The Missing Chums

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Whew! That was close!” Frank said, gasping. “If it hadn’t been for you—”

  “Better leave the boat,” Joe panted, retrieving his belt. “We can come by sea with the Coast Guard and get her.“ Still shaking from fright, Frank agreed.

  Joe helped Frank clamber to safety

  The brothers went at once to the Coast Guard station on the pier. When Lieutenant Parker heard Frank’s story, he called two men and led the way to a patrol boat. The powerful craft headed straight out the mouth of the bay and turned sharply up the coast.

  The beach was a whitish line on their left. Soon it broadened, and the tumble-down buildings of Shantytown came into view.

  “Wait! Wait a minute!” Frank called out. “Can we slow down? What’s that white thing floating in the water?”

  “A dead fish,” suggested a Coast Guardman. The patrol boat throttled down and slid nearer the object. Leaning far over the side, Joe lunged and scooped it from the sea.

  “This isn’t a fish!” he cried out excitedly. “It’s a rubber mask turned inside out!”

  As he spoke, his fingers moved nimbly. In an instant a limp gorilla face appeared.

  “This belongs to Chet!” Frank exclaimed.

  CHAPTER VII

  Dangerous Beachcombing

  FRANK took the mask from Joe and examined it carefully. “You’re right. Here’s the place where Chet ripped it at the party.”

  “But what’s it doing floating in the bay?” asked Joe in great concern. “He and Biff must have gone out in a boat after all.”

  “But whose?” Frank queried.

  “And why would they go out in the fog?” Joe added. Then he voiced the question uppermost in both their minds. “You don’t think they could have drowned?”

  Frank’s face was grim. “Chet and Biff are excellent swimmers. Maybe, for a reason we don’t know yet, they’re hiding somewhere—perhaps Shantytown!” Frank gazed intently across the water at the squatter colony, now falling astern.

  “Could be,” Joe said. “They knew about our case. Maybe they picked up a clue and landed in Shantytown. We’d better find out as soon as we get the Sleuth.”

  The boys lapsed into worried silence until the Coast Guard boat came within sight of rocky cliffs towering high above the white beach.

  A seaman scanned the shore with binoculars and sang out, “There she is, sir! It’s the Sleuth, all right. I can read her name.”

  The engines of the cutter shuddered as it swung in toward the beached motorboat. The Hardys whipped off their shoes and leaped overboard into thigh-deep water as the craft crunched against the sandy bottom. Joe was the first to reach the derelict Sleuth.

  “She looks okay,” he called out to his brother.

  “Yes, but high and dry,” Frank said as he waded ashore.

  “We’ll help you float her,” a seaman offered.

  Quickly gathering large pieces of driftwood, the boys improvised a crude skidway. Then, with the Coast Guardmen helping, they slid the boat down to the water. A towline was secured and the Sleuth bobbed toward Bayport in the wake of the Coast Guard patrol boat.

  “Let’s tow her straight to the boatyard,” Frank suggested. “Maybe they have the new part by now.”

  His guess proved correct. While the patrol boat waited, the young mechanic quickly examined the Sleuth.

  “Have you been using her?” he asked the Hardys.

  “Well—somebody has, Charlie,” Joe replied.

  The mechanic nodded. “Hm—thought so. The temporary repair I made didn’t last. But if you keep turning the wheel, you can make her steer a little—enough to get by.”

  “That’s how the bandits slipped away in the fog last night,” Frank whispered to his brother.

  “I’ll be finished in an hour,” Charlie said. “Shall I have her taken to your boathouse?”

  “Righto,” Frank replied. “We’ll pick her up there.”

  The Hardys rode on the patrol boat to the Coast Guard pier, thanked Lieutenant Parker and his men for their help, and hastened to their motorcycles.

  “I wish the Sleuth were ready now,” Joe said impatiently, “so we could go right to Shantytown.”

  “But first we have to round up beachcomber disguises,” Frank reminded him.

  The boys rode home and changed into dry clothes. While Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude were preparing lunch for them, Joe called police headquarters. He learned that there were no new leads on their friends or the bank robbers.

