The boys walked cautiously into the hangar to look around for him. Joe shot an inquisitive glance at the airplane’s cabin, but the fuselage was too high for a full inside view. He climbed up and noticed a folded navigation chart, with penciled markings, clipped above the pilot’s seat.
“Hey, Frank!” Joe exclaimed excitedly. “I see a chart of the Bayport coastal area—and it has some markings on it!”
Frank warned, “Watch it, Joe! Here he comes now!” A man who answered Tom Lester’s description of Hirff was striding toward the hangar!
Joe quickly unhooked his lapel camera, held it up, and snapped a picture of the map. Then he jumped down.
“What’re you punks doing here?” the pilot yelled, charging into the hangar almost at a run.
Joe calmly snapped Hirff’s picture, then slipped the camera into the sport-coat pocket. The pilot, livid with rage, tried to hurl Frank aside and get at Joe.
Instead, Frank met the attack. He spun him around with a judo grip and followed with a punch to the jaw that landed the man on the floor. Hirff sat up and blinked in surprise.
Frank repressed a grin. “If you want me to step out of the way, just ask politely.”
Hirff got to his feet, scowling. “All right, wise guys! Suppose I call the cops!”
“Go ahead,” Frank said coolly. “The hangar was open so we walked in to say hello. Didn’t touch a thing.”
“When the police get here,” Joe added, “maybe we can chat about Tigers’ Bight.”
The remark was a shot in the dark. Joe had hoped it might startle Hirff or provoke some interesting reaction. But the effect was out of all proportion to what Joe had expected. Hirff’s face paled and all the bluster seemed to go out of him.
“I ... I d-don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hirff faltered. “Sorry if I lost my temper. Thought maybe you kids had sneaked in here to strip the plane or something. Go on now, scram, and we’ll forget all about it!”
“Sure, if that’s the way you want it.” Frank turned to his brother. “Come on,” he said.
Joe could not resist a parting taunt. “If you change your mind about calling the police,” he needled, “they can find us at the boat dock.”
Both boys could feel Al Hirff’s eyes burning into their backs as they walked toward the parking lot. Driving away, Frank remarked, “Boy! You sure struck gold that time ! But I hope it wasn’t a mistake, telling him our next move.”
Joe shrugged. “I doubt if the gang would try any dirty work in broad daylight. Anyhow, if they do, so much the better. That’s one way to draw ’ em into the open!”
Frank met the man’s attack
At the boat dock a few passengers had already boarded the Sandpiper. But Clams Dagget was leaning against a bollard, smoking his corncob pipe, apparently in no hurry to shove off. He greeted the Hardys with a nod. “Hi, lads! How’s the detective business?”
“Booming,” Frank replied with a smile. “Maybe you can help us. Ever hear of a place called Tigers’ Bight?”
“Sure. Down south of the bay. I once lost an anchor there.”
The Hardys became excited.
“We couldn’t find it on the map,” Joe said.
“Ain’t surprised,” Clams said, without taking the pipe out of his mouth. “That’s just a nickname. ’Bout ten years ago there was a coupl’ attacks on swimmers by tiger sharks that come in the bight, so folks thereabouts took to callin’ it Tigers’ Bight. No one goes there much any more. Pretty desolate now.”
Frank took out a pencil and a scrap of paper, and asked Dagget to draw a map so he and Joe could find the place. The old ferryman obliged.
The Hardys thanked him and started back to their convertible, which they had parked in a vacant lot on the opposite side of the road. As the two boys passed a roadside stand facing the road, Joe let out a startled yelp.
“Frank! Look!” Their car door was open and a man was pawing through the glove compartment!
Frank and Joe started to dart across the road but had to pause for a break in traffic. The man glanced around warily, saw them, and immediately fled through the lot. By the time the Hardys crossed the road, he was leaping into a waiting sedan. It sped off with a roar.
“Let’s go!” Frank shouted, rushing toward the convertible. He slid behind the wheel and Joe slipped in beside him. Frank whirled the car around, sent it bumping and bouncing across the lot, then shot out onto the road.
The chase continued for over a mile, with the sedan clearly in view. Then the Hardys saw it turn off to the right.
