On the way, they continued to puzzle over the blind man’s reaction. “Zatta sounded scared to death,” Joe remarked. “I wonder if he was on the level about getting in touch with us.”
“We’ll just have to wait and see,” Frank replied. “Maybe he’s afraid of having talked too much already.”
The brothers arrived at Long Point in plenty of time for the trial run. Bill Braxton, Frank, Joe, and the engineer Kurt Rummel started off in the Sea Spook on the dot of three. Boaters gaped as the hydrofoil streaked across the Sound.
Rummel seemed much impressed. “If she can perform anything like this in heavy weather, you really have something here, Braxton!” he said.
Bill put the craft through a series of tight maneuvers. Plumes of spray flew in the air as the Spook pirouetted about gracefully. Suddenly she refused to come out of a turn.
“What’s wrong?” Rummel asked with a frown.
“I don’t know,” Braxton muttered anxiously. “The rudder must be jammed!”
He dashed out of the cabin toward the fantail. Frank went aft with him to help. Braxton bent over the rail to peer down at the rudder linkage. At that instant the craft lurched and swung sharply to port! As it heeled over, Frank and Braxton were hurled into the water!
Terror chilled Joe. His brother and Bill Braxton might be mangled by the propeller or the foils!
CHAPTER X
Dangerous Dobermans
THE Sea Spook was spinning around Frank and Bill Braxton in a tight circle—completely out of control!
“Stop the engine!” Joe yelled to Rummel, and made his way out onto the tilting afterdeck.
The engineer flung an angry retort over his shoulder. He had already closed the throttle and was probing at the steering controls, hoping to get some response to the helm.
Joe could see the two figures floundering in the water. Flying spray from the Spook was blinding and half-drowning them. Joe was slipping and teetering on the wet deck, but he managed to unhook a life ring from the rail and toss it into the water.
The craft had so much way on from the high speed that it took the Spook some time to slow. Gradually her hull settled into the water. In a few moments the Spook came to a dead stop.
Frank and Bill Braxton, apparently unhurt, stroked their way over to the hydrofoil, blinking water out of their eyes. Joe and Rummel hauled them aboard.
“What went wrong, Bill?” Frank asked as they dried off with towels from the storage locker.
The young mechanic shook his head gloomily. “I don’t know yet, except that the steering system failed. The rudder must have broken and slapped over to one side.”
Kurt Rummel refrained from making any comment, but his face showed professional disapproval. A harbor patrol launch had observed their difficulties and was speeding out to their aid.
“Give us a towline!” Bill called over.
The Sea Spook was towed to the dry dock of the Neptune Boatworks. Here, Bill and the engineer gave the craft a thorough inspection.
“Well, there’s the answer,” Bill said angrily. “A sheared rudder pintle. It doesn’t look to me like an accident, either!”
Rummel looked skeptical. “Your hydrofoil design is new enough to be revolutionary, Braxton. Those high-speed turns may put more stress on the steering than you realize. I think this calls for a whole new study of your design.”
A new pintle was installed and the Sea Spook started home to Barmet Bay. Braxton was downcast over the outcome of the test.
“You really think it was sabotage?” Joe asked.
“Sure. But I can’t prove it,” Braxton replied.
“When was it done?” Frank asked. “It was docked in plain sight during your conference at the boatworks, wasn’t it? There probably were people gawking at it every minute of the time.”
“The dirty work could have been done right in my own boathouse,” Braxton said bitterly. “The pintle was probably sawed partway through, but it took a few hours of operation to break off.”
“Any idea who might have done it?” Frank asked.
Braxton shook his head. “Not a clue—unless it was someone who doesn’t want the Sea Spook to go into production.”
Frank and Joe exchanged thoughtful glances. “A figure in hiding!” Joe declared, and Frank added, “Who must be found!”
Nevertheless, both boys were wondering if the sabotage might have been committed for a different purpose—to injure them! Had someone guessed—or overheard—that the Hardys would go along on the Spook’s next cruise, and had this person tried to cause an accident at sea?
