The boys were puzzled. Surely their father would not have made such a request if this invention were not unusually valuable.
“Let’s turn it on,” Frank suggested.
Joe clicked the switch. A man was speaking in Spanish from Madrid, Spain, and announcing the start of a newscast. His voice was very clear.
Frank grabbed his brother’s arm. “Do you hear that?” he cried. “The receiver is not picking up one bit of static!”
“You’re right!” Joe agreed. “It must be designed to work in the high-frequency bands.”
“But how can we be receiving a broadcast direct from Madrid? That Spanish station must be transmitting by short-wave. Yet, we’re hearing it loud and clear. This is amazing!”
Joe gazed at the miniature radio with great interest. “I’ll bet there’s a lot more to Mr. Wright’s invention than just being able to hear overseas stations without static,” he observed. “After all, why is he so anxious to keep it a secret?”
Just then there was a loud knock on the back door and a voice from outside said, “Let me in! I’m a ham! I have a message for you!”
CHAPTER III
Warning Message
FOR a few seconds none of the Hardys spoke. They were trying to decide if the caller at the kitchen door really was a radio ham with a message. Or a member of the burglary gang?
Finally Mrs. Hardy said, “We can’t let the man stand out there in the rain.”
Frank called, “Where’s the message from?”
“Mr. Hardy in San Francisco.”
“Open the door,” Mrs. Hardy said quietly.
Joe hid the box containing the invention, then he and Frank stood on either side of the door, poised for any attack. Aunt Gertrude had armed herself with a broom. Joe turned the knob and a water-drenched figure in raincoat and hat stepped into the kitchen.
“Thanks,” the man said, removing his hat. “What a night! My wife told me I was crazy to come out.”
The speaker was an honest-faced man of about thirty-five. He noticed Aunt Gertrude’s broom and smiled. “You can put that away,” he said. “I’m harmless.”
Miss Hardy looked embarrassed. “Take off your coat,” she said. “I’ll get you some coffee.”
The man nodded. “I could use it. I got cold walking over here. My car wouldn’t start.”
“Did you come far?” Joe asked.
“About five blocks. I’m Larry Burton, 69 Meadowbrook Road. I’ve always wanted to meet the Hardy boys. This all came about in a funny way. I have a short-wave set. Tonight I picked up your father. He said he couldn’t get through to you or the police on the phone—lines tied up—and you didn’t answer his signal on your short-wave set.”
“We weren’t expecting a call,” Frank answered. He did not say that the boys had not been at home and that their mother and Aunt Gertrude rarely paid attention to the set unless specifically asked to do so.
“By the time I phoned you, the lightning was fierce,” Burton went on. “My wife’s scared to death of lightning. She wouldn’t let me use the phone, so I walked over.”
Aunt Gertrude served the caller coffee and cake as they all sat around the big kitchen table.
“What was the message, Mr. Burton?” Joe asked.
“That you boys are in great danger. A gang is after you and will stop at nothing to get what they want.”
“How dreadful!” Mrs. Hardy exclaimed. “Did my husband name this—this gang?”
“No. That’s all there was to the message,” Burton replied. “I’m sorry to bring you bad news, but I guess that’s to be expected in a detective’s family. Well, I must get along.” He stood up.
Frank shook the man’s hand. “We sure appreciate this. Maybe some time we can return the favor.”
“Forget it,” Burton said. “I only hope that gang doesn’t harm you fellows.”
Joe helped him with his coat and he went out. The storm had moved off.
For a few minutes the Hardys discussed the caller and confirmed his address in the telephone directory. Joe was a bit skeptical, however. “Either he made up the whole story, or else Dad is really concerned for our safety.”
Frank was inclined to think Burton had told the truth. Had he and Joe already encountered two members of the gang at the Wright home?
Aunt Gertrude spoke up. “How in the world did my brother Fenton hear this in California?”
“News travels,” said Mrs. Hardy. “Especially among detectives and police.”
