The Flickering Torch Mystery

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Joe nodded. “We can do it in the Sleuth.”

  The Sleuth was their powerboat. They kept it in a boathouse on Barmet Bay near their home, and used it mostly for fun. But several times the Hardys had relied on their craft in searching for criminals along the coast.

  “What about the tides?” Joe asked.

  Frank went to a cabinet where they stored their maritime charts. He removed one containing information about the tides of Marlin Crag, and placed it flat on the table.

  “It’s a pretty narrow shore,” Joe commented, leaning over his shoulder.

  Frank agreed. “That means we’ll have to wait for low tide. The engine might have tipped out away from the cliffs. Could be under water at high tide.”

  Next morning, after a hearty breakfast of pancakes, sausage and eggs, Frank and Joe drove to the boathouse and eased the Sleuth out into the open water. It was a sleek craft powered by a rugged inboard motor.

  Frank took the wheel. The propeller churned the water into a white froth and the powerboat roared across the bay.

  “Let’s see what she can do!” Joe yelled into the wind.

  Frank gave it full throttle and curved around in a big circle in the middle of the bay. He drove the Sleuth toward shore, zipped between two small islands, followed the buoys and veered back out again. He slowed the craft suddenly, went into reverse, and then raced straight forward again at top speed. Finally he cut the power and allowed the boat to idle.

  “That was a good warming up,” Joe said. He added, “Look, what’s that coming?”

  A dot in the distance began to grow larger on the surface of the bay. Another powerboat was headed in their direction.

  “Hey, it’s Tony Prito’s Napoli!” Frank exclaimed.

  Tony was a dark-haired, lively youth whose father ran a construction company in Bayport.

  “Who’s that with him?” Joe inquired.

  Frank shaded his eyes with his hand. “Biff Hooper is my guess. He’s too big to be anybody else.”

  Biff was a husky six-footer who knew how to use his fists when the going got rough. He and Tony had been in on several of the Hardys’ investigations, and many a criminal had felt the iron of Biff’s wallop.

  The Napoli pulled alongside the Sleuth and they bobbed up and down together in the waves.

  “Hi, you guys,” Tony saluted the Hardys. “What are you doing?”

  “Trawling for flounder?” Biff quipped. “Or have you got some crooks on the line?” He reached a big hand out to grasp the Sleuth’s gunwale and held the boats together.

  “We’ve got a nibble, I’d say,” Frank replied and explained the situation.

  “So you see,” he concluded, “we’ve got to scout the shore below the Marlin Crag Cliffs.”

  “Can we help?” Biff asked.

  “That’s an idea! How about making this a combined operation? Joe and I will scout the shore. You and Tony could drive along the top of the cliffs. That way we can look for clues in both places.”

  “Sure,” Tony agreed. “We may find the spot where the truck stopped. That’ll be where the engine went over.”

  “Then you flag us,” Joe suggested, “and we’ll know just where to look.”

  Suddenly the Sleuth’s ship-to-shore radio began to squawk. Frank answered. “Why, Aunt Gertrude,” he said in surprise, “what’s the matter?”

  “It’s about Chet Morton,” she declared in a worried voice.

  “What about Chet?”

  “His airplane fuselage has been stolen!”

  “What? How did that happen?” asked Joe, who had been listening in.

  “Chet wasn’t there at the time. His mother saw a big truck with two men drive into the yard. She thought Chet had hired them, and didn’t pay much attention.”

  “And the men loaded up the fuselage and left?” Frank asked in a perplexed voice.

  “Right. Anyway, Chet’s waiting for you at the farm.”

  “We’ll get there as fast as we can,” Frank promised.

  He told their friends what had happened and they postponed their trip to the next day. Then Frank and Joe pushed away from the Napoli and the Sleuth churned toward the shore. Frank’s mind was on the fuselage. He said, “Joe, do you think—?”

  “Look out!” Joe shouted. “A floating log!”

  Too late! The bow of the powerboat struck the log and careened over it. Frank and Joe flew head over heels into the bay.

  Frank went down until his lungs began to pound. Kicking violently, he shot back to the surface and looked for Joe, who bobbed up beside him, puffing and spluttering. They swam to their boat and clung to its sides until the Napoli raced up to them.

