Mystery of Crocodile Island - Carolyn Keene [1]
“What!” Bess cried out. “That’s incredible.”
“Or I could spend five years in jail for possessing it without government permission.”
“But why?” Bess asked.
“Because crocodiles are a vanishing species,” Nancy put in. “There used to be plenty of them in this country, but now there are only a few left in Florida.”
Bess’s eyes opened wide. “Do you think your father is going to send us to the part where there are crocodiles?”
Nancy was looking out the window. “We’ll soon know,” she replied. “He’s driving in now.”
Carson Drew, a leading attorney in River Heights, parked his car in the garage, then came into the house by way of the kitchen. When he reached the living room, he kissed Nancy and greeted the other two girls.
“Don’t keep us in suspense any longer,” Nancy pleaded. “Are we going to crocodile land?”
Her tall, handsome father sat down on the couch. “In a way, yes. This is the story. An old college friend of mine named Roger Gonzales lives in Key Biscayne outside of Miami. Biscayne Bay is full of small islands, which are called keys. Most of them are inhabited, but some of the smaller ones are like jungles and nobody lives on them. Some twenty miles from Key Biscayne there’s a key that has been nicknamed Crocodile Island. A group of men operate a crocodile farm on it. They breed these reptiles to sell to zoos or other places where sightseers can view them.”
As Mr. Drew paused, Bess spoke, with fright in her voice. “And you’re going to ask us to go to this alligator farm?”
Mr. Drew smiled. “Crocodile farm, Bess. There’s a difference.”
“There is?”
“Yes. The American alligator has a much broader snout than the crocodile, and is less vicious and active. The two reptiles are about equal in size and can grow up to twelve feet in length, but the croc weighs about a third less than the ’gator.”
Bess shivered. “I don’t want to meet either one.”
George laughed. To tease Bess, she said, “Mr. Drew, tell us some more scary things about crocodiles.”
Bess groaned.
“They like to live in large bodies of shallow salty water,” Mr. Drew continued, “preferably in sluggish rivers, open swamps, and marshes that are brackish. They raise their heads when you go near them and—”
“Oh, stop!” Bess begged.
Mr. Drew grinned. “But I’m not finished. In this country crocs were formerly found around the southernmost tip of Florida, but because so many people went to live on Key Biscayne, the crocs moved into the Everglades. They have webbed feet and can walk on soft ground.”
“How fast can they run?” George asked.
“Very fast. Like horses!”
“Forget it!” Bess declared. “I’m staying home. Who wants to be eaten?”
“American crocodiles occasionally do attack animals and people,” Mr. Drew admitted. “A croc can twist a large animal to pieces by seizing one part of it, then turning rapidly in the water.”
George grimaced. “I think I agree with Bess!”
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Drew said. “You probably won’t meet any wild crocs. What I’m talking about is a farm where they’re bred in captivity. There’s a mystery connected with the place that I hope you girls can solve.”
“What kind of mystery?” George asked.
“I’ll tell you in a minute.” Mr. Drew looked at the shoe box. “I see you did the errand, George. Thank you very much. I thought you girls might want to study a rubber crocodile to get acquainted with its looks.”
He rose and walked over to the table and removed the lid. George suggested that he lift the box and tap the bottom. He did, and once more the baby crocodile wiggled its tail and opened and closed its jaws.
“This is certainly a good imitation,” Mr. Drew remarked. He sat down again and went on with his story. “Mr. Gonzales has stock in the crocodile farm, which is called Crocodile Ecology Company. He doesn’t live or work there, however. He’s a silent partner, so to speak.
“Recently he has become suspicious that the business arrangements on the island are not what they should be, and that his partners are up to something dishonest.”
Nancy asked, “And this Mr. Gonzales has requested