“Hmm!” Aunt Gertrude murmured, then announced she was going to bed.
Ten minutes later Frank and Joe were asleep and did not awaken until ten o‘clock. At once Frank got up and opened a wooden chest of sports equipment under which he had hidden the box containing Mr. Wright’s invention. It was still there.
“Where do you think we should keep this?” he asked Joe as they were dressing. “Dad said not to leave the box at home.”
“A tough problem, Frank. With that gang after us, we can’t take the chance of carrying it around with us,” Frank answered.
“Right. And they may not be after us, but after the invention,” Frank answered.
While they were having breakfast, Frank came up with the idea of a unique hiding place for the invention. “Let’s put it in the well under the spare tire in the trunk of our car,” he said.
Joe laughed. “Now you’re using that old brain of yours. Best place you could have picked. The car’s vibrations can’t hurt the radio and no one would think of looking there.”
Mrs. Hardy asked her sons what their plans were for the day.
“Dad told us to drop into the antique airplane show and see if we could spot anybody who seemed overly interested,” Frank replied. “He thought the person who stole Mr. Wright’s old plane might be planning another theft.”
“Tonight,” Joe continued, “we’re going to Chet’s party and stay until tomorrow. Okay?”
“Of course,” his mother answered.
Chet Morton, an overweight, good-natured schoolmate, lived on a farm at the edge of Bayport. A group of boys and girls had been invited there to a barn dance and late supper. Frank and Joe would pick up Callie Shaw, a special friend of Frank’s. His brother’s date was usually Chet’s sister Iola.
Mrs. Hardy remarked that since the boys would be away, she would spend the night with a friend. “Your aunt plans to visit Cousin Helen in Gresham, anyhow.”
During the conversation Aunt Gertrude had left the table. She returned holding the local morning newspaper. “Well, you boys are in for real trouble!” she exclaimed. “Listen to this!”
Miss Hardy read an account of the captured burglars at the Wright home and the mysterious summons to the police. The item stressed the fact that the men’s assailants, when caught, should be dealt with severely.
“When caught, eh?” Joe burst into laughter. “We’re going to be mighty hard to find, aren’t we, Frank?”
His brother grinned, but Mrs. Hardy looked worried. “Maybe you boys should explain everything to Chief Collig.”
“Not without Dad’s and Mr. Wright’s permission,” Frank answered. “For the time being—”
“I haven’t finished,” Aunt Gertrude interrupted. “It says here that the police think this incident might be part of a gang feud.” She removed her reading glasses and gazed at her nephews. “You two are now considered to be part of a gang and the rival gang is about to harm you.”
“Wow!” said Joe, pulling his hair over his eyes and striking the pose of a belligerent “bad guy.” “We’d better look the part!”
Since the antique airplane show did not open until two o‘clock, the boys did various chores during the morning. They also hid Mr. Wright’s invention in the tire well and bolted the spare back into place.
After lunch Frank and Joe drove Aunt Gertrude to the train. From there they went directly to the Bayport Air Terminal where the antique airplane exhibit was housed in the spacious lobby. The first person they saw was Chet Morton.
“Sure are,” Frank agreed. “I notice that most of them are biplanes. It must have been fun flying in the days of the open cockpits.”
“You can say that again!” Chet declared. As he stepped back for a better view, his foot slammed down on the toe of a man standing directly behind him.
“Ow!” the stranger yelped.
The boys turned to see the man hopping around on one foot. “You stupid, overgrown kid!” he screamed.
“I’m awfully sorry,” Chet said apologetically.
The tall, muscular man, who had blond hair and hard features, looked at the youth menacingly. “You idiot!” he snarled.
Frank and Joe stepped in front of Chet as he stammered, “Who—who are you calling an idiot?”
“Now just a minute!” Joe interrupted. “It was an accident. No sense getting upset about this!”
“Can I be of any help?” the boys heard someone say. They looked around to see a lanky young man walking toward them. He had rust-colored hair and leathery skin that was deeply tanned.