Frank and Joe arrived home in the evening and learned that Chief Collig had telephoned. Frank called back but was unable to reach him at headquarters until the next morning. The chief reported that he had had word from the Ocean City police on the green Torpedo sedan.
“That license number you gave was registered in the name of Malcolm Izmir, the owner of Izmir Motors,” Collig informed Frank. “But the car had already been reported stolen.”
“When did that happen—the theft, I mean?”
“The police weren’t sure. Izmir’s butler reported the theft the same evening he found the car missing. But he said it hadn’t been used for a couple of days, so it might have been taken from Izmir’s garage a day or two earlier.”
Frank was disappointed. This left the question still unanswered as to who had been driving the green sedan on Wednesday during their trip upriver to Mrs. Lunberry’s.
“Another thing,” Collig said. “We called the hotels and found that kid, Fred Hare. He’s staying with his parents at the Summerfield.”
“Does his story check out?” Frank asked.
“It seems to. That crack about knowing more than he told you was just bragging. His father promised to give him a good talking to.”
Frank grinned and thanked the chief. When Frank discussed the news with Joe, however, neither was satisfied with the story that Izmir’s car had been stolen.
“Somehow it sounds phony,” Frank said. “Especially the butler’s not being sure when the car was taken!”
“It strikes me the same way,” Frank agreed. “I vote we do some more checking when we go to Ocean City to get our car.”
Frank called the repair garage and was told that their convertible was ready for pickup. Meanwhile, Joe had had a sudden idea.
“We’ve been passing up an easy lead on this case!” he exclaimed.
“What’s that?” Frank queried.
“Checking the calls Lambert made from his motel. The manager said all calls passed through the central switchboard, remember?”
Joe promptly leafed through the telephone directory and dialed the number of the Bayview Motel. His hunch paid off.
“Sure, we keep a record of all outgoing phone calls,” the manager said. “The time and the number go right on the guest’s bill after the desk clerk gets his party for him.”
“Will you please look up and see if Lambert placed any calls while he was staying there?”
“Easy. Hold the phone.” There was silence, then the manager’s voice returned to the line. “Well, according to his bill, he made three calls—all to the same number.”
Joe copied it down, thanked the motel manager, and hung up.
“That looks like an Ocean City listing,” Frank remarked as he read the number. “Hmm. I wonder ...”
Frank dialed Information and asked for the number of Izmir Motors in Ocean City. It checked with the number on the pad!
“Now we’re getting some place!” Joe exclaimed. “Let’s hop over to Ocean City right away!”
The boys caught a bus which dropped them not far from the repair garage. They got their car and drove to Izmir Motors.
This time, the Hardys walked straight through the showroom to Sykes’ office. His face seemed to turn a shade paler as he caught sight of the brothers. He gave them a smile, took off his glasses, and began polishing them nervously.
“Come in, boys! ... Please sit down.”
> Frank and Joe were struck by his change in manner.
“I suppose you’ve heard what happened to us the other night,” Frank said coolly.
“Why, yes—yes, I did. The police informed me. A terrible thing! It upset me very much.”
“Why didn’t you tell us that was your boss’s car when we gave you the license number?” Joe demanded.
Sykes looked embarrassed. “Believe me, I didn’t know. Our office only keeps a record of the licenses of salesmen’s cars and demonstrators—and Mr. Izmir wasn’t here at the time.”
“You sure weren’t very cooperative.”
“To tell the truth, I’d had a call about you two fellows,” Sykes said sheepishly.
“What sort of a call?” Frank asked.
“An anonymous phone tip the previous afternoon—Wednesday, that is. It was a man’s voice. He warned me that two young fellows might drop in, trying to trace a license number. He said you were really a pair of gyps—shakedown artists. You were just setting things up to make a fake accident claim against a car owned by someone connected with Izmir Motors.”
Joe gave the sales manager a scornful look. “You didn’t even try to get his name?”