  “Lucky we saw what happened,” Tony called out.

  “Any chance of getting to shore under your own power?” Biff inquired.

  The Hardys clambered on board and examined the engine. “No go,” Joe reported.

  “All right. We’ll give you a tow,” Biff said, tossing a rope aboard.

  Frank and Joe felt discouraged when they reached shore. “We’ll never be able to use the Sleuth tomorrow for our investigation,” Frank lamented.

  “No problem. Take the Napoli,” Tony offered.

  “Thanks, that’s great,” Frank said gratefully. “It’ll change our plan, though. You’ll handle your own boat. Suppose Joe goes with you. Biff and I will scout the cliffs by car.”

  Frank’s idea was accepted unanimously. The disabled Sleuth was berthed for repair and the Napoli purred off. Frank and Joe jumped into their car and headed for the Morton farm.

  There they met Callie Shaw and Chet’s sister Iola in the driveway.

  Vivacious and carefree, blond Callie was Frank’s favorite date. Iola, who had dark hair and dimples, usually paired off with Joe. It turned out that the girls had arrived just in time to see the truck leaving.

  “What company did it belong to?” Frank asked.

  Callie’s brown eyes searched for an answer. “I couldn’t tell,” she said. “There was no name on it.”

  “Did you get the license number?” Joe said.

  “Sorry,” Iola replied. “That was covered with mud.”

  Further questions revealed that the girls did not get a look at the men in the cab, neither had Mrs. Morton.

  At that moment Chet stormed out of the shed where he had been looking for clues. “This is outrageous robbery!” he fumed.

  “An airplane engine and a fuselage disappear without apparent reason,” Frank observed. “Could there be a connection between them?”

  “Find one, maybe we find both,” Joe suggested.

  “If we could locate the truck it would help,” Frank said. “What did it look like?”

  The girls gave a description as best they could.

  “Well, it wasn’t the one we hired to bring the fuselage down here,” Frank said.

  “What’s at the bottom of all this?” Chet groaned.

  Joe looked grim. “That’s what we’ll have to find out, Chet!”

  “Meanwhile,” Iola put in, “don’t forget you’ve got some practicing to do here tonight!”

  Joe slapped his forehead. “Our combo! Is this the night?”

  “Sure is,” Callie answered. “And the rest of us expect you to be here.”

  “We will,” Frank promised. Then the Hardys left.

  Phil Cohen was the first to arrive at the Morton barn that evening. A thoughtful, handsome youth, and a good student, he usually had a book in his pocket. Phil was another of the Hardys’ dependable allies when it came to solving cases.

  As the others entered, Phil played a few chords on the organ which was kept in the barn where the boys usually practiced. “The grand entrance!” he boomed. “A fanfare for the world’s greatest detectives!”

  Frank grinned. “It’s good to know that we’re appreciated around here.”

  “You Hardys got it all wrong,” Biff quipped. “Phil was referring to Tony and me!”

  Everyone laughed. Then Frank called the group to order. H
e adjusted the new amplifier, and they swung into a piece of country music. But the rhythmic sound could not cheer up Chet, who sat by gloomily, thinking about his prized fuselage.

  The young musicians practiced for an hour and a half before piling into the kitchen for cokes and sandwiches.

  “Come on, Chet, buck up,” Joe said. “That fuselage would be pretty hard to hide. The police will find it!”

  “Yeah, at the bottom of a cliff, maybe!” Chet muttered.

  In the morning Frank and Joe stopped at headquarters to see Chief Collig. He was a husky man with a weathered face, who had often cooperated with Fenton Hardy on his cases and was fond of Frank and Joe.

  Collig held out a broad hand as the boys entered. “I guess you’re here about the theft at Chet’s place,” he said. “That was a pretty bold heist all right.”

  Frank nodded. “Any leads, Chief?”

  “Not a one so far. But we’re working on it!”

  After their talk with the chief, Frank and Joe proceeded to the dock where they met Biff and Tony. Frank and Biff climbed into Biff’s father’s station wagon.

