The Flickering Torch Mystery

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Joe ducked, dropping on his knees behind a bushy azalea plant. He watched. Out of the darkness appeared a large van. The words MOBILE X-RAY on its side were visible in the moonlight. The driver stopped in front of the barn. The cab doors swung open and two men jumped out. They peered around, then went into the barn.

  Joe listened, pressing his ear against the wall. There was a sound of scraping metal, then footsteps as the men came out again.

  A voice said, “One more contact and we’re finished.”

  “Things are getting too hot around here,” the other man replied. “It’s just as well.”

  Pondering what it all meant, Joe watched the men as they returned to the van. They climbed in, and the doors slammed.

  Joe reached for his car keys. They were not in any of his pockets! “I must have dropped them in the barn,” the boy thought desperately. “Now I can’t follow these birds!” Suddenly he had an idea.

  He sprinted from his hiding place and dashed toward the road, just as the van started off in first gear. As the vehicle picked up speed, Joe ran behind it, looking for a handhold. Nothing was accessible except the bumper.

  Joe grasped it with both hands, then swung his feet up under the chassis, resting his heels on the muffler. If he could only hold on until the van stopped!

  But Joe had not bargained with the exhaust pipe. It emerged near his face, sending out a hot stream of carbon monoxide. Joe turned his head away from it, sucking in gulps of air and trying to hold his breath as long as possible.

  Joe grasped the bumper with both hands

  Finally, however, a numbness began to creep into his hands and he wondered if he should drop off. The noxious fumes made the decision for him. Joe fell unconscious to the road like a sack of potatoes!

  If Frank Hardy had known what was going to happen to his brother, he would not have gone to his assignment in New Jersey so eagerly.

  Once Frank had arrived at the Morrisville airport, he picked up his suitcase from the baggage claims center and headed toward the exit, where a porter sidled up to him and grasped the handle of his bag.

  “May I help you with this, young fellow?” the porter asked. “It’s kind of heavy.”

  “No thanks. I’ll carry it myself,” Frank replied with a sidewise glance at the man. Then a big smile came to his face. “Okay, you can take it, Dad.”

  “Not so loud,” Mr. Hardy cautioned. “And get that grin off your face!”

  “Where’ll we meet?” Frank asked as they advanced toward a line of taxicabs in front of the terminal.

  “I made reservations for you at the George Washington Motel. It’s only a few blocks from here on the road leading into town. I’ll see you there at six,” Mr. Hardy said.

  It was a happy reunion between father and son that evening.

  “I’m glad you came,” Mr. Hardy said. “Remember I told you how informers operate?”

  Frank nodded. “Sure. You pay them off and they squeal on their own grandmother.”

  “Right. Informers are like double agents. But they make out very well, unless they’re caught.”

  “And then what?”

  His father made a motion across his throat. “It’s too bad for them. That’s why we must be very careful.”

  “So you found an informer?” Frank inquired.

  “Just by luck.” The detective told Frank that he had trailed a truckload of stolen merchandise from the New York airport, but had lost track of it in the vicinity of Morrisville.

  “I figured they must be flying the stolen freight out of here,” Mr. Hardy concluded.

  “But how did you latch on to the informer?” Frank persisted.

  Mr. Hardy said that he had checked in with the local police. They had had an anonymous phone call about something phony going on at the airport. The tipster left a number which proved to be a public telephone booth and said he would give them the details for a certain amount of money.

  “Did they pick him up?” Frank asked.

  “No. They didn’t have enough cash in their budget,” Mr. Hardy replied. “When they told me, I decided to take the chance. The freight insurers gave me carte blanche.”

  “Have you seen the man?”

  “No. He calls himself Lefty and agreed to meet my contact on the southeast corner of Broad and Market streets in Newark, exactly at eleven forty-five tonight. I want you to deliver this to him. It’s the money he wants.” Mr. Hardy pulled out a fat envelope from his jacket pocket.

  “How’ll I know this Lefty character?” Frank inquired.

  “You won’t. But he’ll know you.”

