The Flickering Torch Mystery

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Oh, you scallywags!” Aunt Gertrude exclaimed. “You shouldn’t eavesdrop like that!”

  “Well, we had to test the bug!” Frank said, and took the chain off Aunt Gertrude’s neck. “See you later.”

  They hurried out of the house, got into their car, and were soon at the Morton farm. Chet was waiting for them.

  Joe handed him the medal.

  “Where’s the bug?” Chet asked.

  “You’re holding it,” Joe replied. “Drape it around your neck.”

  Chet grinned and did as he was told. “How do I look?”

  “Just beautiful,” Joe replied and gave him a sharp rap on the arm.

  Frank drove to Beemerville and parked several blocks from the Mudd Airplane Junkyard. As prearranged, Chet walked up to the main gate alone. As soon as he disappeared, Frank and Joe quickly approached the metal fence that surrounded the junkyard.

  The boys set their receiver and adjusted the tape, then turned to a crack in the sheet metal.

  “Chet doesn’t seem too happy about his mission.” Joe chuckled as the receiver transmitted a nervous gulp from their hefty pal.

  “Oh, oh, here comes Mudd,” Frank said.

  The man strode out of his office and confronted Chet. “What do you want now?” he demanded in an irritated voice.

  “I’m looking for a tailpost, Mr. Mudd,” Chet replied.

  “A tailpost!” Mudd said with a look of astonishment. “What for? You don’t even have a fu—”

  The man stopped in confusion and his face turned red. Chet pounced on the blunder like a cat after a ping-pong ball. “Oh, I got my fuselage back, Mr. Mudd,” he said in an offhand manner. “Some clown swiped it and dropped it at a garbage dump. I found it later. So I’m back in business for some airplane parts. A tailpost, please.”

  Mudd’s eyes narrowed threateningly. “Look, where’re your pals?”

  Chet said coolly, “I couldn’t really guarantee where they are.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Come on, now, Mr. Mudd. I want to look around at some parts. You can see I’m alone, can’t you? Now how about a tailpost?”

  Joe whispered, “Chet’s doing a great job!”

  Mudd began talking again. “I don’t have any to fit your model fuselage.”

  “That’s too bad,” Chet said. “Well, I’ll be needing wings later. Mind if I check around to see what’s here?”

  Mudd gave a sardonic laugh. “You’ll need wings all right, you fat brat. And a harp, too!”

  He moved toward Chet. Grabbing the boy’s arm, he twisted it around his back in a hammer lock. “I’ve stopped fooling with you,” Mudd snarled. “Where are those buddies of yours, and what are you snooping around for?”

  Joe tensed and made a move to spring up. Frank held him back. “Wait! Chet knows how to take care of himself.”

  Their friend’s short gasp of pain was followed by a rebel yell. Chet put his experience as a high school wrestler to good use. Swinging his body around, he flung the heavier Mudd over his back. The man hit the ground with a thud, then rose shakily to his feet.

  Chet confronted him in a wrestler’s defensive stance, feet wide apart, hands extended forward. At the same time he noticed that the chain had slipped over his head and fallen onto the ground.

  “We’ll lose contact,” Joe hissed.

  “Maybe not,” Frank said. “Look!”

  A young man entered the junkyard. It was Seymour Schill! He bent over and retrieved the bug. Swinging it by the chain, he looked from Chet to Mudd.

  “Cut the rough stuff, will you,” he said. “Who’s this kid you’re muscling?”

  “I’m no kid!” Chet said indignantly. “My name’s Chet Morton, and if this gorilla wants some more action, I’m ready for it!”

  “Don’t get physical,” Seymour said. “I’ve got nothing against you. I just want a few words with O. K.”

  He drew the man aside and spoke in a voice too low for Chet to hear. However, the bug dangling in his hand picked up every word.

  “The boss has made up his mind,” Seymour said. “It’ll be Wednesday and Saturday.”

  “Good,” Mudd responded. “That suits me just fine.”

  “Same time, same place,” Seymour went on. Pausing for a moment, the guitarist added significantly, “Same number of rocks.”

  “No!” Mudd’s voice was harsh. “Tell him no more rocks, understand!”

