The Arctic Patrol Mystery

by Franklin W. Dixon

  As Frank smoothed out two crumpled shirts, the telephone rang.

  “Okay,” he said. “Quiet, fellows. I have a hunch that these are our phony friends.” Quickly he attached the recording device to the telephone and picked up the receiver. “Hello?” The boy made a wry face as he said, “Yes, sir. Thank you,” and hung up.

  “What was it?”

  “The hotel manager. Asked us to cut down on the noise. Somebody complained.”

  Frank hit a chair and fell flat

  They all laughed, and Chet quipped, “Sure, we’ll be quiet, if the crooks promise, too.”

  The phone rang again, and this time Joe scooped it up. The voice on the other end was harsh. “Hardys, get out of Iceland!” This was followed by heavy breathing into the mouthpiece, then the caller hung up.

  “Why—those dirty bums!” Joe said hotly. “They’re trying to scare us out of this country!’

  “Fat chance!” Chet said bravely.

  “Did you recognize the voice?” asked Biff.

  “The phony Hallbjornsson! Who else?”

  With the room set to rights again, the four boys had lunch, then sprawled on the beds and the two chairs, trying to find a logical answer to all that had happened.

  Why did the phony Hallbjornsson want to kidnap Frank and Joe? Obviously he had impersonated Hallbjornsson only for that purpose. Who was he really?

  Finally Chet Morton stood up and stretched. “Well, Frank and Joe, you’re the brains department. Try to figure it out while Biff and I go for a warm water swim!”

  “I’m for it!” said Biff.

  “You can get the address at the desk,” Joe advised. “Call a taxi, but be careful about drinking coffee with strangers!”

  A few minutes later there was a light tap on the Hardys’ door. Frank opened it. Gummi stood outside.

  “Come on in,” Frank invited. “What’s new?”

  “Plenty!” Gummi took a chair, wet his lips, and settled back with a great air of satisfaction. “I’ve been busy with some detective work to help you.”

  “Any luck so far?” Joe asked.

  “I’ll say! I tried to get in touch with you yesterday, but you were always out. I’ve found your man Rex!”

  “No kidding!”

  Gummi leaned forward and gestured with his hands. “Now, I won’t guarantee that this is the guy you really want. He’s an old seaman who’s out on a fishing trawler called the Svartfugel—it means blackbird.”

  “How do we get in touch with him?” Frank asked.

  Gummi explained that the trawler was at sea but that he had found out where the Svartfugel’s skipper lived. “His name is Rensson. Perhaps his wife can tell us something about this Rex,” he added.

  “What are we waiting for? Let’s scram!” Joe said excitedly. They hastened down to the lobby, hopped into Gummi’s jeep, and drove to a neat yellow house near the waterfront.

  Gummi knocked, and a tall blond woman answered. The youth questioned her in Icelandic. “Ja, ja,” she replied. “Rex Mar.”

  “Tack, tack,” Gummi said and continued the interrogation. After they had left, Frank said, “What’s the pitch, Gummi?”

  The boy explained that Rex’s name was Mar.

  “Like the sea?” Joe recognized the word.

  “Right. Rex is supposed to be an old salt, and full of sea stories.”

  “And where is he now?” Frank questioned.

  “Somewhere off the northwest coast.”

  “We can’t overlook any possible clue,” Joe mused. “Maybe he changed his last name because it was too long.” The boys had learned from their detective father that even the slightest clue can sometimes solve a difficult case.

  Gummi dropped the boys off at the hotel and said good-by. He would see them later.

  Frank checked the desk for any messages. There were none. Then he and Joe went up to their room.

  “I’m really getting worried,” Frank said. “Joe, I think we ought to contact Dad and tell him what happened.” He unlimbered the radio and began to send out signals. As he did, someone pounded on the door.

  “Good night!” Joe jumped up. “What’s going on?” He opened the door.

  Chet Morton burst in, his face flushed with excitement. “Guess who we met?”

  “We can’t guess!” Frank said.

  “Come with me—downstairs—now!”

  “Chet, have you gone wacky?” Joe asked.