Sykes shrugged. “He hung up before I could ask. But I was still on my guard when you two walked in. Naturally I wasn’t going to go out of my way to help you.”
“Well, maybe you can help us now,” Frank said. “Have you ever heard of a man named Lambert—or Spotty Lemuel?”
The sales manager shook his head. “No, I don’t believe so.”
“Here’s a picture of him.” Frank held out a photograph, borrowed from Mr. Hardy’s files.
Sykes looked at it and again shook his head. “Never saw him in my life. Why?”
“Because he’s mixed up in the case we’re working on,” Frank said, “and we have proof that he called Izmir Motors three times recently.”
Sykes seemed startled and offered to check the firm’s file of customers and prospects. But he soon came back and reported that his clerks could find no record of either name.
“We’d better speak to Mr. Izmir,” Frank said.
The savage guard dogs raced toward them!
Sykes gulped. “Uh—I’m afraid that’s impossible. He’s not here.”
Joe started to ask where they could get in touch with him, but Frank quickly interrupted and said they would call back later. When they got outside, Frank explained, “I figured it might be better if Sykes didn’t know our next move. He might tip off Izmir we’re coming.”
“Quick thinking,” Joe approved. “Maybe we can catch the boss man when he’s not expecting us.”
The boys checked Malcolm Izmir’s name in a phone directory and drove to his home address. This proved to be a palatial walled estate in the hills overlooking Ocean City. Joe jabbed the gate bell repeatedly, but no one answered.
“You game to go over the top?” he asked Frank.
Frank sized up the situation warily. “Okay. At least we can find out if he’s home.”
The boys shinned directly over the gate.
“Good thing we didn’t try climbing the wall,” Joe muttered, pointing to a cheval-de-frise of broken glass strewn along the top.
Dropping down inside, they walked toward the house, which could be glimpsed beyond the trees. Suddenly the Hardys were chilled by ferocious snarls. They whirled, then froze in terror. Four sleek, fierce-eyed Doberman pinscher guard dogs were racing toward them!
“They’re killers!” Frank cried out.
CHAPTER XI
A Midnight Deal
THE Hardys looked around wildly. There was no chance of getting back to the gate—the dogs were already cutting off their line of escape.
“That tree!” Frank yelled, pointing to a nearby copper beech with low-hanging branches.
The boys sprinted madly. Each grabbed a limb and swung himself off the ground.
The Dobermans came on like demons. Although lean and long-legged, they were powerful, deep-chested brutes. The dogs hurled themselves at the lower branches, baying and straining every muscle to reach their prey.
“Sufferin’ catfish!” Joe quaked. “Those babies mean business!”
“If we fell out of this tree,” Frank agreed uneasily, “we’d be hamburger in two minutes!”
“Just don’t let go, that’s all,” Joe advised.
“Great. But what do we do for food and water?”
Both boys were perspiring as they stared around for signs of help.
“Ah! Thank goodness! Here comes someone!” Joe said.
A man—evidently a servant, wearing a house-boy’s white jacket—was striding toward them. He was carrying a braided whip which Frank and Joe assumed was to use on the dogs in case they got out of hand.
“Heel!” he called sharply.
The Dobermans stopped barking and slunk close to his side. Then he glared up at the boys.
“What’re you two doing up that tree?”
“Boy, there’s a foolish question if I ever heard one!” Joe muttered. Out loud he retorted, “What does it look like?”
“Get down out of there and beat it before I call the cops!” the houseman ordered.
“Wait a minute—we’re not burglars,” Frank said. “We rang the bell at the gate but no one answered, so we had to climb over. We came here to see Mr. Izmir—on important business.”
The servant studied the boys suspiciously. “That’s out of the question,” he said. “Mr. Izmir can see no one. He has suffered a nervous breakdown. He’s living in complete seclusion under a doctor’s care.”
Frank thought fast. “What we have to see Mr. Izmir about is very important,” he said. “It has to do with a glass eye.”