“What are you butting in for?” snapped the stranger.
“This boy didn’t step on you intentionally,” the young man insisted. “I saw the whole thing. You were trying to listen to their conversation and got too close.”
The tall stranger was about to say something, but hesitated. For a moment he glared at Chet and his companions, then stomped out of the lobby, swinging his brief case.
Frank and Joe looked at each other. Why had the man been listening to their conversation? Did he belong to the gang they had been warned about?
Meanwhile, Chet was saying, “Thanks for your help, Mr.—”
“My name is Cole Weber,” the young man introduced himself. “I’m president of the Central Antique Airplane Club. We own the exhibit and are taking it to several airports. We’re trying to encourage public interest in vintage aircraft.”
“Sounds like a great club,” Joe remarked.
“We think so,” Weber said. “The majority of the models you see here are replicas of real airplanes owned and operated by our members.”
“You mean that some of those old crates still fly?” Chet asked.
Weber grinned. “Well ... we don’t think of them as crates. When properly rebuilt, most antique planes are as safe and reliable as the day they were originally made. I own one myself. It’s outside on the ramp. Would you like to see it?”
“Would we!” Joe exclaimed.
Mr. Weber led the boys to the airport ramp. A short distance ahead stood an orange-and-white biplane. The boys peered into the two open cockpits.
“This is cool!” Joe declared.
The pilot smiled. “Compared to modern planes, mine doesn’t have many instruments. But since we fly the antiques only for fun, we don’t need elaborate equipment, such as that required for all-weather operations.”
The boys looked closely at the diagonal pattern of wires stretching between the wings. Then they examined the plane’s radial engine and the long, slender wooden propeller.
“How many passengers can you carry?” Frank asked.
“Two in the front cockpit,” Weber answered. “Say! Would two of you like to go for a ride?”
The boys’ eyes widened with excitement. Then Frank and Joe remembered the sleuthing they had promised to do for their father.
“Thanks just the same,” Frank said, “but I’m afraid Joe and I can’t go this time.”
“But I’d like to,” Chet spoke up. “Say, fellows, could you drive me to the farm afterward?”
“Farm?” Weber interrupted. “Are there any level stretches of ground in the area?”
“Plenty of them. Why?”
“I’ll fly you home if you’d like.”
Chet tingled with excitement. “Great! Thanks.”
The flier opened the baggage compartment and took out a parachute, helmet, and goggles. “Put these on and climb into the front cockpit.”
“Mr. Weber, do you know Mr. Malcolm Wright?” Frank asked.
“Yes, indeed. He’s a member of our club.”
“Did you hear that his antique plane was stolen?” Joe put in.
Weber nodded. “Too bad. I understand he has some secret invention he was trying out in the plane. I hope that wasn’t stolen too.”
The boys caught their breath in astonishment but said nothing. They had not heard this. Weber did not seem to notice. He donned his own parachute and summoned a mechanic to twirl the propeller and start the engine. Then he climbed into the rear cockpit.
“Brakes on! Switch off!” the mechanic called.
“Brakes on! Switch off!” Weber echoed.
The mechanic pulled the propeller through several times. Then he stepped back and yelled:
“Contact!”
“Contact!” the pilot responded.
The engine caught on the first try. A staccato popping developed into a steady roar. Chet’s goggled face turned toward the Hardys. He waved wildly as Weber taxied out for take-off.
“See you at the party!” Chet shouted over the roar of the engine.
Minutes later the plane, looking like a box kite, was climbing above the Bayport field. As the Hardys turned to leave, Frank caught his brother’s arm.
“There’s that man Chet stepped on! He’s watching us from the doorway! This time I mean to find out why.” Frank started to run. “Come on, Joe!”
CHAPTER IV
The Cold Trail
As soon as the man saw Frank and Joe, he turned to hurry off. In doing so, he hit the doorframe and dropped his brief case, which burst open. At a distance the boys could not read any of the printing on the letters that fell out, but one had red and blue stripes at the top.