  “I understand. What’s the pitch?”

  “Hard cash from now on!”

  CHAPTER XII

  Jam Session

  THEIR conversation finished, Seymour and Mudd turned to Chet again. Seymour tossed the medal at him.

  Chet caught it on the fly and pulled it quickly over his head, vastly relieved that Seymour had not examined the medal closer.

  “Chet’s heading back for the car,” Joe observed through the crack in the fence.

  “Good. We’ve made some headway,” Frank said. “Let’s join him.”

  The Hardys assembled their receiving apparatus, slipped quickly around the fence, and made tracks for their convertible.

  Chet arrived shortly afterward. “Did you see? I almost got conked!” he began excitedly.

  “We saw,” Joe said. “You were great, Chet!”

  “We also heard everything,” Frank added. “Our little bug worked like a charm. And Seymour couldn’t have done us a bigger favor!”

  “When he picked it up I thought I was sunk!” Chet declared, rolling his eyes. “What did they say?”

  Joe repeated the conversation.

  “Interesting, but what does it mean?”

  “We don’t know,” Frank said.

  “That talk about rocks,” Chet went on. “Suppose they meant the Marlin Crag Cliffs?”

  “No. Precious stones, perhaps. Remember, Mudd asked for hard cash—another kind of payment.”

  “And what about Wednesday and Saturday?”

  “Well, something’s going on then, but we don’t have any idea what or where.”

  “The Flickering Torch is my guess,” Chet said with a professional air.

  “Possible,” Joe agreed. “We’ll have to watch the place.”

  The trio returned to Bayport, still puzzled about the overheard clues. Next afternoon Tony Prito and Bernie Marzi showed up at the Hardy house.

  After a hearty welcome by Frank and Joe, Bernie asked, “What can I do for you? Tony mentioned a case you’re involved in, but didn’t give me any details.”

  “We can’t tell you too much either,” Frank said. “But you could help us by telling us everything you know about the Torch employees. Something suspicious may be going on there. We’ll have to check out the place. How about starting out with the musicians?”

  “Sure,” Bernie said and gave a short summary of everyone’s background. “I know very little about the waiters and the kitchen personnel,” he concluded. “As far as the band goes, I trust everybody with the possible exception of Seymour Schill. I can’t tell you why, it’s just a hunch.”

  Frank nodded slowly. “Your intuition and ours are surprisingly alike.”

  “What’s the next step?” the drummer asked.

  “We’d like to case the Flickering Torch,” Joe stated.

  “Listen, I’ve got a great idea!” Bernie exclaimed. “Why don’t one of you join the combo Saturday night? Who handles the lead guitar?”

  “I do,” Joe said. “What about your regular guitarist? Won’t he be jealous?”

  “He wants the day off, Joe. We were going to hire another pro. But I’m sure you can fit the bill, so why should we look for anyone else?”

  “I’ll take you up on that, Bernie. When do I have to be there?”

  “First you’ll have to attend our practice session tomorrow. Let the gang see how you do.”

  “Suits me fine,” Joe said. “I’ve always wanted to play with pros.”

  Tony grinned at Bernie. “That means Joe’ll have a jump on the rest of us in the Bayport combo.”


  “Never fear, we’re not that good,” Bernie said modestly.

  When Tony announced he would have to leave in a little while, Joe asked Bernie if he was planning to return to Beemerville that evening.

  “No,” Bernie replied. “I’m supposed to spend the night at Tony’s and go back tomorrow.”

  “Listen,” Joe suggested, “why don’t you stay here and then we can drive down together?”

  “Have you got room for me?” Bernie asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Hey, that’s great,” Bernie said. “Especially since I don’t have a car.”

  “It’s a deal. Let me tell Mother.” Joe hastened upstairs and returned with Mrs. Hardy, who offered Bernie their hospitality. Then Tony departed.

  A few minutes later the phone rang. It was Mr. Hardy.

  “Where are you, Dad?” Frank inquired.

  “Morrisville, New Jersey,” the detective said. “At the airport. I’ve tracked the hijacking outfit this far. Now I need some help.”

  “We’ll come double-quick, Dad. But there’s a new angle at this end. Joe’ll tell you about it.”