  “How?”

  “You’ll mop your brow with this every now and then.” Mr. Hardy handed his son a blue handkerchief. “Frank, this is a dangerous assignment,” he went on. “You pay Lefty the money, and he’ll give you a message. Get it straight. You might not even have time to repeat it.”

  “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll pay strict attention,” Frank said.

  Father and son had supper in the motel restaurant, then Frank took a bus to Newark. He arrived on the corner of Broad and Market shortly before rendezvous time. The movie theaters had emptied minutes before, and traffic was moderately heavy.

  Frank took his place at the designated spot, and smiled to himself. “I feel kind of silly doing this,” he thought as he reached for the handkerchief. He mopped his brow several times looking around in the crowd for some kind of recognition. After a while he noticed a man on the opposite corner staring at him. He appeared to be in his late twenties, thin, with bushy dark hair.

  Frank mopped his brow again. The fellow casually sidled across the street, then walked up close to Frank.

  “Lefty?” Frank asked.

  The man nodded. “Follow me.”

  Keeping several paces behind, Frank followed the man east on Market Street, where he stopped before an all-night restaurant. The smell of cooking wafted on the warm air through the open facade.

  Lefty jerked his thumb indicating “inside,” and led the way to the back, past long counters crowded with people who had stopped for a quick hamburger or hot dog with sauerkraut.

  There were three vacant tables near the rear exit. Lefty pulled a chair for himself and motioned Frank to sit down.

  “We’ll get this business over with right quick,” the informer began. As he spoke, three men walked past them to one of the remaining empty tables. Frank barely noticed them, concentrating instead on his companion.

  “Okay,” Frank said. He produced the envelope and handed it to Lefty. The latter opened it, pulled out a roll of bills, counted them and put them into his pocket. Then he bent close to Frank.

  “Get this,” he whispered. “Die . . .”

  What came next happened so quickly that Frank was completely taken by surprise. One of the men at the other table sprang out of his chair and dealt Lefty a karate chop at the back of his neck. Then the assailant and another man grabbed each of the unconscious man’s arms and began to drag him out the back of the restaurant.

  “Hey, wait!” Frank said as he started toward the prostrate figure of Lefty. But the third man, a barrel-chested fellow, barred the way!

  CHAPTER XIV

  Sky Chase

  FRANK backed off into a defensive judo stance. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a fourth man sneaking toward him from behind.

  The young sleuth spun on his heel and lunged forward, putting all his weight into a perfect football block that threw the man backwards. A table splintered as the thug crashed onto it and slid to the floor.

  Frank dashed past and ran out the front door. He saw a walk alongside the building and hastened to the dark alley behind the restaurant, hoping to catch up with Lefty and his captors. But he was too late. Nobody was in sight.

  Frank trotted back to Market Street and looked up and down in vain for the informer or the four assailants. His attention was drawn to a ragged bum with a bushy beard who trudged along the sidewalk with the aid of a bamboo cane. He stopped when he saw Frank
. Then he painfully inched his way forward, and sidled up to the young detective.

  “Pal, can you let me have a quarter for a cup of coffee and a doughnut?” he whined.

  Frank fished in his pocket, brought out a coin, and handed it over. “Old-timer, maybe you can do something for me,” he suggested.

  A crafty look crept over the hobo’s face. “Is it worth another quarter?”

  “Well, I’ll give you the two bits anyway,” Frank said, delivering the second coin. “Now, did you see three men come out of the restaurant a few minutes ago?”

  “Not me,” said the man, clutching the money in his fist. “But I don’t see much around here. It’s safer not to.”

  As he spoke, a car careened to a stop at the curb. The husky driver got out and jumped on Frank. The two hit the pavement and rolled over in a violent free-for-all. The assailant caught Frank’s head in the crook of his powerful right arm and applied crunching pressure.

  Frank gasped for air. Bells sounded in his head and black spots flickered before his eyes. His senses reeled.

  Suddenly he saw the bum go into action. Raising his cane, he brought it down on the man’s head with a resounding crack. The fellow keeled over with a glassy stare.

