The House on the Cliff: The Original Hardy Boys Series

Table of Contents

THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF

FRANKLIN W. DIXON

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Originally published in 1927.

Published by Wildside Press LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

INTRODUCTION

Like many people, I was introduced to Frank and Joe Hardy at an early age—I must have been about 9, in third grade, which places it around 1972. I had already read all the mysteries in my elementary school library (which didn’t have the Hardy Boys or Nancy Drew—but it did have The Three Investigators, the Boxcar Children, and many standalone stories.) Then one day my mother showed up with a copy of the first Hardy Boys book, and I was hooked.

After much begging and pleading, I was allowed to have one Hardy Boys book per week after that, and it wasn’t long before I had read them all. These were the blue-spine hardcover editions from Grosset and Dunlap. After that, I dabbled with other series: The Happy Hollisters, The Bobbsey Twins, and even (ahem!) some of the girl series, like Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden when none of my peers was looking. (Kid books could often be found at garage sales and church rummage sales for 10 cents or 25 cents per copy in those days.)

At some point, after I had read the entire Hardy Boys series, my father casually mentioned that he had some old mysteries from his childhood in storage, and the next time we were in St. Louis we could go and see them. Since we lived in New Jersey, we didn’t get to St. Louis very often. So I waited...and waited...and waited...

When we finally did get there, visiting my uncle and aunt for Christmas, we did indeed make a pilgrimage out to a run-down storage facility. There, my father dug around and finally handed me a box of old books. Sure enough, it had about a dozen mysteries in it. I had inherited 1930s and 1940s hardcover Hardy Boys books—all with bright, colorful dust jackets—and some Mercer Boys titles. The cover illustrations were different on the Hardy Boys books, but the titles were the same.

Of course, I had already read all the Hardy Boys titles—or so I thought—so I started with the Mercer Boys books. Like Frank and Joe, the Mercers were brothers, but they were attending a military academy, where they and their friends found plenty of adventures. The stories were written by Capwell Wyckoff—solid, action-packed tales. I liked them.

Then, bored and stuck at my uncle’s house, I picked up my father’s copy of the 18th Hardy Boys book, The Twisted Claw—first published in 1938.

To my amazement, it wasn’t the same book. A few elements were the same, but it was wildly different. Rougher, more suspenseful, and a lot more exciting. More on this later.

* * * *

Let’s back up to a man named Edward Stratemeyer. Stratemeyer (1862–1930) was an American publisher, a writer of children’s fiction, and the founder of the Stratemeyer Syndicate, a book packaging company. He was one of the most prolific writers in the world, producing in excess of 1,300 books himself and selling in excess of 500 million copies. He created many well-known book series, including The Rover Boys, The Bobbsey Twins, Tom Swift, The Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, and many, many more. They sold hundreds of millions of copies, and many (in different form) are still in print today. On Stratemeyer’s legacy, Fortune wrote: As oil had its Rockefeller, literature had its Stratemeyer.

He set in motion the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew series, which long outlived him. When his daughter took over the company, she made the difficult—but necessary—decision to update their more popular series to keep them relevant to modern (1950s) youth. As a result, all of the Hardy Boys books were rewritten—often jettisoning the original storylines in favor of plots that were more believable and accessible to a 1950s audience. Thus violent, seagoing pirates in the original version of The Twisted Claw became timber pirates in the updated version.

Not even close to the same. Sanitized. Not as violent. Not as exciting. Not as much fun.

Look at the old versions as a set of lost adventures for Joe and Frank Hardy, but in technicolor instead of black and white. I know you’ll enjoy them as much as I did.

So here is the original, 1927 version of The House on the Cliff. If you’re only familiar with the revised versions of the stories, you’re in for a treat. Enjoy!

—John Betancourt

Cabin John, Maryland

CHAPTER I

The Haunted House

Three powerful motorcycles sped along the shore road that leads from the city of Bayport, skirting Barmet Bay, on the Atlantic coast. It was a bright Saturday morning in June, and although the city sweltered in the heat, cool breezes blew in from the bay.

Two of the motorcycles carried an extra passenger. All the cyclists were boys of about fifteen and sixteen years of age and all five were students at the Bayport high school. They were enjoying their Saturday holiday by this outing, glad of the chance to get away from the torrid warmth of the city for a few hours.

When the foremost motorcycle reached a place where the shore road formed a junction with another highway leading to the north, the rider brought his machine to a stop and waited for the others to draw alongside. He was a tall, dark youth of sixteen, with a clever, good-natured face. His name was Frank Hardy.

Where do we go from here? he called out to the others.

