The Missing Chums

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Shaking his head, Chief Collig turned from the teller. His eyes fell on Frank and Joe. “Back so soon?” he asked, surprised.

  Frank told him about the stolen Sleuth. “The bank robbers used a speedboat for their getaway,” Joe added. “It might have been ours.”

  “Has the cutter had any luck on the bay?” Frank asked.

  “Nothing yet,” the radio operator spoke up. “They’ve been calling in every ten minutes.”

  While Joe reported the theft of their boat to a Coast Guardman, Frank asked whether any dues had been found in the thieves’ car.

  “Not even a fingerprint,” was Chief Collig’s answer. “We checked on the vehicle, of course. It had been stolen in Northport.”

  Just then Tony Prito entered the crowded station, exclaiming, “It looks like a police convention outside, with all those prowl cars!”

  “Hi, Tony,” Joe greeted him.

  “Thanks for getting here so fast!” Frank said.

  The three boys left the station at once, ran across the pier, and scrambled down a ladder into the Napoli. Tony started his motor, switched on his running lights, and throttled cautiously into the bay.

  The surface of the water was smooth and the air was warm. The fog, however, was thicker than ever. Tony tried his spotlight but even this did not penetrate the murk for any great distance.

  “Suppose we zigzag along shore about half a mile out,” Joe suggested. “The Coast Guard will cover the middle of the bay.”

  The Napoli moved steadily through the night. The boys could see nothing.

  “We need our ears for this job,” Frank said finally. “Shut her off a minute, Tony.”

  The steady purr of the motor ceased and the craft drifted noiselessly. Far to seaward, outside the harbor’s mouth, a deep-voiced foghorn rasped its warning at regular intervals.

  “Nothing,” Joe muttered disgustedly. “Start her again, Tony!”

  “Wait!” Frank ordered. “There—another boat!”

  “I don’t hear it!” Tony whispered.

  “It’s very high-pitched—just a tingle. Turn her out into the bay, Tony. Run full throttle until I say stop.”

  The Napoli shot forward, roaring through the fog.

  “Stop!” Frank cried out.

  Again came the sudden, hushed silence. Only the wake of the Napoli washed audibly behind them. But now all three boys heard the sound of a boat engine.

  “You were right,” Joe whispered. “I think it is the Sleuth. Listen!”

  The high-pitched whine drew slowly closer, then gradually receded. Soon it approached again.

  “She’s going in circles!” Joe chortled gleefully. “Head toward her, Tony.”

  “Sure. But which way?”

  “To the right,” Joe said promptly.

  “Straight ahead!” Frank countered.

  Tony started his engine and headed midway between the two directions. He drove steadily forward until Joe signaled to cut it again.

  The other craft was very near them and over the motor’s purr they could hear angry voices.

  “It won’t work!” one cried out. “Try it yourself!” Another shouted, “Move over, then!”

  Frank, Joe, and Tony listened, grinning, while the men argued about the disabled boat. Suddenly the Sleuth’s motor was silent.

  “They’re drifting away,” Frank said quietly.

  Although Tony followed in the direction he thought the other boat was taking, the voices grew faint. Desperately Tony opened his throttle wide, then shut off the motor again to listen. The voices had ceased.

  “The men must have heard us,” Joe whispered. “They probably know they’re being chased.”

  For a time the eerie pursuit continued, but at last Frank said, “It’s no use. They could have drifted a mile away by now.”

  “Or they could be five feet from us,” Joe whispered. “We’ll never find them in this fog.”

  “Besides, we’re low on gas,” Tony added, and turned the Napoli toward Bayport.

  “Joe and I will come to the party later,” Frank told Tony. “I think Dad would like to hear our account of the bank robbery.”

  After dropping Frank and Joe at the Coast Guard pier, Tony returned his boat to its mooring and went back to Callie’s house. Meanwhile, the brothers, dejected, cycled home. Opening the front door, they found their father in the hall taking his hat from the rack. Mr. Hardy stopped short.

  “Tell me what you know about the bank holdup,” he said crisply. His sons stared in surprise.

  Then Frank grinned. “I guess Chief Collig told you about us, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” replied Mr. Hardy. “He just phoned to ask my help. I’m on my way downtown. Brief me quickly.”

