The Flying Stingaree Part 12

"Make it one f-stop less than you'd use if you were taking the picture through a regular camera with a long lens. Anything else?"

Scotty grinned. "It's pointless to ask what you want us to do with this.

We're to get pictures of that antenna--from the duck blind."

"Plus anything else that looks interesting, including the occupants,"

Rick added.

Steve spread his hands in an expressive gesture. "What more could an instructor want than students who know the answers before the questions are asked? I won't even tell you to be careful, because I know you will."

"We will," Rick a.s.sured him.

"All right. Listen, boys, we have no idea what we're up against, but we do have some facts." Steve ticked them off on his fingers. "One, flying objects originate at the mansion. There's no other place on the creek that seems likely. Two, the house is inhabited by a man who doesn't like questions. Three, said man has a bodyguard who gets rough. Four, one man already is missing, perhaps because he got curious. Enough said?"

The boys nodded soberly.

"Then go to it, whenever you feel like it--after you've dropped me at the airport, that is. Be here by four this afternoon. If I don't call, meet the five-o'clock flight. If I do, it will mean I've gotten tied up."

Steve hesitated. "Just one more thing. Be _really_ careful. All I have is a hunch, but that hunch tells me we're up against something dangerous. If Link Harris is dead, as he probably is, there's a fair chance he was murdered."

The agent's keen eyes met theirs in turn. "Don't get into a spot you can't get out of," he concluded.

CHAPTER IX

The Duck Blind

Orvil Harris had described the opening to the hidden waterway, but when the boys examined the line of reeds and marsh gra.s.s there was no sign of it. "He said thirty yards downstream," Scotty remembered.

Rick was at the wheel of the runabout. "Climb out on the bow," he suggested. "Take the boat hook with you. I'll just keep nosing in until we find it."

"Okay." Scotty took the short, aluminum boat hook from its fastenings in the small c.o.c.kpit, stood up on the seat, and stepped over the winds.h.i.+eld to the bow. For a moment he surveyed the sh.o.r.eline from his higher vantage point. "There's a place that looks promising." He held the boat hook out like a spear, pointing.

Rick put the runabout in gear, and moved forward at idling speed.

Looking over the side, he could see the bottom clearly. They were in only two feet of water, and the outboard was stirring up mud at the stern.

"No good," Scotty called. "That one doesn't go anywhere. Try upstream another six feet."

Rick turned the boat, watching for the opening Scotty had spotted. He saw it a moment later. "Looks too small," he called back.

"I think it opens up. Go ahead slow."

The runabout nosed up to the almost solid line of tall swamp gra.s.s, and Scotty leaned forward. "I think this is it. Take it easy."

The heavy gra.s.s rubbed on both sides of the boat, but nothing impeded its progress. The runabout pushed through the brown-green swale until it was almost enclosed by the gra.s.s. Then they were through, into a narrow channel with high gra.s.s on both sides. It was hard for Rick to see ahead because of the turns, and Scotty served as his eyes, motioning from one side to the other as the channel s.h.i.+fted.

Rick wondered if the sound of the outboard motor could be heard at the mansion, and decided it probably could not. The heavy marsh gra.s.s was a good sound baffle and the motor was relatively quiet. He leaned out, trying to see ahead. There were many birds in the swamp, and next to the boat a surprised snapping turtle looked up briefly, then scurried into the mud for cover.

The channel was narrowing now. Scotty looked back and drew his hand across his throat in the old signal to "cut." Rick instantly killed the motor.

"I'll pole us," Scotty said softly. He began using the boat hook as a pole, digging it into the bank and pulling the runabout ahead. Finally he stopped, and wiped sweat from his face. "This is about as far as we can go."

Rick took a swipe at a black fly that bit him on the arm. "Okay. Let's collect the gear and get started."

Scotty tied the boat to a projecting root while Rick took the equipment from its place under the seat and put it within reach on the forward deck, then jumped ash.o.r.e. His feet hit apparently solid ground, but kept right on going down into a foot of ooze.