  Chief Collig was amazed to hear about the discovery of Chet’s mask. “The boys may be nearer than I thought. I’ve already sent out a seventeen-state missing-persons alarm.”

  “We might find more clues in Shantytown,” Joe told him. “We’re going there next.”

  Directly after lunch, Frank and Joe bounded upstairs, pulled out some old shirts and pants, and hurried down again. As they passed through the hall carrying the clothes, their mother and aunt looked out from the living room in surprise.

  “Where are you going?” Aunt Gertrude inquired.

  Mrs. Hardy asked, smiling, “Not another costume party? I returned your gorilla and magician suits this morning.”

  “Did you explain to Mr. French about Chet and Biff? He’ll wonder why they don’t bring their costumes back,” Joe said.

  “He wasn’t there,” Mrs. Hardy replied. “I left your outfits with the clerk.”

  “Where are you boys off to?” Aunt Gertrude demanded again.

  “We’re going sleuthing in Shantytown,” Frank replied. “Probably we won’t be home to supper.”

  Aunt Gertrude stared in disapproval. “Even foolhardy young detectives get hungry,” she said tartly.

  “I’ll pack your supper,” their mother offered. Aunt Gertrude and the boys followed her into the kitchen where the two women quickly prepared a package of food for the boys to take along.

  “You and Auntie certainly move fast, Mother,” Joe said admiringly. “Thanks a lot.”

  “Yes, we appreciate it,” Frank chimed in.

  Mrs. Hardy smiled. “We know you’re in a hurry.”

  The boys went out the back door and hastily stowed the food and clothing in their motorcycle carriers.

  “We must put in the make-up kit from the lab,” Frank reminded his brother. With Fenton Hardy’s help, Frank and Joe had fitted out a small modern crime laboratory over the family garage. Joe hurried upstairs to it and soon emerged with the kit, which he put in the carrier.

  When they reached their boathouse, the boys found the Sleuth there. By the time the craft emerged, she carried two entirely different-looking young men.

  Frank’s face was smudged and his dark hair was tousled. He wore a battered straw hat and a striped jersey with a long rip in the back.

  Joe’s normal suntan had been made even darker by the use of make-up. A fake tattoo decorated his right arm. His trousers were torn off at the knees.

  Both boys wore tennis shoes bursting at the sides. They carried burlap sacks appropriate for beachcombing.

  “Let’s land about a mile this side of Shantytown,” Frank suggested. “We can wander toward it along the beach.”

  Soon Beachcomber Joe, at the wheel, ran the Sleuth into a little cove. Drawing her up between two rocks, they camouflaged the craft with pieces of driftwood and dry seaweed.

  “Now,” said Joe, “if we can just find another clue to lead us to Chet and Biff!”

  Frank nodded. “And at the same time learn what’s behind the fighting in Shantytown.”

  Trying not to appear hurried, the two boys sauntered along with their sacks. The midafternoon sun threw a white sparkle over everything

  —the curling waves, the sand, and even the gray, bleaching driftwood. Now and again Frank and Joe would stoop and put a handful of shells, bits of rope, or a few pebbles into the sacks.

  “Some beachcombing!” Joe grinned.

  At last the Hardys entered the squatters’ village. The first huts were merely tarpaulins stretched across driftwoo
d poles. But as the boys strolled along, they saw that several of the many shacks were of wood, well constructed, with solid, padlocked doors.

  A few men were lounging about, smoking. Frank and Joe passed near a group roasting potatoes in hot coals before one of the huts. The men paid no attention to the Hardys as the boys moved on.

  “If Chet and Biff are here, they could be in any of these shacks!” Joe muttered in a low tone. “How can we get a closer look?”

  The young sleuths were walking between the water’s edge and the first row of huts. Near them a man stood in the water wringing out a shirt.

  “Let’s drift up to the next shack,” Frank suggested.

  The boys approached a solidly built shanty. Abruptly the door swung open. A thin, seedy-looking man with faded red hair stepped out in the sunlight and stared at them with hard blue eyes. As the Hardys returned the look, the fellow moved toward them.

  “What are you doing here?” he challenged harshly.

  “Just walking along the beach,” Joe returned in a tough-sounding voice. “Looking for junk.”