  The detective listened with keen interest while his sons poured out the story of the robbery and the missing Sleuth.

  “One thing is odd,” Frank added when they had finished. “The tellers swear the thieves were all the same size and build.”

  Fenton Hardy smiled. “That’s not so strange.”

  “You mean the men were identical in size?” Frank asked.

  “Not at all,” their father answered. “But a large mask will make a person’s body seem smaller. A tiny face mask can make him look bigger.”

  “So the robbers used the masks to disguise their builds as well as their faces,” said Frank.

  “Exactly,” his father answered. “It sounds like a very clever gang.”

  At that moment Aunt Gertrude came into the living room. “Fenton,” she said, her voice sharp with disapproval, “there was a special news bulletin on the radio just now saying that you’ve taken on the Bayport bank robbery case.”

  “So I have,” Mr. Hardy replied mildly, though the boys knew he was an expert at this. “At least to help the local authorities,” he added.

  “But why do they announce it?” his sister asked tartly. “The bank robbers may hear it, and who knows what those dangerous men might do to make you drop the case!”

  “Don’t worry, Gertrude,” Mr. Hardy replied kindly. “I’ll be careful. Thanks for the information, boys,” he added, and hurried off.

  Aunt Gertrude eyed Frank and Joe suspiciously. “What are you two going to do now?” she demanded.

  “Nothing dangerous, Auntie,” Joe assured her. “We’re just going to Callie’s party.” Satisfied, Miss Hardy watched the boys depart.

  “Aunt Gertrude’s right, you know,” Frank remarked as they walked to their motorcycles in the drive. “It’s too bad about that radio bulletin. Dad is safer if he works under cover.”

  A short ride brought Frank and Joe to the Shaw house. They parked their motorcycles beside the garage and quickly put on their costumes. Carrying the two containers of ice cream, the gorilla and the magician walked to the door, where they were admitted by a smiling Mrs. Shaw.

  “Hello, boys. Come right in! I’ll put the ice cream away.”

  When the Hardys entered the big living room they were hailed by a camel with four human legs, Spaceman Prito, and many other fantastic figures.

  Pretty, brown-haired Callie was dressed as a fairy princess, and slim, vivacious Iola as a page boy. The two girls hurried forward to greet the late arrivals.

  “Tony told us about the robbers and the chase,” Callie said.

  “We’re glad you got here!” Iola added warmly.

  A fierce pirate strode up to them. “I’m Black-beard Biff Hooper,” he announced. “How’d you like to walk the plank?”

  Before Frank could answer, there was a ferocious roar behind him and a hand clamped down on his shoulder. He whirled to find himself face to face with another gorilla!

  “Told you I’d surprise you!” came Chet Morton’s voice. “Come on, Gargantua! Let’s dance!”

  The two hairy creatures joined hands and waltzed around the room to the music of the record player. They pirouetted, leaped in the air, and did somersaults. The other guests watched, shrieking with laughter. Panting, Chet yanked off his tight-fitting gorill
a face.

  “Oops!” he exclaimed ruefully. “I tore it.”

  Frank examined the rubber mask. “Too bad,” he said with a grin. “You’ll have to wear your own face from now on.”

  Later, as the guests ate, they listened, fascinated, to the Hardys’ account of their adventure. Finally, about midnight, everyone began to leave.

  As Frank and Joe were saying good night to the girls, Chet came over to them. “Biff, Tony, Jerry, and I have decided to go camping tomorrow. We’re using Mr. Hooper’s boat. Sorry you fellows can’t come.”

  “We’ll make it next time,” Joe promised.

  Iola said to Chet, “You can go on home and drop Biff at his house. I’m staying overnight here.”

  “Okay, Sis.”

  Frank and Joe departed, and soon after returning home, they were sound asleep. Two hours later the ringing of the telephone jarred the silence of the Hardy home. Frank awoke and picked up the extension phone.

  “Hello.”

  “Frank?” The speaker was Mrs. Morton. “Is Chet there? He hasn’t come home yet!”

  “No, he isn’t here,” Frank answered. “He probably went to Biff’s.”