Moments later, the convertible reached the same spot and Frank swung the wheel. The car took the turn with a screech of rubber. They were now in a winding dirt lane with woods on both sides, and the sedan was out of sight.
Bang! The convertible suddenly spun out of control. Frank jammed on the brakes, seesawed the wheel, and managed to bring it to a lurching stop just before it crashed into some trees.
“Whew!” Joe let out a gasp of relief.
Somewhat pale and shaken, the boys climbed out to survey the damage.
“Left front tire’s flat,” Frank announced.
“And there’s what did it.” Joe pointed to a wicked-looking array of tacks, bent nails, and broken glass scattered across the lane. “Those crooks must’ve tossed the stuff out of their car before we turned into the lane.”
Disgusted, the Hardys got a jack out of their trunk and set about changing the flat tire.
Suddenly a small object flew spinning from the trees across the lane. It landed near the convertible and sent up a gush of purple smoke!
Frank stiffened in anger. “Look out, Joe!” he warned. “We’re being attacked!”
Three men wearing gas masks had burst out of the woods and were charging toward the boys!
CHAPTER XIV
Tigers’ Lair
As THE smoke bomb burst and Frank yelled his warning, Joe was getting the spare out of the trunk, his back turned to the lane.
Joe whirled at Frank’s cry and saw the gas-masked men only a few yards away. He struggled to hoist out the spare wheel and hurl it at them, but two of the thugs pounced on him.
Frank rushed to his brother’s assistance, clutching the lug wrench. The third man grabbed his arm, twisted the wrench away from him, and knocked Frank sprawling in the ditch.
In moments, purple smoke blanketed the area. The Hardys gasped and their eyes watered.
Joe’s assailants overpowered and searched him, one yanking the lapel camera from his pocket.
Frank was vainly trying to scramble to his feet, but every attempt met with a kick or blow that sent him toppling again. Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, the gas-masked thugs darted away through the smoke.
Joe picked himself up, clawed out a handkerchief to hold over his eyes and nose, and groped his way toward his brother. Frank met him, and hand in hand they ran from the smoke area. In the distance they heard a car start and drive off.
Frank and Joe finally reached clear air. Coughing, the boys slumped against a tree and looked at each other through swollen, red-rimmed eyes.
“Wow! We fell into a trap that time, Frank!”
“Sure did. Joe, we ought to get back to the car and radio the police.”
“Okay, but let’s wait till the smoke clears.”
Presently they were able to return to the convertible. Frank warmed up the short-wave radio and gave the police a description of the sedan.
Joe, meanwhile, was mounting the spare. “Sorry I got us into this, Frank,” he apologized. “I shouldn’t have said anything to Hirff about Tigers’ Bight.”
“Never mind. They still wouldn’t have nailed us if we’d used our heads.”
“How do you figure?”
“That guy rifling our glove compartment was probably a decoy,” Frank reasoned. “If he didn’t find what he was after, I’ll bet his orders were to let us spot him. They knew we’d go after him, so they had the tire-puncture trick and the gas attack all set up beforehand
.”
Joe shook his head ruefully. “Boy! Now I really feel like a chump!”
“Did they get your camera?”
“Yes. I’m glad it was insured!” Joe grinned. “But there’s one thing they didn’t get.”
“What’s that?”
“Take a look in the glove compartment.”
Frank did so, then turned in astonishment. “The film ! How did that get in here?”
“Simple. I unloaded the camera while you were wheeling after ’em.” Joe chuckled as he wrestled the spare into the trunk. “I had a hunch there might be trouble if we caught up with those characters——and the glove compartment looked safe because it had already been searched.”
“Nice going, Joe!”
As they were driving home, Joe remarked, “Hirff called the signals on that attack.”
“Sure, but try and prove it. He probably phoned his pals the second we left the airport and has a nice, clear-cut alibi for himself.”
As soon as they arrived home, the boys developed the film and made an enlarged print of the chart. As expected, it showed the Bayport coastal area. A notch in the coastline south of Barmet Bay had been circled in pencil.