  “Yeah? Well, get out of here and do it some place else. See?”

  “This is a free country,” Frank retorted, also speaking in a tough tone. “We’ll walk here if we feel like it.”

  Instead of answering, the man reached into a back pocket and pulled out a blackjack. He lunged at Frank with the agility of a cat.

  “Cut it out, Sutton!” barked a voice. The new-comer, a broad-shouldered young man, darted between Frank and his assailant. A boxer’s hand chop sent the blackjack flying to the sand.

  Sutton muttered under his breath, clenched his fists, and glared at the tall man. He was young and strong, with a blond crew cut.

  “If you’re looking for trouble, I’ll give it to you,” the big fellow said meaningfully.

  Sutton dropped his eyes and turned away. He retrieved his weapon and disappeared behind his shanty.

  Relieved, Frank said, “Thanks a lot, Mr.—”

  “Call me Alf,” was the friendly reply. “I was wading over there when I saw Sutton go for you. You’d better stay away from this place. We’ve had a lot of trouble lately.”

  “Well, thanks again, Alf,” Frank said warmly as he shook the huge, hard hand. “You sure saved me a lump on the head. I’m Frank, and this is my brother Joe.”

  The three strolled along the beach. “So there’s been trouble in Shantytown lately,” Joe repeated, hoping to learn more from their new acquaintance.

  “Yes. Sutton and his pals have been the ones making it, too. All they do is fight among themselves. Shantytown wouldn’t be such a bad place, otherwise.”

  “Do you live here, Alf?” Frank inquired.

  “Me?” The man laughed good-naturedly. “No, but I work on the docks and I know some fellows who work in town occasionally and live here, so I come out a lot on my hours off.”

  By now the three had reached the far edge of the colony. “I’ve got to see a fellow,” Alf told them. “Look out for Hank Sutton when you go back. If he tries anything, just yell for Alf—Alf Lundborg.”

  The young giant’s friendly act and his open face made Frank decide to trust him. “Maybe we can help you sometime, Alf,” he said. “Our name is Hardy, but we don’t want anyone in Shantytown to know it.”

  “Nobody’ll hear it from me,” Lundborg replied. “Say, if you’re going to be around for a while, why don’t you eat with my friends and me?”

  “We’d like that,” Frank said. “How’ll we find you?”

  Alf reached into his pocket. “Just listen for this,” he replied, opening his hand. In the palm lay a harmonica. “See you around,” he said and moved off.

  When Alf Lundborg had gone up the beach, the brothers retraced their steps. While picking up more stones and shells, they scanned the sand carefully for anything that might belong to their missing chums. This time they took care not to venture too close to Sutton’s shanty.

  “There’s our ‘friend,’ ” Frank said in a low voice.

  Stealing a glance toward the hut, Joe saw Sutton standing at one corner, talking earnestly with another man. His companion was listening with obvious impatience. He shifted his weight and suddenly turned full around. The Hardys saw that he was short in build, and had black hair combed straight back.

  “That man!” Joe whispered. “It’s—”

  “I know!” Frank took his brother’s arm and hurried him toward the beach. “It’s the speedboat driver who almost rammed us! What’s he doing here?”

  CHAPTER VIII

  Postcard Puzzle

  “KEEP going,” Frank advised Joe. “If we turn around for another look, that powerboat pilot may recognize us!”

  With bent heads, the young detectives shuffled along the beach between the ocean and the first line of squatters’ shacks. If the stranger with the dark, combed-back hair noticed them at all, he saw only two ragged beachcombers wandering back in the direction of Bayport.

  “So, the fellow who rammed us hangs around Shantytown!” Joe burst out.

  “Yes,” Frank added thoughtfully, “and he’s friendly with the chief troublemaker there.”

  “But why should one of Sutton’s pals try to ram the Sleuth?” Joe puzzled. “Because he found out—or suspected—we’d be investigating Shantytown?”

  “Possibly,” Frank replied. “And if Chet and Biff are prisoners here, the men don’t want us to find out! They’ll do everything to keep us away.”

  Joe whistled. “If that’s true, we must find them. I’m scared about what may have happened to them.”