  “I’ll try the Hoopers,” Mrs. Morton said. “Sorry to have awakened you.”

  As Frank replaced the telephone, he glanced at his wrist watch. It was two o’clock.

  “Funny Chet didn’t phone his folks,” he thought.

  A second later the phone jangled again and he picked it up. “Frank Hardy speaking.”

  “This is Mrs. Hooper,” said a worried voice. “Is Biff with you?”

  Frank sat straight up in bed. “I’m sorry, he isn’t here,” he replied. “I’ll call some of our friends and see what I can find out.”

  Biff’s mother gratefully accepted the offer. “Oh, thank you. I’m so worried about him.”

  As Frank put down the phone, Joe mumbled sleepily, “What’s the matter?”

  “Matter? It looks as if plenty’s the matter. Wake up! Chet and Biff are missing!”

  CHAPTER VI

  A Perilous Slide

  STARTLED by the news, Joe sat bolt upright in bed. “Chet and Biff gone?”

  “They vanished after the party.”

  “Who was that on the telephone?” suddenly asked a deep voice. In the doorway stood Fenton Hardy in a robe.

  Quickly Frank told his father and Joe about the calls from Mrs. Morton and Mrs. Hooper. Mr. Hardy promptly dialed police headquarters, and identified himself to the desk sergeant.

  “Have any accidents been reported since midnight?” he inquired. As he listened, the lines of his forehead relaxed.

  “None,” he reported to Frank and Joe. Then the detective explained the situation to the officer, who promised that the police would look for Chet and Biff.

  After putting down the phone, Mr. Hardy asked his sons, “Is there any place the boys are likely to have gone?”

  “They were planning to go camping early this morning,” Joe recollected, “stopping at different islands along the coast. Maybe they decided to go tonight instead.”

  “I doubt it—in this fog,” Frank objected. “And not without telling anyone.” Nevertheless, he dialed the Hooper home to make sure.

  “Oh, no,” Biff’s mother replied to Frank’s question. “Mr. Hooper carries the boathouse key with him. If Biff and Chet had wanted to leave earlier, they would have had to get it from him.”

  Frank tried not to show his mounting alarm. Hoping he sounded cheerful, he said, “We’ll keep looking for the boys.” After saying good-by, he turned to Joe and his father. “This is serious. I hate to disturb Callie, but I’ll have to now.” He dialed her number. Callie herself answered sleepily.

  “Sorry to bother you so late,” Frank said. “But will you do me a favor? Peek out the window and see if Chet’s jalopy is there. It was parked under the street light.”

  After a short pause he turned to Joe and his father. “It’s still there! ... Callie, when did Biff and Chet leave?” He listened a moment. “Thanks. We can’t locate them.... Nothing wrong for sure yet. We’ll call you tomorrow.” Frank hung up and said worriedly, “They left the party ten minutes after we did.”

  Joe snapped his fingers. “I’ll bet they couldn’t get the jalopy started. They’re probably spending the night with one of the fellows who lives on Callie’s street.”

  Frank looked relieved. “Let’s go over and check the jalopy.” The boys began dressing.

  “Have you a key to the car?” Mr. Hardy asked.

  “Chet gave us one,” Frank explained.

  Fifteen minutes later the boys drove up quietly in their father’s sedan and parked behind the yellow jalopy. Quickly Frank slipped into the driver’s seat, and a moment later the Queen coughed and rattled into life. Abruptly he cut the motor and the two brothers looked at each other soberly.

  “I was wrong,” Joe said. “They didn’t have car trouble. What did happen?”

  Frank shook his head grimly. By the light of the street lamp the boys examined the jalopy, the curb and road around it, but found no clues. Using their flashlights, they checked the Shaws’ yard and porch.

  “Nothing here,” Frank said finally.

  The porch lights blinked on and Callie appeared in the doorway. “Frank—Joe, what are you doing?” she asked.

  “Looking for clues,” Joe replied. “But we haven’t found any yet.”

  “Chet and Biff had their costumes on when they left, and carried the masks,” Callie said. “They looked so conspicuous, they should be easy to locate.”

  “We’ll keep trying,” Frank promised.