“It’s the place on Clams Daggett’s map—Tigers’ Bight!” Frank exclaimed, then frowned. “I don’t get it, Joe. Hirff knew we’d heard about Tigers’ Bight, and we were bound to locate it. So why was he so eager to get the film back?”
“You’re overlooking something, Frank—right here.” Joe pointed to an X mark near the bight, barely visible on the print.
Frank gave a whistle. “Wonder what’s there!”
“Maybe enough evidence to put the gang behind bars,” Joe surmised. “This photo would link them to whatever that X stands for.”
“Wow!” Frank was jubilant. “I have a feeling we’re really getting somewhere now, Joe!”
“If only we knew what those words on Jack’s phone pad meant—‘Amethyst calling Seacat.’ ”
“Sounds like a radio call,” Frank mused. “It would tie in with our guess about ‘Seacat.’ ”
“In other words, a radio call to a boat.”
“Right. But the ‘Amethyst’ part stumps me—unless that’s the name of another boat—or maybe of a plane that’s doing the calling.”
“That’s it, Frank!” Joe snapped his fingers excitedly. “It could be a code name for Jack’s own plane—or even for Jack himself!”
“Right. Let’s assume Tom Lester’s hunch is correct—that Jack managed to worm his way into Hir$’s gang. And let’s assume your hunch is correct that he was flying to Tigers’ Bight.”
“Okay. So what then?” Joe asked.
“Don’t you see? Maybe Jack was flying there on Hirff’s instructions. Hirff told him to contact a boat named the Seacat by radio and then rendezvous with it in Tigers’ Bight!”
“Perfect!” Joe exclaimed. “Frank, if Jack was flying a mission for the gang, that radio message wasn’t sabotaged. It must have been interrupted accidentally.”
“I’ll check right now!” Frank said. He called the Bayport radio station and learned that it, too, had experienced freakish transmission difficulties the day before—apparently due to sunspots.
“Frank, let’s go to Tigers’ Bight and find out what that X stands for,” Joe proposed. “While we’re at it, we may spot Jack’s plane!”
“Okay,” Frank agreed. “But let’s call Dad first. He may be back at the hotel by now.”
The boys were able to contact Fenton Hardy. “How’d you make out in Gary, Dad?” Frank asked.
“We ran into a blank wall,” the detective replied. “The getaway car was traced there. But I’m sure now it was just a false scent to make us think the thieves had fled to that area to hide out.”
When Mr. Hardy heard about the Haley Building mystery and the vanished diamonds, he concluded that the same jewel thieves had struck again.
“Sam and I had better fly back there as soon as possible,” he told Frank. “We’ll try to be in Bayport sometime tonight.”
Mr. Hardy listened with keen interest to Frank’s report about Al Hirff, the notation on Jack’s phone pad, the gas-bomb attack on the boys, and their theory about Tigers’ Bight.
After concluding the conversation, the boys drove to Bayport harbor. They rented a motorboat and started into the bay. As they passed the jetty, they sighted the Napoli, with Tony and Chet aboard.
The boys hailed one another, and brought their boats alongside. Frank told them where he and his brother were heading.
“Why pay rent on that job?” Tony exclaimed eagerly. “I’ll take you there in the Napoli!”
Frank considered a moment, then shook his head. “There’s another job you can do.”
“Name it.”
“We have a hunch that ‘Seacat’ may be the name of the gang’s cabin cruiser,” Frank explained. “How about cruising all the coves around here and see if you can spot a boat by that name?”
Tony and Chet agreed, and the Hardys resumed their course. Reaching the mouth of Barmet Bay, they headed southward along the coast. After a half hour’s run they sighted Tigers’ Bight.
“If Tigers’ Bight is just a local nickname, I wonder how the gang picked it up,” Joe mused.
“They must have heard it from some local boatman or fisherman,” Frank reasoned.
Joe slowed the motor as they cruised into the bight. The cove was wooded on all sides, with a strip of flat sandy beach extending for about a quarter of a mile. The rest of the shore was rocky.
“Frank, that beach would have made a good landing strip for Skyhappy Sal,” Joe suggested. “What say we take a look for plane tracks?”