The tall, blond man snatched up the papers and stuffed them into the brief case. He quickly zipped it shut and began to run.
“He sure isn’t on the level,” Joe remarked, “or he wouldn’t race off like that. We can’t let him get away!”
The stranger’s long legs and agility helped him cover a wide stretch in a short time. Before the Hardys could catch up to him, he reached the exit and jumped into a waiting car which zoomed off.
Frank and Joe stopped short, puzzled. Was the man afraid of them? And if so, why?
“Maybe that brief case had something to do with his running off,” Frank said.
The boys went inside the terminal building. They continued to look at the planes while keeping their eyes open for any other suspicious characters. They saw none and finally returned home.
“You must be hungry,” said Mrs. Hardy. “I have hot apple pie, but it’s getting cold.”
Joe patted her shoulder. “Shall we eat dessert first?” he teased.
Later the boys went upstairs to change for Chet’s barn dance. Both put on jeans, plaid shirts, and big straw hats. They packed overnight bags, then joined their mother who was waiting to be driven to her friend’s home.
Just before leaving the house, Frank heard a signal from their private short-wave set. “Dad must be calling,” he said, and raced to Mr. Hardy’s second-floor study.
“FH home,” he said into the mike. “Over.”
“Frank,” said his father, “how’s everything?”
“Okay, Dad. How about you?”
“Fair,” the detective said. “But I have a new lead to follow. You won’t be able to get in touch with me for a couple of days. Did you get my message from the ham operator?”
“Yes, Dad.” Frank told him all that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, including the wiretapping.
Mr. Hardy whistled. “Then the gang knew where you were going.”
“Shall Joe and I tell Chief Collig we were the first burglars?” Frank asked.
“I guess you’d better,” the detective agreed. “But warn him the information is confidential and don’t tell him what the invention is you were after.”
He now explai
ned that he had been tipped off by Chicago police that a gang suspected of robbery there had suddenly vanished. A “squealer” had reported they were out to “get” the Hardy detectives. The boys’ father did not know why, but surmised it might concern Mr. Wright’s invention.
“And now let me speak to your mother,” Mr. Hardy said.
Half an hour later Frank and Joe stopped at Chief Collig’s home and made their report. The chief burst into laughter. “So you’re the ones who knocked out those men. I guess they had a real scare. They haven’t talked since.”
By the time the boys reached the Mortons’ farm with Callie Shaw, the dance was under way. A Bayport High School combo was playing.
“Hi, masterminds!” Chet shouted as the Hardys strolled in. “I thought you’d never get here. Boy! Wait till I tell you about my flight!” He began to describe the adventure, supplementing his words with swooping motions of both hands.
His sister Iola joined Callie and the boys. She was a slim, dark-haired girl and very pretty. “Hi, Joe, Frank, Callie!” Then hearing her brother, she said laughingly, “Oh no! Is Chet talking about his flight again? He hasn’t stopped since he landed.”
“You just don’t know anything about real flying,” her brother said, “until you’ve been in one of those old biplanes.”
“Our turn’s next,” Joe reminded him.
The following hours passed quickly. When it was time for supper, Joe and Iola decided to eat outside. They filled their paper plates with sandwiches, chocolate cake and cups of lemonade, and went to sit on the steps of the Mortons’ front veranda.
As they ate, Iola glanced toward the driveway in which many of the guests had parked their cars. The Hardys’ convertible was near the end of the long queue.
Suddenly Iola touched Joe’s arm. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I saw someone lurking behind your car,” Iola replied. “Yes. There he is.”
Joe peered into the darkness. He saw a man, his hat pulled low, pop up from behind the car, then duck down again. At once the young detective sprang to his feet and ran toward the mysterious figure. The fellow might be after the secret radio!
“Who are you?” he shouted, seeing the trunk lid rise and the light go on. “What are you doing?”
What Happened at Midnight Page 2