  Frank turned off the radio, and the Hardys followed their friend. When they stepped into the elevator, Frank tried to question his excited buddy. “Did you catch the phony Hallbjornsson?”

  “You’ll see!”

  A few seconds later they arrived in the lobby. There was Biff Hooper chatting gaily with Steina the stewardess!

  CHAPTER X

  The Arctic Patrol

  “HELLO, Steina. How are you?” Frank said, extending a hand to the smiling black-haired girl.

  Joe, meanwhile, glanced about the lobby. “Chet, I thought you found Hallbjornsson.”

  “No, it was Steina we found, and guess where—at the swimming pool!”

  “I was glad to meet them on my day off,” said Steina. Then she turned to Chet with a wink. “Tell me, have you found any Eskimos yet?”

  “No, but we’ve had our adventures,” the stout boy replied. But this time he kept his secrets to himself. They moved to the side of the lobby and took comfortable seats around a coffee table.

  Biff Hooper spoke to Frank in a low voice. “Do you think Steina might be able to help us? She probably knows lots of important people in Iceland.”

  “Yes, she might,” Frank replied and looked at the stewardess. “Steina, we’d like to contact a man named Rex Mar on the fishing trawler Svartfugel. Do you know how we can get in touch with him?”

  “Of course,” the girl answered with a wave of her hand, as if the request were an easy one.

  Joe had his doubts. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

  “No. My uncle Oscar will help you, I’m sure.”

  “Your uncle Oscar?” Chet raised his eyebrows. “Who’s he?”

  “Head of the Icelandic coast guard,” Steina replied, cocking her head coyly.

  “Great!” Joe exclaimed. “Will you give us an introduction?”

  Without a word the girl rose, went to a wall telephone nearby, and dialed a number. After chatting in Icelandic, she hung up and returned to the boys. “Uncle Oscar Sigtryggsson is in his office. He’s expecting you.”

  “Thanks a million, Steina,” Frank said. “Can we see him in half an hour?”

  “Sure. I must be going along now,” the girl replied. Waving good-by, she left in her small car which she had parked in front of the hotel.

  The boys went directly to the Hardys’ room, where Frank and Joe clued their buddies in on the Mar information. Then Joe flicked on their radio and began sending signals. Fifteen minutes later they received an answer. The conversation was amiable and casual. Frank told his father that the only Hallbjornsson they had found so far proved to be the wrong one, but that they had had some trouble getting rid of him.

  Afterward, Joe rapidly figured out their father’s message. Mr. Hardy said that the high Icelandic officials now knew that his sons were working on the astronaut case. He also warned them to beware of a Felix Musselman.

  The description of this man fit the phony Hallbjornsson to a T. Originally a Rumanian, Musselman had fake passports for several countries. “He may be tied in with the astronaut case. Exercise extreme caution!” Mr. Hardy ended.

  Frank returned the radio to the hiding place in the closet.

  “Wow!” Joe said. “So Hallbjornsson-Musselman may be an agent of a spy network mixed up in the astronaut case!”

  “That’s probably his primary mission,” Frank reasoned. “When he found out we were coming to Iceland, his second mission was capturing us in order to get us out of the way. He must have been afraid we would get involved with the case.”

  “Now what?” Biff asked.r />
  “Well, we’d better go see Steina’s uncle. You and Chet stay here and stand guard. Okay?”

  Soon Frank and Joe arrived at the Icelandic coast guard headquarters, called by the almost unpronounceable name of Landhelgisgaezlan. Its offices were located on Seljaveg, close to the waterfront.

  “The Hardy boys?” a male clerk asked as they entered.

  “Right. Frank and Joe, from Bayport, U.S.A.”

  “Captain Sigtryggsson is waiting for you. This way, please.”

  He ushered the visitors into an office with nautical decorations and closed the door. They were greeted by a tall gray-haired man who rose from his chair behind a long desk.

  “So,” he said, after shaking hands and offering the boys two chairs, “you are American detectives!”

  “Yes,” said Joe. “I know we’re still young, but—”

  “Not at all,” the captain replied. “Our best men in the coast guard are young fellows like you. We start them at fifteen, and by the time they are eighteen or nineteen, believe me, they are excellent seamen. Your father is a world-famous detective and I gather he has trained you well in his profession.”

