Free The Hooded Hawk Mystery by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

name.”
    â€œCan you describe this man?” Frank asked.
    â€œWell, as I remember, he was a tall, slender, rather handsome fellow of about twenty-five. One thing I particularly remember was a scar at the base of his chin. It stood out clearly because it was a slightly lighter shade than the rest of his face.”
    Frank and Joe could hardly believe their good fortune in picking up this clue. Was the Bhagnav who had purchased the pigeons related to the Indian government official who was now using the name of Delhi?
    After the Hardys had left Mr. Newton, they speculated about the man named Bhagnav who had bought the pigeons.
    â€œIt’s possible,” said Frank, “that he was an impostor who had planned this smuggling racket as far back as two years ago.”
    â€œRight. Figuring that if anyone uncovered the plot, the real Bhagnav would be blamed. We must phone Mr. Delhi about this as soon as we get home.”
    The drive to the farm of John Fenwick, the last pigeon fancier on the boys’ list, was long. On the way they stopped at a roadside restaurant to have lunch.
    When Joe spotted a sign with the name FENWICK. at the foot of a lane, he exclaimed:
    â€œWhat a weird setup for a pigeon fancier!”
    On the lawn inside the cyclone fence that lined the property were several perches. Each of them held a hooded hawk!
    â€œFenwick must be breeding fighter pigeons!” Frank grinned as he turned into the drive.
    A pleasant-looking man in his middle thirties strode briskly from the back yard. He was dressed in rough clothing, had on a tight-fitting cap, and held two coils of nylon rope over his arm.
    â€œWe’re looking for John Fenwick,” Frank announced.
    â€œThat’s me,” the man said with a smile.
    â€œWe’re interested in your pigeons,” Joe said.
    Mr. Fenwick laughed and remarked, “You’re about two years too late for that. As you can see from the perches on the lawn, I’ve switched my interest to falconry.”
    â€œWe have a peregrine falcon,” Joe replied. “That’s the reason we came to talk to you. Our falcon brought down a pigeon and we were trying to find the owner so we could settle accounts.”
    â€œFine attitude, son,” Mr. Fenwick declared. “Since you’re interested in the birds yourself, you might like to come along with me today. I’m going to Cliff Mountain to get a young hawk from an eyrie—that’s a nest—I’ve been observing.”
    Frank and Joe were thrilled at this idea. Frank suggested that Mr. Fenwick put his gear in their car and let them drive him to Cliff Mountain. He accepted, and as they drove along he explained that he was particularly interested in peregrines.
    â€œI spotted one of their nests out on the mountain, and have been watching the tercel and the falcon. The eggs have been hatched now. There are four of them. I’ll take only one young hawk out of the eyrie and leave the rest to fly away and raise broods of their own. The parent birds will return next year to nest again.”
    When he and the boys arrived at Cliff Mountain, Frank parked the car and Mr. Fenwick led the way up the trail to the precipice that had given the mountain its name. The going was rugged, but the boys’ enthusiasm for hawking and adventure spurred them on.
    When they reached the edge of the shaly cliff, Mr. Fenwick tied a heavy rope around a sturdy oak which seemed to be growing out of the rocks. The loose end was dropped over the side of the cliff, its entire one hundred and twenty-five feet hanging down.
    â€œUsually,” Mr. Fenwick explained, “it’s a good idea to have a rope that will reach all the way to the bottom of the cliff. Then, if you can’t climb back to the top safely, you can at least get to the ground without injury. But this cliff is too high for that. No alternative but to come back up.”
    Mr. Fenwick went over the edge of the cliff. He