Rick Brant - Smugglers' Reef Part 16

"That air rifle," Scotty said. His mouth tightened. "I can't wait to get my hands on that little playmate. Did he miss you by much?"

"About six inches. Both shots. .h.i.t the same place, within an inch of each other."

Scotty frowned thoughtfully. "Then my guess is that he wasn't trying to hit you. If he's good enough to place two shots like that, he wouldn't have any trouble picking you off. Did you see him?"

"No. I saw a window open just before I got down to look at the marks."

"Anything to them?"

"I don't know," Rick said. He was still a little shaken. "Listen, what about reporting this to the police?"

Scotty shook his head. "No proof. No witnesses. It would be your word against his, because he could claim he was just target practicing and that you weren't on the tower when he fired. He could even claim he didn't fire the shots, because the slugs would be so spattered that the police couldn't make anything of them."

"I can see him laughing his head off," Rick said bitterly. "First, because of dumping the fish scoop, and now because he sent us hightailing out of there like a couple of frightened jack rabbits."

"It would have been stupid to stay and get shot at," Scotty pointed out. "Even if he is a good shot, he might accidentally clip you."

Rick had to admit the truth of that. "Just the same," he said, "we're going back and build a fire under Mister Carrots. Wait and see!"

CHAPTER IX

Night Watch

Less than a half-hour after arriving at Spindrift, Rick and Scotty were back at Smugglers' Reef. But this time they were in the Cub. With Scotty operating Rick's speed graphic camera, they took several photos of Creek House, Salt Creek, and Brendan's Marsh from varying alt.i.tudes. Then Rick swung in a wide circle, losing alt.i.tude, and leveled off only a hundred feet over the marsh. He was headed straight for Creek House.

Scotty paused in putting the camera in its case and looked at him.

Rick winked. "Going to see if the Kelsos are home."

The Cub flashed across Salt Creek and Rick pulled the control wheel back into his lap. The small plane shot upward in a zoom that just cleared the hotel, then at the top of the zoom Rick did a fast wing over and started back.

"I know you can fly," Scotty said calmly, "but don't try to roll your wheels on the roof."

Rick shot across the hotel within five feet of the chimney and dropped so low that his prop wash flattened the reeds in the marsh. Then, climbing again, he swung wide and went over Seaford at a legal alt.i.tude. He was, even the critical Gus admitted, a safe-and-sane flier, but the temptation to get back at Carrots Kelso a little was too much. High over the town, he turned to Scotty. "I didn't see anyone. Now, if you were in the house and a crazy pilot buzzed you twice, what would you do?"

"Run out and look," Scotty said promptly.

"Uhuh." Rick was enjoying himself. Whether his scheme worked or not, he liked it. "And if the plane was out of sight, what would you do then?"

"I'd go far away from the house, so it wouldn't block my view, and look for it."

"The farthest you can get away from Creek House, without running into the fence, is at the end of the pier."

Scotty broke into laughter. "I hope I never have you for an enemy.

What'll you bet Carrots doesn't go to the end of the pier?"

"No bets. But I'm hoping."

Rick turned inland. When he was out of sight of the town, he lost alt.i.tude in a tight spiral over Salt Creek. At five hundred feet, he banked around and followed the creek, his throttle wide open. As the Cub flashed over Salt Creek Bridge, he put the plane in a shallow dive. Creek House loomed and he let out a yell of triumph.

Carrots Kelso was standing on the end of the pier, looking at the sky!

Rick pointed the nose of the Cub directly at him and held it there. He saw Carrots turn at the noise of the plane, saw his mouth open to yell and his eyes pop. Rick hauled the stick back into his lap and kicked left rudder. As the Cub spun around he banged Scotty with his free hand and chortled with glee.

Carrots, afraid for his life, had gone headlong into the creek.

"That pays him back for shooting at you," Scotty said with satisfaction. "Bet he was more scared than you were. But we still owe him for those fish."

Two of the photos proved excellent for their purposes. Scotty, who had taken an interest in developing and printing, made a 10 by 14-inch enlargement of each. They spent most of Thursday studying them, talking over their various clues endlessly, and waiting for Cap'n Mike's call. Shortly after supper on Thursday night he did call, but only to say he had nothing to report and that he hadn't been able to talk to Jim Killian. The fisherman was taking a few days off to visit his mother in Pennsylvania.

"A fine time for him to go vacationing," Rick said, "when he might be able to supply some essential information. I've got an idea, Cap'n,"

he added. "Can you find out what source the automatic light uses for electricity? See if it has its own power plant or whether there's a cable that runs along the reef. If there is, see if there's a junction box or a switch or anything."

Cap'n Mike promised to have the information next time he called.

They were too restless to sit still and read. Rick had thought about asking his father to help him check the infrared spotlight in the lab, but Hartson Brant was preoccupied with a scientific a.n.a.lysis problem, so Rick decided to check his new invention by actual use.

Dismal was the subject. The boys took him for a walk to the backside of the island where there was no light at all except for dim moonlight. Scotty carried the power supply on a strap over his shoulder while Rick carried the camera and its attachments. The thing was uncanny, even when its operation was understood. To the naked eye, Dismal was just a vague blur under the trees. But with the infrared searchlight on him, Rick could see him through the telescope as though it were white light. He shot a few feet of film, then took it to the photo lab. He could develop short lengths by dipping them into bottles of solution, although full lengths would have to go to a New York lab for processing.

Projecting the test length cleared up his questions. The camera worked beautifully at distances up to three hundred yards. Beyond that, although things still could be seen, the lighting was poor and definition hazy.

He spent more time in the darkroom winding the infrared film on hundred-foot rolls and placing them in light-tight cans, then he reloaded the camera with a full spool. That done, there was nothing to do but wait and try to read.

On Friday night, Scotty glanced up from the leather chair in Rick's room. "What time is it?"

Rick was lying on the bed, studying the ceiling and working on the problem of the tower scratches and the s.h.i.+fting current. He looked at his watch. "Ten of nine. Why?"

"Almost time for the trawlers to be getting back to Seaford."

"As though I didn't know it! Unless we get a call within the next half-hour, we might as well forget it for tonight, too."

Scotty went back to his book. Rick resumed staring at the ceiling. It had occurred to him that there was an old wrecker's trick, well used in the days of sailing s.h.i.+ps. The trick was to extinguish a navigation light so s.h.i.+ps would run aground and be easy prey for the wreckers.

And sometimes the wreckers helped out by raising false lights. Now if the automatic light at the tip of the reef could be cut off, and if a false light were raised on the old tower . . . they just had to talk with Captain Killian! Bill Lake thought a s.h.i.+ft of current and a patch of mist had been responsible for him losing the light and putting him off course. But what if Smugglers' Light had been cut off and a false light lighted on the old tower?

Rick snapped his fingers. "I've got it!"

Scotty looked up. "Got what?"

Just then the phone rang.

The boys almost fell over each other in their haste. Rick got to it first and said a breathless h.e.l.lo.

"Cap'n Mike speaking. Rick?"