The two remaining motorcycles came to a stop and the drivers mopped their brows while the two other boys dismounted, glad of the chance to stretch their legs. One of the cyclists, a boy of fifteen, fair, with light, curly hair, was Joe Hardy, a brother of Frank’s, and the other lad was Chet Morton, a chum of the Hardy boys. The other youths were Jerry Gilroy and Biff Hooper, typical, healthy American lads of high school age.

You’re the leader, said Joe to his brother. We’ll follow you.

I’d rather have it settled. We’ve started out without any particular place to go. There’s not much fun just riding around the countryside.

I don’t much care where we go, as long as we keep on going, said Jerry. We get a breeze as long as we’re traveling, but the minute we stop I begin to sweat.

Chet Morton gazed along the shore road.

I’ll tell you what we can do, he said suddenly. Let’s go and visit the haunted house.

Polucca’s place?

Sure. We’ve never been out there.

I’ve passed it, Frank said. But I didn’t go very close to the place, I’ll tell you.

Jerry Gilroy, who was a newcomer to Bayport, looked puzzled.

Where is Polucca’s place?

You can see it from here. Look, said Chet, taking him by the arm and bringing him over to the side of the road. See where the shore road dips, away out near the end of Barmet Bay. Do you see that cliff?

Yes. There’s a stone house at the top.

Well, that’s Polucca’s place.

Who is Polucca?

"Who was Polucca, you mean, interjected Frank. He used to live there. But he was murdered."

And that’s why the place is supposed to be haunted?

Reason enough, isn’t it? said Biff Hooper. I don’t believe in ghosts, but I’ll tell the world there are some funny stories going around about that house ever since Polucca was killed.

He must have been a strange fellow, anyway, commented Jerry, to build a house in such a place as that.

Indeed, the Polucca place had been built on an unusual site. High above the waters of the bay it stood, built close to the edge of a rocky and inhospitable cliff. It was some distance back from the road, and there was no other house within miles. The boys had traveled a little more than three miles since leaving Bayport, and the Polucca place was at least five miles away. It could hardly have been seen, had it not been for its prominent position on top of the cliff, silhouetted clearly against the sky.

"He was a strange fellow, Frank observed. No one knew very much about him. He didn’t welcome visitors. In fact, he always kept a couple of vicious dogs around the place, so nobody cared to hang around there if they weren’t invited."

He was a miser, came from Joe Hardy.

He may have been. At least that was the theory. Everybody said Polucca had a lot of money, but after his death there wasn’t a nickel found in the house.

Felix Polucca always said he wouldn’t trust the banks, put in Biff Hooper. But if he had any money I don’t know where he made it, for he didn’t work at anything and he mighty seldom came into the city.

Perhaps he inherited it, Jerry suggested.

Maybe. He must have had money at some time, to build that house. It’s a great, rambling stone place that must have cost thousands.

Is anybody living there now?

The others shook their heads. No one has lived there since the murder and I don’t think any one ever will, said Frank Hardy. The house is too far out of the way, for one thing, and then—the stories that have been going around—

Well, I won’t say I believe any place is haunted, but the Polucca place is certainly strange. There have been queer lights seen there at night. On stormy nights, particularly. And once a motorist had a breakdown near there, so he went up to the house for help. He didn’t know anything about the history of the place. He got the scare of his life!

What happened?

He decided when he went into the front yard that the place was deserted, and he was just going to turn away when he saw an old man standing at one of the upper windows, looking at him. He called out, and the old man went away, and although the motorist hunted all through the house he didn’t find any trace of the old chap. So he left that place as quickly as he could.

I don’t blame him, remarked Jerry. But the house sounds interesting. I’m game to visit it.

So am I! declared the others.

Lead on! laughed Chet. It’ll be a brave ghost that will tackle the whole five of us.

Jerry clambered on behind Chet, and Biff mounted Joe’s motorcycle. The machines roared, and the little cavalcade started on its way down the shore road toward the house on the cliff.

Instead of being an aimless trip, the outing had now assumed all the aspects of an adventure. With the exception of Jerry, the boys had all passed by the Polucca place at one time or another, but none had ever ventured off the main road to explore the deserted place.

The lane leading into the Polucca grounds, never kept in good repair even during the owner’s lifetime, was now almost indiscernible and was overgrown with weeds and bushes. The house itself was hidden from the roadway by trees. Most people gave the place a wide berth, whether they believed in ghosts or not, for the stories that had been told of the rambling stone building since the murder of Felix Polucca two years before were sufficient to indicate that there had been strange happenings in the old house. Whether or not they were of supernatural origin was a matter of debate.

The murder of Felix Polucca had been particularly brutal. He was an old Italian, suspected, as Frank said, of being a miser. He was very eccentric in his ways and most people considered that he was not quite sound mentally.

Be that as it may, Bayport was shocked one morning to learn that the old man had been found dead in the kitchen of his house,