  Frank staggered to his feet. “Th-thanks,” he gasped. “You’ve got some wallop to kayo that gorilla.”

  “You didn’t know it was me,” said a familiar voice dryly. The old vagrant stood up straight. His stoop disappeared. He pulled off his bushy beard.

  “Dad!” Frank exclaimed. “How do you happen to be here?”

  “I thought I’d better tag along on this mission,” Fenton Hardy said. “I tailed you while you were tailing Lefty. They’ve got him all right. Pushed him into a car and drove off.”

  A moan came from the man who had jumped Frank. Fenton Hardy grasped him by the collar and hauled him to his feet, while Frank ran to get a policeman. Half an hour later they were at headquarters.

  The sergeant at the desk recognized Frank’s assailant immediately. “A strong-arm for hire. He’s got a record as long as Broad Street.”

  After advising the man of his rights, the sergeant said, “Okay, want to talk?”

  “I got nothing to say,” the man growled. “I want to see a lawyer.”

  “That’s your privilege. But we’re holding you for assault on Frank Hardy.”

  Father and son returned to Morrisville in a rented car to spend the night at the George Washington Motel. The detective explained that he had been afraid Lefty would double-cross him.

  “I was worried about that, too,” Frank said. “But poor old Lefty was okay. He was talking to me when they clobbered him.”

  Frank told his father about the word “die” just before the attack.

  “Lefty could have meant somebody was about to be rubbed out,” Mr. Hardy said. “And it might be me!”

  Frank shuddered. “Dad, we’ll have to be extra careful on this case! The freight thieves have a neat racket. They’ll do anything to keep it from blowing up in their faces.”

  Next day Frank found no difficulty in getting a job in a car wash at the Morrisville Airport. His task was drying the cars as they reached the end of the cleaning line. From this station he could easily watch the planes landing and taking off.

  About noon Frank’s surveillance brought results. He spotted Dale Nettleton coming out of the Midatlantic Distribution Corporation office. The pilot carried a suitcase, which he carefully deposited in a small plane. After that, he went back to the office and stayed inside for some time.

  Frank made a snap decision. Taking advantage of his lunch-hour break, he hastened to the terminal for a quick conference with his father, who was still posing as a porter.

  “Nettleton’s taking off somewhere, and he seems awfully concerned about his suitcase,” Frank said. “I’d like to see what’s in it. We might have the goods on him, Dad.”

  “What’s your plan, Frank?”

  The boy looked out through the broad plate-glass doors of the terminal. “Nettleton hasn’t come out of the Midatlantic office yet. I may have time to hire a plane and follow him!”

  “Good idea. But watch out. He’s probably crafty.”

  “Okay. Will you straighten things out with my boss over at the car wash?”

  “Sure. And good luck!”

  Fenton Hardy went to help a passenger with some bags, while Frank trotted off to hire a small plane. He had just completed the transaction when Nettleton emerged from the office. He quickly got into his airplane and taxied away.

  Frank had to wait for runway clearance, which allowed time for Nettleton to become airborne without suspecting he was being tailed. Then Frank followed him into the sky.

  Checking the vector Nettleton was traveling, the boy saw they were heading for Marlin Crag Airport. “Same route the pilots took before they crashed into the cliffs,” he noted ominously.

  Frank kept his eyes fixed on the plane ahead, determined not to lose his quarry. But in doing so he drew closer and closer to the lead craft.

  Nettleton suddenly became suspicious and took evasive action, curving to one side to let his pursuer go by. Frank did the same.

  Nettleton turned upward, gaining altitude in a burst of power. So did Frank. At last Nettleton went into a steep dive and pulled up sharply. A collision seemed imminent. In a desperate move, Frank shoved the stick forward and made a tight diving turn.

  His plane screamed past Nettleton’s without a foot to spare. The green pastures below him spun as Frank fought to bring the plane under control. Finally he managed to level out.

  He resumed tailing Nettleton, who by now was little more than a moving speck between fleecy white clouds.

