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

promised.
    At dawn the brothers bounced out of bed, showered, dressed hastily, and had a quick breakfast.
    â€œNow take your time and chew your food properly,” Aunt Gertrude told them tartly. “I doubt that the island of Puerto Rico will sink out of sight if you don’t get there in the next few hours!”
    After good-bys and warnings to be careful, the boys flung their suitcases into the convertible and drove off. They picked up Chet and Tony, then set off for the airport.
    It was a few minutes before six, and shreds of morning mist still clung to the ground when they arrived at the airport. Jack Wayne was nowhere in sight. A line-boy was refueling the blue-and-white Hardy plane at the gas pit. The young detectives asked him if he had seen Jack Wayne.
    â€œI did, just a little while ago,” the line-boy answered. “The last time I saw him he was headed for Hangar B. He asked me if I’d help him tow your father’s plane out and refuel it. When I went over to the hangar a few minutes later, Jack was nowhere around. So I just went ahead and towed the plane out on my own.”
    The boys waited anxiously, but twenty minutes later, their pilot still had not arrived.
    Frank’s face clouded with worry. “I’m afraid that something has happened to Jack. He’d never be this late without letting me know.”
    â€œYes,” said Joe. “It looks as if our enemies may have already started their newest attack.”

CHAPTER IX
    The Ticking Suitcase
    â€œMAYBE Jack went to the shop to get something,” Tony said.
    In pairs the boys began their hunt. When they met again a short time later, their faces registered failure.
    â€œI’ll call the motel where Jack lives,” Frank decided. “He might have gone to his room to get something.”
    Hopefully the four boys hurried to the waiting room. Frank made the call.
    â€œIs he there?” Joe asked anxiously when his brother emerged from the booth.
    Frank shook his head. “The manager said Jack left a couple of hours ago.”
    For a moment the boys were silent, wondering what their next move should be. Suddenly Joe snapped his fingers. “We haven’t checked Jack’s plane. Let’s go look!”
    With quick strides the boys headed for Hangar B, where their father and Jack kept their planes. Jack’s sleek, silver-winged craft stood in one corner of the big corrugated-iron building.
    Frank reached the plane first, climbed up, and jerked open the cabin door. He stopped short and gasped. Slumped on the floor was the huddled form of Jack Wayne!
    â€œHe’s here, unconscious!” Frank reported.
    â€œGood night!” cried Joe.
    Gently the boys lifted the pilot out of the plane and laid him on a pile of tarpaulins.
    â€œIs he badly hurt?” Chet asked.
    â€œI think not,” Frank replied, taking Jack’s pulse, which was even. “Just knocked out. In fact, I believe I smell chloroform in here.”
    Jack moaned and stirred. “Thank goodness it’s nothing worse,” said Joe.
    A few minutes later, though still woozy, Jack was able to sit up. “W-what—? W-where—?” he murmured, shaking his head from side to side.
    â€œTake it easy,” Frank advised.
    â€œOh, hello, fellows,” Jack said shakily.
    Chet Morton brought him a drink of water. While the pilot was sipping it, Frank and Joe went off to question the man in charge of the airport at the time, Burt Hildreth.
    â€œDid you notice strangers prowling around early this morning?”
    â€œDon’t recall seeing any,” said Hildreth, a tall man with a weather-beaten face. “In fact, no one’s been out to the field this morning—except when this young man showed up at five o’clock.” He pointed to Joe.
    â€œMe?”
    â€œSure. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten our conversation.”
    Frank and Joe looked at each other, startled.
    The early-morning