  “We’ll do some sleuthing while we’re waiting for you up there,” Frank said.

  “Okay, good luck!” Joe waved to them as he boarded the Napoli with Tony. He stowed the Geiger counter, also some food they had brought in case they decided to stay overnight. Then they started up the coast. After a few hours they ran into heavy fog.

  “Bad visibility,” Tony said, frowning.

  “Better slow down,” Joe cautioned. “Somebody might be—”

  Joe never had a chance to finish his warning. A big fishing boat loomed up out of the fog, careening along at full speed. In a second the larger craft would smash into the Napoli!

  CHAPTER V

  Fire in the Night

  IN desperation, Tony spun the wheel sharply to the right. The nose of the Napoli swung beneath the tall bow of the fishing boat. Its stern swerved past with a grinding noise as the two craft bumped.

  The powerboat bounced off, bucking and pitching in waves created by the bigger vessel. The two boys were drenched in a deluge of spray that broke over them.

  Joe wiped salt water out of his eyes. “Quick thinking, Tony,” he gasped. “I thought we’d had it!”

  “We didn’t miss it by much,” Tony muttered. “Anyway, the fog is lifting. I can see the cliffs at Marlin Crag.”

  They scouted the shoreline beneath the cliffs for an hour without sighting anything.

  “Well, suppose we try the cove next,” Tony said. He guided the boat carefully between the rocks studding the surf. Reaching the shore safely, he and Joe dragged the bow of the Napoli up on the sand.

  They walked along the beach for a mile or so, peering behind boulders and scuffing sand piles with their feet.

  “Nothing here,” Joe said finally.

  Then a voice called down to them from the top of the cliff. Looking up, they saw Frank and Biff.

  Frank cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “We may be on to something. Tire tracks leading to the edge of the cliff!”

  “A car or small truck has been here,” Biff called down. “This could be the spot where the engine was thrown over. It might have landed where you guys are standing.”

  Joe looked at the incoming tide. “We’ll check it out later,” he said. “The water’s getting too high to do anything now.”

  “The boat!” Tony exclaimed. “She’ll hit the rocks if we don’t get her out of the cove!”

  He and Joe raced down the beach. The Napoli was bobbing in heavy breakers when they got there. Her hull banged ominously against a jagged outcropping of rock.

  Frantically they pushed the powerboat away from the shore. Tony started the motor. He sped through the entrance of the cove and into calmer waters.

  “Boy, the Napoli had another close call that time!” he exclaimed. “This isn’t our day!”

  They discussed their situation over sandwiches as darkness sifted down over Marlin Crag. The gloom was pierced by a licking flame high in the air. Subsiding for a moment, it blazed up again, tossing wildly in a rising wind.

  “Good night! What’s that?” Tony said.

  “An oil refinery. It’s a high pipe burning off the excess gas. Frank and I noticed it when we flew up here.”

  The pipe itself was no longer visible, but the flames flickered eerily in the growing darkness as if they were disembodied spirits in the sky.

  “Sure looks spooky, Joe.”

  “What we were wondering,” Joe said, “is whether that’s the flickering torch Jack Scott referred to. It might have pulled him off course.”

  “Deliberately, you mean?”

  Joe nodded soberly. “Someone could have turned the flame up as Scott was coming in for a landing. He might have thought it was a beacon at the Marlin Crag Airport.”

  “I get it,” Tony said. “Scott would have flown into the cliff without knowing it.”

  As he spoke, a roaring sound overhead caused the boys to glance up. A plane zoomed through the darkness toward the airport.

  “I hope that fellow makes a better landing than Jack Scott,” Joe muttered. “He seems to be wobbling. Or is he?”

  The pilot dipped his left wing. Spiraling down, he made a wide circle, straightened out, and headed right for the Napoli.

  “He’s buzzing us!” Tony yelled. “Hit the deck!” The boys ducked. Joe turned his head to get a look at the plane.

  It zipped over them with only yards to spare. The roar of the engine nearly deafened them. The backwash of air rocked their boat violently.

  For a split second the pilot glared down at them. Then he gained altitude and disappeared over the cliffs in the direction of the airport.