The servant’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped open. He wet his lips slowly, then said in a more respectful voice, “Your names, please?”
“Frank and Joe Hardy.”
“I’ll inquire inside. Wait right there.”
He turned and walked toward the house, leaving the dogs behind. The four Dobermans sat watching the boys in eager silence, tongues lolling.
“Wait right here, he says,” Joe echoed resentfully. “What does he think we’re going to do—climb down and play tag again with those four-legged meat grinders?”
In a few minutes the servant returned. “Mr. Izmir will see you,” he announced. Turning to the dogs, he said simply, “Guard!”
Frank and Joe climbed down warily, keeping an eye on the Dobermans. The servant accompanied the boys to the house and led them inside to a richly furnished drawing room. There was a white, thick-piled carpet on the floor and modernistic paintings on the walls.
A man who was pacing back and forth restlessly turned abruptly to face the boys. He was of medium height, with a thick neck and bulging froglike eyes.
“Mr. Izmir?”
“Yes.” He gave them each a quick handshake and waved them to a sofa. “Sit down, boys!”
Frank and Joe obeyed while mentally sizing up their host. They both thought Malcolm Izmir looked healthy enough, although he seemed rather tense and jumpy.
“I understand you fellows want to see me about a—a glass eye?”
“That’s right, sir,” Frank said. “Also about a man named Lambert—or Lemuel.”
Izmir’s hooded eyes blinked. “Lambert? Lemuel? ... Who’s he? Does he have something to do with this—er—glass eye?”
“We’re not sure. We think the eye may belong to him.” Frank told briefly how he and Joe had found the eye aboard the Sea Spook and what had happened later when they tried to trace Lambert through the Bayview Motel.
“That’s interesting. Very interesting,” the auto dealer commented. “But what makes you think I might know anything about this fellow?”
“We know he called Izmir Motors from his motel three times,” Joe said. “But your sales manager knows nothing about him and says he’s not a customer or a prospect.”
“Strange.” Izmir frowned. “I can’t imagine what his business
with us would be—unless he knows someone who works for me. I’ll have Sykes check into it. Do you have this glass eye with you?”
Frank shook his head. “No, sir. We left it back home for safekeeping. You see, the thieves who stole your car waylaid us the other night—and we think they were after the eye.”
The Hardys watched Izmir’s reaction closely. Again his reptilian eyes blinked. He seemed disappointed. “Too bad,” he muttered. “I was hoping it might give us a clue—in fact, I had hoped you boys might even be able to help me.”
Frank and Joe looked at each other.
“How do you mean, sir?” Frank asked.
“No doubt you were wondering about my watchdogs,” Izmir replied, “and the fact that no one answered your ring at the gate. Well, it’s because I’ve been receiving threats lately.”
“What sort of threats?” Joe asked.
“Messages threatening my life. They come unsigned—except for a drawing of a horrible-looking eye.” Izmir licked his lips. “That’s why I agreed to see you at once when I heard you’d mentioned a glass eye. I thought there might be some connection.”
The Hardys were startled.
“Our dad’s a private detective,” Frank said. “He’s going to look into all this as soon as he winds up another case. We’ll certainly let you know if we find out anything, Mr. Izmir.”
The auto dealer nodded. “I appreciate that. But I won’t be here after tomorrow.”
“You’re going away?” Joe asked.
“Yes, on a long cruise.” Izmir stood up and began pacing about restlessly. “These threats have left my nerves all shot. I can’t eat or sleep. So my doctor has advised a complete rest and change of scene. I’m sailing from New York Monday on the ocean liner Cristobal.”
The Hardys thanked him for his time, and the houseman escorted them back to the gate.
“What do you make of Malcolm Izmir?” Joe asked his brother as they drove away.
“He must be scared of something, all right,” Frank mused, “or else he wouldn’t be holed up with those dogs guarding the place. Also, how did that car thief get past them? Anyhow, I’d like to know more about Izmir. Maybe Chief Collig can help us.”
A Figure in Hiding Page 6