  “Maybe we’ll pick up some clues tonight,” Frank said. “It’s almost suppertime. Let’s go back and watch Sutton’s place.”

  When the boys returned to the group of shacks, they saw some of the men drifting in from work, and others tending cooking fires.

  Behind Sutton’s shanty was a deserted shack. Frank and Joe slipped inside and settled themselves by a broken window. Although they stayed at their post an hour, they saw no sign of activity.

  “Sutton’s probably eating somewhere else,” Frank said. “Let’s find Alf and come back later.”

  As the boys stepped outside they heard a lively tune from a harmonica. Following the sound of the music, they found Alf playing for a small group of rough-looking men, seated around a fire.

  When Alf finished the song, he introduced the boys and the laborers by first names. The men looked the Hardys over and nodded.

  “The stew’s done,” a big red-faced man said, taking the lid from a large kettle. “Pitch in!”

  As the men began to serve themselves on tin plates, Frank and Joe reached into their bags and took out the food they had brought. They unpacked a pound of frankfurters, rolls, two cans of beans, and apples.

  “Help yourselves,” Frank invited cordially.

  “Looks good, boys,” said the red-faced man, whose name was Lou. “Most of us are hungry enough to eat two suppers.”

  By the time the last crumb had disappeared, the men had warmed up to Frank and Joe and willingly answered their seemingly casual questions about Shantytown. None of the men, however, knew what the fights were about, nor had they seen two strange boys.

  “We’ll keep our eyes open for ’em,” Lou volunteered. He took some driftwood from a bushel basket beside him, and threw two pieces on the fire. Then he tossed a piece of dark cloth after it.

  “What’s that?” Frank asked sharply. He grabbed a long stick and hooked the cloth from the blaze.

  “It’s just some junk I picked up,” Lou answered.

  Frank dropped it to the ground and the brothers eagerly examined the piece.

  “It’s a sleeve from Chet’s gorilla outfit!” Joe whispered excitedly.

  “I thought it looked familiar,” Frank said. To Lou he said, “It’s part of a costume. Where did you find this?”

  “Behind Sutton’s shack,” the man replied.

  “Is it important?” Alf asked the boys.

  “It definitely l
inks our missing friends with Shantytown,” Frank replied, as he put the sleeve in his burlap bag. “Come on, Joe! Let’s gro back to Sutton’s place.”

  After thanking the men for their hospitality, the boys hurried off into the darkness.

  “Be careful,” Alf called after them. “Yell if you need help.”

  The Hardys found the shanty dark and padlocked. They circled it cautiously, but there was no one around. Joe knocked on the door. “Chet! Biff!” Frank called. Not a sound from inside. Again Joe pounded and both boys called repeatedly.

  “It’s no use,” Joe said finally. “If they are inside, they’re probably bound and gagged.”

  “Look for an opening between the boards,” Frank instructed. The boys pulled out pencil flashlights and examined the side of the shack.

  “I’ve found a knothole,” said Joe.

  “And here’s a chink. I’ll shine my light in while you look through the hole.”

  Joe watched the slender beam shift around the dark room. “Empty,” he declared, disappointed. “Let’s look for more of Chet’s or Biff’s belongings.” They searched the sand around the shanty, but found nothing.

  “Let’s hide in the deserted shack again,” Frank suggested. “If Sutton comes back with any of his pals, we may overhear something important.”

  Patiently the young detectives waited and watched, but their quarry did not return. Frank consulted his watch. “It’s almost midnight. Maybe—”

  “Sh!” Joe interrupted. “Listen!”

  They heard footsteps and saw a dark figure approaching Sutton’s shanty. The stranger knocked several times. Finally a neighbor opened his door. “You lookin’ for Sutton?” he asked.

  “Yes,” replied the unknown caller. “All I know is he went off in a car with a dark-haired fellow. I heard Sutton say he wouldn’t come back tonight.”

  Without a word the caller disappeared into the darkness. The door to the shack slammed shut.

  “That’s that,” Frank said in disappointment. “Let’s go back to town and report to headquarters.”

  “You bet. Frank, do you suppose Chet and Biff were here but have been taken away?”