  He used the Shaw phone and called each boy who had been at the party. Chet and Biff were not with any of them, nor had Tony or Jerry heard from them.

  Finally the Hardys headed for home. They gave their father the discouraging report and reluctantly went back to bed.

  After a few hours of uneasy sleep, Frank and Joe awakened to find bright sunlight filling the room. Hurriedly they dressed and dashed downstairs. Their father was already at the breakfast table.

  “Any news of Chet and Biff?” Frank asked.

  Mr. Hardy shook his head soberly. “The police have found no trace of them.”

  “If only we knew where to start looking!” Joe said worriedly. “But we haven’t a single clue to go on.”

  “The State Police are searching, too,” Mr. Hardy told them. “A lead may turn up before the day is over. I hate to mention it,” he added, “but the boys might have been kidnaped. So, to be on the safe side, there’ll be absolutely no publicity.”

  “Good idea,” Frank agreed.

  For a minute he and Joe sat in glum silence. “What about the Sleuth?” Joe asked finally.

  “The Coast Guard hasn’t found it yet,” Mr. Hardy replied, “and there are no leads on the bank robbery, either.”

  “How about the stolen car?” Frank queried. “Who owns it?”

  “A man living up the coast,” his father answered. “It disappeared day before yesterday while he was at a boat regatta in Northport.”

  “A boat regatta—” Joe murmured. “Where have we heard of one lately?”

  “At the Coast Guard station,” Frank prompted.

  “That’s it! Seaman Thompson thought the boat that tried to ram us might have come down from the regatta in Northport.”

  “Looks like Northport might furnish a lead to more than one mystery,” Frank declared. “Let’s take a run up there and see if we can pick up a clue.”

  “If I go up the coast, I want to go in the Sleuth!” Joe answered firmly. “We must find her!”

  At this point, Mrs. Hardy brought the discussion to an end by setting before each boy a stack of steaming, golden-brown pancakes.

  Aunt Gertrude came in behind her with a block of yellow butter and a tall pitcher of maple syrup. “There are more cakes on the griddle,” she said. “You need your strength. And for goodness’ sake, find those poor lost boys!”

  “If we can help—”
Mrs. Hardy began.

  “Thanks,” Frank said.

  After breakfast the brothers hurried to the garage. “The bank robbers must have beached the Sleuth somewhere,” Joe reasoned. “If we follow the shore, we’re sure to find her.”

  The black-and-silver motorcycles backfired like pistol shots, then roared from the drive and down High Street. The riders headed out Shore Road, past the private docks.

  The fog of the night before had given way to a bright-blue summer morning. As the boys sped along in a cool, salty breeze they watched the white sand of the beach on their right. There was no sign of the Sleuth.

  Finally they reached the head of the bay and turned sharply, following the seacoast northward. For a while Frank and Joe saw only the big green rollers of the Atlantic as they broke into foaming white along the sand and rocks.

  The brothers spotted the squatters’ colony of slapped-together board dwellings ahead.

  The cycles chugged up Shore Road, which rose and twisted along the top of high, rocky cliffs along the sea.

  “Look down there!” Joe called out suddenly. He had caught the glint of sunshine on a familiar hull. The Sleuth! It was stranded on the beach!

  “Yippee!” exclaimed Frank. “The robbers must have floated her in at high tide.” The boys parked their motorcycles and hurried to the edge of the bluff. Below them, the rocky cliff fell straight down to the boulders bordering the sand.

  “I don’t see a path,” Frank said. “Wait! Here’s a place we can go down.”

  As he leaned over the edge, a mass of loose sod and stone gave way at his feet. With a startled cry Frank slid downward. Desperately he grasped for a hold, his clawing fingers closing on a sharp slab jutting out just below the lip of the bluff. His body hung a hundred feet above the rocks and sand below.

  “Hang on!” Joe shouted, and whipped his extra-long leather belt from its loops. Lying flat, he inched downward over the cliff edge until he could pass the leather under Frank’s armpits. He slid the end through the buckle and pulled the belt tight.

  Joe squirmed back again, braced himself, and hauled. For one sickening moment Frank swung like a pendulum beneath the cliff. With all his strength, Joe jerked the belt again and a moment later helped Frank clamber to safety.