  He handed the phone to his brother, who hurriedly described his plan to join the Emergency Exit, so he could keep an eye on the Flickering Torch and its patrons. “What should I do?” Joe concluded. “Cancel out the music?”

  “Not at all,” Mr. Hardy replied. “Go ahead with your surveillance. All I need here is Frank.”

  The dark-haired boy took over again. “Sure thing, Dad,” he said. “Give me the orders.”

  “I can’t over the phone,” Fenton Hardy told him. “Come to Morrisville late tomorrow afternoon and we’ll talk it over. I’ve got a job at the field as a porter, so it’ll be easy for us to meet without arousing suspicion.”

  “Anything else?” Frank queried.

  “Well, Sam Radley’s still checking on Mudd’s record. So far there’s nothing about Zinn. That’s it for now. Take care, both of you.”

  The following day Frank decided to let Joe and Bernie have the car. After an early dinner, they dropped him off at Bayport Airport, where he got a commercial flight to Morrisville, then the two went on to Beemerville for their practice session.

  They reached the area in a little more than an hour.

  “Sure is pretty country,” Joe remarked as Bernie directed him off the highway. They drove along the coast road. The Marlin Crag Cliffs now gave way to sandy beaches which swept inland in a half circle. In the middle of the broad curve lay a small fishing village called Pohasset. It was a little past Beemerville and was frequented by artists who haunted the wharves and scenic dunes. Stretches of green marshes were dotted with small houses and outbuildings.

  “See the house up on the knoll?” Bernie asked.

  “The one with the barn near the waterfront?”

  “Yes,” the drummer remarked as Joe slowed down. “Pull in the drive. That’s Pete Guilfoyle’s place where we hold our jam sessions.”

  Joe parked the car under an elm tree and got out to look around. The barn lay about two hundred feet from the house, nearly at the water’s edge. Its front doors stood open, revealing an unusual interior.

  It certainly was not for horses. Instead, an organ stood on the right side, and chairs were scattered about, along with two amplifiers.

  “Nice place to practice, eh?” Bernie said. “We can vibrate it apart and nobody complains.”

  Joe’s eyes were following the shore as he walked toward the barn. He noticed a boat rocking in the water some distance away. Concealing himself behind a tree, the boy looked intently at a man standing up in the boat. The fellow had binocu lars and the late-afternoon sun glinted off the polished lenses.

  “Bernie, take a look at this,” Joe said.

  “The guy in the boat?”

  “Yes. I think he’s spying on us.”

  “Oh, he’s probably just a bird watcher,” Bernie said. “Why would he be interested in us?”

  The man in the boat sat down, started an outboard motor, purred a little farther away from the shore, then stopped to scan the barn once more.

  “We seem to be the birds he’s watching,” Joe mused. As he spoke, two more boys drove up in their cars. Bernie introduced them.

  “Joe, meet Line Caldwell and George Hansen,” he said. “Fellows, this is Joe Hardy, who’ll sub for Mark Bowen this weekend.”

  “Okay with us,” said Pete, who had just walked down from the house. “We’re with you, Joe, as long as you can play the guitar.”

  Joe grinned. “Try me. But say, there’s something I want to get straight before we start.” As the boys entered the barn, he walked over to the first amplifier to check it out. It looked normal. He did the same to the second.

  “Not a thing out of kilter,” he muttered. “I wonder why Dale Nettleton was fooling around the amp at the Flickering Torch.”

  “Dale Nettleton? You know him?” Pete asked.

  “Casually,” Joe replied. “What about you?”

  “Oh, he hangs around the Flickering Torch. Always interested in the band.”

  Bernie, who had been holding Joe’s guitar, pushed the instrument into his hands. “Okay, Joe, let’s hear some sweet sounds!”

  The Hardy boy got in line with the other guitarists. Bernie sat just behind them. Under Pete’s direction, the beat started low on the drums. The organ picked up the theme, weaving in and out in an intricate pattern. Then came Joe’s lead guitar in a short, burbling pizzicato. The rhythm guitar supported the tune, succeeded by the bass.