  Tony picked himself up. “Friend of yours?” he asked.

  “It looked like Nettleton’s plane, Tony. But I couldn’t tell whether that was he flying or not. We’d better contact Frank and Biff.”

  Taking out a code blinker, Joe flashed signals to the top of the cliff. When Frank answered, Joe proposed a get-together at a deserted wharf nearby. “Will do,” Frank signaled back.

  After tying up the Napoli, the four held a conference at the wharf.

  “The guy who buzzed us might be back,” Biff said. “He knows we’re here.”

  “And he might bring a gang with him,” Frank warned.

  “So we’d better stick together,” Tony suggested.

  “Let’s take our sleeping bags and find a protected spot over there where those shrubs are,” Joe said, pointing, “instead of sleeping in the boat.”

  “Good idea,” Frank agreed. “And we’ll take turns standing guard so we don’t get taken by surprise. Suppose Tony takes the first watch, Biff the second, Joe the third, and me the last, okay?”

  They found a good hiding place not far from the wharf and soon everyone but Tony was sound asleep. When his watch was over, he woke Biff, who did his turn and was succeeded by Joe.

  The younger Hardy settled himself for his stint. Suddenly, in the stillness of the night, he heard a board creak. Rising to a crouching position, he peered through the darkness.

  Dimly he could see someone slipping stealthily across the wharf toward the powerboat. The stranger carried a steel bar in his hand.

  Joe had no time to wake the others. He raced forward on tiptoe, and jumped the intruder from behind. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs. The steel bar clattered onto the wharf.

  Joe and his adversary rolled over and over. For a moment they teetered at the water’s edge. Joe felt the man’s hand under his chin, forcing his head back. Desperately he broke the hold. They wrestled wildly back over the boards.

  By now the others were wide awake. Seeing Joe locked in combat with the intruder, they scrambled to their feet and came charging forward. But the stranger managed to break away from Joe. Jumping up, he dashed across the wharf and vanished.

  They went down in a tangle of arms and legs

  The boys took up the chase, but finally
had to give up and returned to the wharf.

  “We lost him!” Biff complained disgustedly.

  “At least he didn’t have a chance to sabotage the Napoli,” Frank remarked. “Did you get a good look at him, Joe?”

  “No. It was too dark.”

  Frank stooped and picked up the steel bar. “Imagine what that guy could have done to Tony’s boat with this!”

  Tony shuddered. “I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I won’t get any more shut-eye now!”

  “Well, it’s almost daylight,” Frank noted. “Since I didn’t have to stand watch, I’ll go for coffee and buns.”

  He trudged to an all-night diner on the road to the airport. Half an hour later Frank was back. The boys eagerly munched the rolls and drank the coffee.

  Afterward, Biff gathered the cups and waxed paper, put the debris in the bag, and deposited it in a litter basket on the wharf. He and Frank then returned to the top of the cliff, while Joe and Tony boarded the Napoli for a run back to the beach.

  The tide was out. Tony jumped out into the wet sand. Joe followed with the Geiger counter. After a search of about twenty minutes, Tony suddenly ran toward a couple of rocks at the water’s edge.

  “Joe, here it is!” he called out excitedly.

  An airplane engine was wedged in the sand between the rocks. Joe scraped the number clean.

  “Scott’s engine, all right,” he said. “Let’s get it out.”

  “How about taking a reading on the Geiger counter first to make sure it isn’t dangerous?” Tony suggested.

  “Okay.” Joe ran the instrument over the battered metal and the needle showed a small amount of radioactivity. “That’s not enough to be harmful,” he remarked.

  They dug the sand away. Hauling and straining, they rolled the engine up the beach toward the cliff. Here Joe took another test.

  “The vacuum pump shows the highest reading,” he said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Search me. Let’s take a closer look.”

  They examined the vacuum pump housing at the rear of the engine. The vacuum line was broken off, allowing a view of the interior.

  “That’s funny,” Joe exclaimed, “the housing’s empty! The works have been taken out. Now why would an experienced pilot like Jack Scott be flying without a vacuum pump? He should have known that without it he would lose control of the plane when flying on instruments in bad weather.”