  Frank and Joe felt much at home in the presence of Captain Sigtryggsson. “You have a very fine niece in Steina,” said Frank, returning the compliment.

  “That’s what the boys tell me,” the captain said with a smile. “Ja, ja. Now tell me, what is your question?”

  “We wish to speak to a man named Rex Hallbjornsson,” Frank began. “He may be Rex Mar, sailing on the trawler Svartfugel.”

  “I think I can help you,” the captain said. He rose from his chair and went to a map hanging on the wall. “The Svartfugel is probably fishing in waters near Snaefellsjokull.”

  “The glacier?” asked Joe.

  “Ja. Right here. Perhaps ten miles offshore. We will send you up there.”

  The boys were thunderstruck. “Really?” asked Joe. “How?”

  “On the Thor. Are you good seamen?”

  “Pretty good,” Frank replied.

  The Icelander walked over to the model of a ship sitting on a table beside the boys.

  “This is the Thor,” he explained. “You know, we don’t have a large navy, but it is a good one.” He said that the Thor was setting out the next day on a fourteen-day tour of duty in Icelandic waters.

  “Your Arctic Patrol—isn’t that what you call it?” Frank remarked.

  The captain nodded and continued. “Naturally, I don’t think it will take fourteen days to find the Svartfugel.”

  “Then how’ll we get back?” Joe asked.

  “We’ll arrange that later. Perhaps on the Albert. It is a smaller boat on its way back to Keflavik from a two-week tour.” The captain sat down at his desk again and looked straight at the boys. “You are working on the McGeorge case, too!”

  Frank and Joe were startled. “Yes. It’s top secret,” Frank managed to reply.

  “Of course. It is most unusual to have civilians involved. But perhaps you can be of help.”

  “We already have a clue,” Frank said, and told about the leather glove. “It matches a similar one we got at the base in Keflavik.” He explained how they had found it, and when.

  “Excellent. But Major McGeorge disappeared earlier than that. We searched the area of the sulfur pit.”

  “Perhaps he came back,” Frank offered. “Maybe his captors threatened to throw him in if he didn’t tell his NASA secrets.”

  “A good possibility,” the captain admitted. “We’ll look into this.”

  The boys rose and thanked him, promising to be at his office at two o’clock the next afternoon.

  “Captain Carl Magnusson, the skipper of the Thor, will be here to meet you,” their host said as he ushered the Hardys to the door.

  When they returned to their hotel, they found Chet and Biff brimming with excitement. “Here’s another letter answering your ad in the paper,” Biff said.

  Frank opened it. A Hallbjornsson living in Hafnarfjordur thought that he might be a relative of the man called Rex.

  Frank shook his head. “Now we’ve got two leads to follow.”

  “What did the coast guard chief have to say?”

  “We’re leaving on one of their boats tomorrow.”

  “That was fast. Well, suppose Chet and I go down to Hafnarfjordur and investigate the other guy?”

  “Great idea!”

  Chet and Biff departed the next morning, and at two o’clock the Hardys, traveling as lightly as they could, appeared at Captain Sigtryggsson’s office.

  There they met a tall, handsome man in his late thirties—Carl Magnusson, the skipper of the Thor. After hard handshakes, Captain Magnusson said, “Come with me, men. We’re on our way.”

  He took them down the harbor where the Thor, a spotless white cutter, was waiting.

  “She’s a big ship,” Frank observed.

  “Two hundred and six feet long—nine hundred and twenty tons,” the captain explained.

  As they stepped from the dock down a ladder to board the cutter, Frank and Joe noticed a 57 mm gun mounted on the front of the boat. Behind the gun deck, at a lower level, lay a large rubber raft. Two pontoons on either side were bullet-shaped.

  “We use that for transfers in rough weather,” said Captain Magnusson, who had noticed the boys’ inquisitive looks.

  They followed the skipper up and down a maze of companionways to his quarters. A comfortable wardroom was located forward, and the captain’s bunk was to the left. On the right side were quarters for the visitors.