  Then it was Joe’s turn again. At first he was a little hesitant, but soon the music was vibrating through his body. He began to cut loose, improvising wild harmonies, an octave higher than the bass guitar.

  The sound reverberated from the rafters. The amplifier swayed as the combo came up to a crescendo, hit the final notes, and ended the first piece. Bernie Marzi looked over from his drums.

  “Joe!” he called. “You’re great!”

  Pete Guilfoyle added, “Want a permanent job with us?”

  “You’re a lot better than Seymour Schill,” Line Caldwell said.

  Joe grinned. “Nice of you to ask me, fellows, but I’m not really in your league yet. Well, how about another piece?”

  As the music soared again, faces began to appear in the doorway. Local people were congregating to hear the Emergency Exit rehearse as they always did, tapping their feet and clapping their hands to the tempo.

  After the walls of the barn had trembled for more than two hours with the pulsating vibrations, the rehearsal ended. The young musicians joked as they packed their instruments nd Pete Guilfoyle approached Joe.

  “Nice going. We’re glad to have you with us.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s getting pretty late. Are you planning on going back to Bayport tonight?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “That’s a long way. How would you like to sleep in the barn loft? I’d invite you inside, but there isn’t enough room.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Joe said. He stepped aside and said to Bernie, “That fellow in the boat might show up again in the morning. Maybe I can find out what’s cooking.”

  “Good,” Bernie said. “See you Saturday.”

  Joe thanked Pete for the invitation.

  “Don’t mention it,” the boy replied. “You’ll find blankets in the loft. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll turn off the lights and see you in the house for breakfast, okay?”

  “Fine.”

  Joe climbed the rungs of the ladder and pulled himself up to see a pile of hay and several blankets. He wriggled into the dry grass.

  While drowsiness overcame him, Joe pondered the stranger in the boat. Soon he was fast asleep. In his dream he watched the man start his motor. It exploded with a giant boom, causing Joe to sit bolt upright.

  Outside, thunder was cannonading along the shore, and through a small window he saw great streaks of lightning. These were followed by a torrent of rain.

  The door creaked open. Then, caught
by a gust of wind, it slammed shut violently. Joe got to his knees, crawled to the edge of the loft, and looked down.

  Lightning flashed again and for a moment he could not see anything. Then, in the shadows, he made out the figure of a man I

  The fellow listened, then moved stealthily toward the ladder leading to the loft!

  CHAPTER XIII

  Lefty the Squealer

  THE intruder glanced up and Joe pulled back out of sight. Had he been seen?

  The boy listened, his heart pounding with excitement. All he could hear was a drip, drip, drip. The roof leaked, and droplets of rain splashed on the ladder. Perhaps that’s what had caught the man’s attention! Joe fervently hoped so.

  No other sound now. Joe craned forward cautiously. The shadow was moving toward the door. It opened quietly and the stranger disappeared into the night.

  “I’d better trail him,” Joe decided. He hastened down the ladder. It was wet from the rain. Joe’s feet slipped. His sagging weight was too much for fingers that clutched the slick rung above him. Down he went!

  Joe fell heavily to the barn floor, striking his head against the post supporting the loft. He lay stunned, for how long he did not know. When he opened his eyes again, there was an eerie silence in the barn. The rain had ended and the trickle from the roof no longer splashed on the ladder.

  Joe rose to his feet and rubbed a bump on the back of his head. Then he stepped to the door, opened it quietly, and looked outside. The landscape was bathed in silvery light, cast by a full moon which shone pale between fluffy clouds.

  The boy followed the path leading to the road, moving at a crouch and searching for possible clues which the intruder might have left. But the rain had obliterated all tracks. By the time Joe reached the edge of the road, he knew the man had made a clean getaway.

  Suddenly he noticed a small shiny object on the ground. He reached down in the gravel and picked up a plastic guitar pick. Was the night visitor a musician?

  Joe pocketed the pick and walked back toward the barn, still alert to possible danger. If the prowler were one of the fellows in the band, why had he come back? Or could it have been the stranger in the boat, who had been spying on the Guilfoyle property?

  Joe was about to enter the barn when he heard the sound of an approaching motor. A vehicle was driving up the road slowly.