  As he was closing the gap again, Frank tuned into the Unicom frequency to pick up anything his quarry might broadcast. He heard Nettleton’s voice in a frantic appeal for help. “Listen, buddy, get this Hardy brat off—”

  Frank chuckled. “He must be rattled. Ought to know I might be listening in!”

  The Unicom frequency went dead. Frank knew Nettleton had realized his mistake.

  A few minutes later Marlin Crag Airport came into sight. Circling into the approach from the sea, Nettleton lifted his plane above the cliffs and came in over the airstrip. The craft bounced hard several times before effecting a landing.

  Frank made a three-point touchdown without a tremor, and taxied to a stop near Nettleton’s plane. Seeing the pilot take the suitcase and rush into the terminal, Frank jumped out and ran after him. Nettleton went into the Marlin Crag office of Midatlantic. Frank followed.

  The pilot swung around. “You bother me, wise guy,” he snarled. “And that’s a quick way to get hurt.”

  “Why so edgy, Nettleton?” Frank asked. “You got something to hide?”

  “That’s none of your business!” the pilot fumed. “Don’t push me!”

  “Level with me and I’ll lay off,” Frank promised. “I’ve been watching you, and my guess is you’re up to something. I just might blow the whistle on you.”

  “What’s the charge?”

  “Maybe receiving stolen property. Like hijacked air freight.”

  The pilot’s face darkened. He gave Frank a venomous glance. “Where did you get that crazy idea?”

  “Could be your suitcase,” Frank replied.

  “My bag’s got nothing to do with you,” Nettleton snapped.

  “How about opening it then? Or is it filled with gold bricks from Fort Knox?”

  “Okay, smart aleck, take a look,” Nettleton said furiously.

  Opening the valise, he turned it over, allowing the contents to spill out on the floor. Frank saw the usual things that would be in an overnight bag—shirt, socks, shaving equipment and so on.

  “Found anything incriminating?” Nettleton sneered.

  Frank lifted the suitcase. He ran his hand around the interior, searching for a hidden compartment. He rapped the sides, tugged on the straps, and examined the nameplate. Finally he set the bag back on the floor
.

  “I hope you’re satisfied!” Nettleton stormed.

  CHAPTER XV

  Dangerous Contraband

  FRANK was chagrined at finding nothing important in the suitcase. A look of satisfaction came over Nettleton’s face as he replaced the clothing and toiletries. The flier was one up on him now!

  Frank thought fast. Hoping to throw Nettleton off balance, he said, “I’m almost satisfied, but not quite. I’d like to inspect your engine!”

  Nettleton looked startled. He was stammering a bit over his answer when the office door opened and Bill Zinn walked in.

  “Oh, it’s you, Hardy,” Zinn said. “What brings you here?”

  Nettleton said, “This guy thinks there’s something wrong with my engine. He’d better forget it!”

  “Don’t fly off the handle, Dale,” Zinn said quietly. “There’s no reason why Hardy shouldn’t look at your engine.”

  He motioned Frank to the door, and the three walked across the concrete apron to the edge of the runway where Nettleton’s plane was parked.

  “Zinn seems awfully sure of himself,” Frank thought as the manager handed him tools to make the inspection.

  The young detective checked the tailpost and found it in order. Then he scanned the engine and paused when he came to the vacuum pump. He went over it carefully.

  “What’s bothering you?” snarled Nettleton, who watched Frank’s every move like a hawk.

  “Is there something about that vacuum pump you don’t like?” Zinn asked sarcastically.

  “It’s okay,” Frank replied. “But I know one pump housing that was as empty as Bayport beach in February.”

  Frank’s reference to Jack Scott’s engine with its missing vacuum pump had the desired effect. Both men stiffened and became stony-faced. Frank knew he had scored. Zinn and Nettleton were connected with the airport fatalities in some way!

  “Well thanks, fellows,” Frank concluded, handing the tools back to Zinn.

  “Don’t mention it,” the manager said icily. “Is there anything else you’d like to inspect around here?”