“Good idea.”
Joe brought the motorboat in close and anchored. The boys pulled off their loafers and socks and waded ashore. The sand appeared unmarked.
“You could still be right,” Frank told his brother. “The tracks may have been washed out during high tide.”
Returning to their boat, the Hardys consulted their photographic blowup of Hirff’s chart. The X mark lay inland from the bight on a narrow creek which flowed not far from the beach. Aside from a few gulls screeching overhead and the noise of the surf outside the bight, the area was calm and silent.
Frank frowned at the racket of the motor as Joe steered toward the creek. “If any of the gang’s around here, we sure won’t take ’em by surprise,” he remarked.
Joe nosed the boat gently into the creek. Frank moored it to a rock and they headed inland on foot. The brothers had hiked only a short distance along the winding stream when they sighted a dilapidated cabin nestled among trees.
“So that’s what the X mark stood for!” Joe exclaimed.
The boys advanced cautiously to reconnoiter the cabin. Suddenly they were startled by the sound of a plane engine revving up along the bight. A moment later the plane soared into view among the trees.
“It’s Skyhappy Sal!” Frank yelled.
The craft was heading seaward. To the boys’ astonishment it banked and circled sharply, then came swooping in low—straight toward them! The pilot cut the motor, and the Hardys caught a fleeting glimpse of Jack Wayne and another man in the plane’s cabin. Jack waved to them frantically.
“Don’t go into that cabin!” he shouted.
The pilot gunned the engine, trying to work up flying speed again—but the plane dipped and went into a stall.
“He’s going to crack up!” Joe yelled.
An instant later the boys heard a terrific impact and the crash of crumpling metal!
CHAPTER XV
Puzzling Reports
FEARING the worst, Frank and Joe ran along the creek bank. As they emerged from the trees, they saw that the plane had hit the beach about two hundred yards away. Its nose was high in the air and one wing had crumpled.
The Hardys ran toward the crashed aircraft. Jack was evidently still in the plane, but his companion had been hurled from the cabin by the force of the impact. He was getting dazedly to his feet
and brushing off the sand that smeared him from head to foot. At the sight of the boys, the man began groping frantically on the ground.
“He may be hunting for his gun!” Frank warned. “We’d better nail him fast!”
Frank’s guess seemed to be correct, for as the Hardys closed in, he gave up his search and fled into the woods. Joe would have chased him, but Frank grabbed his brother’s arm and pointed to Skyhappy Sal. Flames were licking the fuselage!
“Never mind that guy! Help me get Jack out!”
The right side of the plane, from which the gunman had been thrown, was uppermost. The door was hanging wide open. Frank climbed inside, careless of the sizzling flames. Jack lay wedged behind the control column, bleeding and motionless.
“He risked his life to signal us!” Frank thought. “I sure hope he’s still alive!”
There was no time to be gentle. Frank maneuvered the limp form out as best he could. Legs first, Jack was passed through the cabin doorway Both the Hardys were streaming with perspiration as they lurched away from the plane, lugging the pilot between them.
At a safe distance from the wrecked aircraft, they laid Jack down on the sand and turned back to stare at Skyhappy Sal. The blaze was now crackling furiously.
“Some of the electrical gear must have shorted,” Joe said.
“We’ll never know,” Frank muttered. “Once the fuel tank blows, she’ll—”
His words were cut short as the plane exploded into a ball of fire. A column of smoke and flame shot high in the air.
“Wow! We made it just in time!” Joe gasped in a shaky voice.
The boys turned their attention to Jack Wayne. His face and shirt were streaked with blood from a scalp wound. Frank felt the pilot’s pulse and knelt to listen for a heartbeat.
“Thank goodness! He’s still alive!” Frank reported tensely.
Joe ripped off a piece of his own shirttail to make a bandage. Fortunately, although the pilot’s hair was matted with blood from the wound, active bleeding appeared to have ceased.
Frank wiped off Jack’s face with a scrap of cloth moistened with water. Presently the pilot stirred and opened his eyes. As he saw Frank and Joe bending over him, his lips twitched into a smile of relief.
The Disappearing Floor Page 8
