a plane droned overhead. Frank looked up and noted that it was flying due north. Suddenly he snapped his fingers.
    â€œCabezona N!” he whispered excitedly. “Say, Joe, that N might be a directional signal, meaning north of here. Maybe it leads to the gang’s hideout!”
    â€œIn the middle of the ocean?” Joe questioned dubiously.
    â€œNo! It could be some island north of Puerto Rico!” Frank explained.
    Joe was impressed by his brother’s theory. “Maybe you’ve hit it,” he admitted. “Well, locating it will be our next trip, I suppose.”
    Elated over the clue, the boys returned to San Juan. By the time they reached the hotel, it was seven o’clock. Tony and Chet had not returned yet.
    â€œThey must be doing some real sleuthing,” Frank commented, a little worried.
    The Hardys waited a while, but finally went down to the hotel dining room. Frank and Joe, growing anxious about their friends, had little appetite for their meal. As they forced themselves to eat, they discussed the message which Abdul had flashed out to sea: “3-4-8-9-P-M-Skeleton.”
    â€œThat ‘PM’ part sounds like a time signal to me,” Joe remarked.
    â€œSure, but a signal for what?”
    Joe mulled over the problem. “Well, this is a shot in the dark,” he admitted, “but how about a rendezvous at the airport? After all, if the racket we’re investigating is the theft of air-freight shipments, there might be some flight coming in that the gang is watching for.”
    Frank nodded. “That makes sense.”
    After finishing their supper, the two boys sat in the lobby and waited another half hour for Chet and Tony, but they failed to appear.
    â€œI think I’ll phone the police,” Frank said.
    He put in a call and asked if any boat had been reported in trouble. The answer was No.
    â€œThat’s a relief,” Frank told Joe. “But I’d feel better if Chet and Tony were