  “Make yourselves at home,” Captain Magnusson said.

  “Do you suppose you can find the Svartfugel for us?” Joe asked, putting down his bag.

  “I think so, if we don’t run into any foreign poachers.” The skipper explained that recently some ships of foreign registry had been sneaking through the twelve-mile limit. “But we spot them on radar,” he continued, “and get them!”

  “Then what do you do?” Frank asked.

  “Bring them back to port and fine them. They cannot get away with our codfish!”

  Frank and Joe looked about the ship. Several seamen, about their own age, were busy hosing and swabbing the decks. Some of them spoke English, and the boys chatted with them about their training and their ambitions.

  Then they strolled about, looking at the colorful Icelandic coastline slipping past.

  “You know,” Joe said to his brother, “I’m beginning to enjoy our trip!”

  “Well, let’s hope we’re successful,” Frank replied with a grin.

  About sundown, Snaefell Glacier came into view, its bare, rugged peaks bathed in orange light. Suddenly Captain Magnusson, who stood on the bridge, beckoned to the Hardys. They hastened up a ladder and were at his side a moment later.

  “Look over there!” the skipper said tersely, peering through his binoculars. “A poacher! She’s in our territorial waters!”

  He handed Frank the binoculars, so high-powered that they brought the fishing trawler seemingly close enough to touch. She was about forty-five feet long and bore the name Tek.

  Frank surveyed her from stem to stern. Five crewmen could be seen on deck. Suddenly he gasped. “Joe, there he is!”

  “Who?”

  “Musselman. I’ll bet anything!”

  CHAPTER XI

  Over the Waves

  JOE took the glasses to confirm Frank’s suspicion. No doubt about it! The face was that of the bogus Hallbjornsson!

  “Captain Magnusson,” Frank said, “there’s a wanted man on the Tek!”

  “The entire trawler is wanted,” the captain replied with a grim smile. “She’s poaching in Icelandic waters.”

  He dispatched a radio message commanding the Tek to stop. Then he took the binoculars and watched. Suddenly he gave an exclamation in Icelandic. The trawler was turning about and racing toward the open sea!

  “She’s trying to get away!” Frank cried out.

  If Captain Magnusson was startle
d by the poacher’s action, he did not show it. Calmly he gave the order for full speed ahead.

  Much to the surprise of Frank and Joe, the fleeing boat had exceptional speed. Churning up a greenish-white wake, it high-tailed straight west. But it was no match for the Thor. The cutter gained with every minute.

  Finally the ships came side by side. Captain Magnusson, using a bullhorn, ordered the fleeing boat to stop for boarding. “You are under arrest!” he thundered.

  Beckoning to the Hardy boys and two seamen, he boarded the poacher and was met by her irate skipper, who declared in broken English, “You cannot stop us. It is illegal!”

  “You are in Icelandic fishing waters,” Captain Magnusson replied evenly. “And you are not Icelandic.”

  “I am thirteen miles off your shore!”

  “Only ten by my calculations. And my calculations are what count.” Magnussen asked curtly, “Why did you flee when I radioed for you to stop?”

  “I did not hear your message.”

  “Then you should get your radio repaired. What you did was dangerous; you could have been shot.”

  The captain accompanied the poacher to his bridge, where he obtained the fishing boat’s registration and other vital details. Then Magnusson said, “I think you are harboring a fugitive from Iceland and will conduct a search.”

  The poacher glared at him in rage. “How dare you! You cannot do this!”

  “But we will,” Magnussen retorted. He motioned to Frank and Joe, along with his two crewmen. The four conducted a painstaking search for the fugitive, expecting to see Musselman pop out of a closet or jump out of a locker at any moment. But the baldheaded spy could not be found.

  “Maybe he’s hiding in some kind of a container,” Frank said.

  “You mean under the boat?” Joe asked.

  “It’s possible.”

  Although they searched the sides of the boat for any telltale line leading under the water, their efforts were fruitless.

  “Come on. We’ll give the crew’s quarters one more look,” Frank said.

  The bunks were thoroughly checked to see if anyone was hiding under a false mattress. Each mattress was thumped, but all were genuine. No Musselman!