He lifted one foot that was a black blob of mud, tried to locate more solid footing on which to place it, and gave it up as a bad job. He leaned over and took the telescope case and tripod.

Scotty picked up the Polaroid camera and their binoculars and came ash.o.r.e, sinking into the swamp as Rick had done. He grinned wryly.

"We're up to our knees in this mystery already."

Rick lifted a foot with five pounds of mud clinging to it. "If we get in it up to our hips, we'll have a fine time getting out. How far do you think it is to the duck blind?"

"Maybe twenty-five yards. Not much more than that, maybe less. Come on."

Slowly, because of the need to haul each foot out of the mud, the boys started through the swale. The marsh gra.s.s was over their heads, forming a thick screen. The gra.s.s, however, was no handicap to the biting flies.

Within a few seconds each boy was carrying equipment in one hand, using the other to fight off the swarms. An occasional mosquito added to their discomfort.

The muddy ooze thinned, then gave way to higher ground. The marsh gra.s.s was less thick and there was an occasional clump of willow. Rick studied the terrain ahead, and in a moment caught sight of dark-green foliage among the brown tips of swamp gra.s.s. In a few more feet he made out the tops of trees, and then the glint of sunlight on the aluminum of the antenna they had come to photograph.

Scotty had seen it, too. He stopped and the boys consulted.

"We're about twenty yards too far upstream," Scotty guessed.

Rick estimated as best he could. "I think you're right. Let's stay on high ground and head downstream a little. We must be almost there."

Scotty turned and Rick followed, waving uselessly at the cloud of insects. He was grateful for the advice Steve had given them to wear long trousers and long-sleeved s.h.i.+rts. If they had been wearing shorts, the insects would have had free access to several square feet of bare hide.

Both boys counted steps automatically, and after twenty paces downstream, Scotty turned toward the mansion once more. They pushed through the tall gra.s.s into thick mud, then into water with a deep muddy bottom. A few more steps and the gra.s.s thinned. Scotty stopped and motioned Rick back. They moved sideways, then forward again, and emerged with the duck blind between them and Calvert's Favor.

Rick thought to himself that it had been pretty good navigation, considering that most of the journey had been blind, in gra.s.s over their heads. Apparently Scotty thought so, too. He turned and gave Rick a big grin, then headed for the rear of the duck blind.

The water deepened, was.h.i.+ng off some of the mud. Rick reached down and splashed a handful on his face. It was warm. He saw a wet black head emerge from under the duck blind and speed for sh.o.r.e. It was a startled water rat. Alerted by the small splash of their coming, the rodent decided to take better cover. Then they were at the corner of the blind where the entrance was located.

The floor of the blind was level with their chests. Rick looked in.

There wasn't much s.p.a.ce, since the blind had been built to provide only a place for hunters to sit, wait, and then shoot from kneeling or sitting positions.

Both boys put their equipment on the dry wooden floor. Then Rick swung himself up and pushed the equipment back to make room for Scotty. For a moment they sat on the floor, resting. Coming through the swamp had been exhausting work.

After a few moments' rest, Rick moved to the side of the duck blind and found a small opening, a square window about six inches on a side, that had apparently been made to give the hunters a view in that direction.

The opening was near the forward, upstream corner, and it looked out on Calvert's Favor.

Merlin the mysterious and his two close companions were sitting under the willow tree enjoying something liquid from tall gla.s.ses. As Rick watched, a fourth man, evidently a servant, brought a tray on which a silver pitcher rested. The boy could see the trickles of water cascading down the outside, and knew they were caused by moisture condensing on the cold metal of the pitcher. He moistened his lips. A fine pair of dunderheads, he and Scotty were. They had come without even a canteen of water.

"Easy shot," he whispered to Scotty. "Let's set up and take the pictures, then get out of here. I'm getting thirsty just watching them."