“What?” Joe blurted.
“The Sleuth’s gone,” Chet said. “You must admit it’s a prize.”
“Joe, did you activate the electronic beeper as Dad suggested before we left Bayport?”
“Sure did. And the receiver’s in my suitcase at the cottage.”
“Good. Let’s get it and drive along the shore. We might get a response from the Sleuth, and maybe even pinpoint Skee’s hideout.”
Twenty minutes later they were cruising around Cape Cutlass, with Frank at the wheel, and Joe twisting the dials of the receiver in an effort to pick up a beep-beep.
“Hey, look,” Frank said, gazing over the harbor. “There’s something doing dockside. The Flying Express is surrounded by a flotilla of small boats!”
“Let’s see what’s up,” Joe suggested.
Frank drove down to the wharf and parked the car. The two walked to the hydrofoil’s berth, where some men were standing around arguing.
Joe elbowed his brother. “What do you know! There’s our generous friend from the Fidelo Corporation!”
“It’s Big Malarky all right,” Frank replied. “He towers over everybody. Let’s see what he has to say for himself.”
In response to Frank’s question, Malarky said, “Yes, I’ll tell you. You’ve heard about the vigilantes of the Old West? They knew how to deal with horse thieves. Well, we’re the aqualantes of Cape Cutlass, and we know how to deal with boat thieves!”
“But your flotilla doesn’t seem to be chasing boat thieves,” Joe commented mildly. “The skippers are circling the Flying Express as if they had nothing better to do.”
Malarky’s big face flushed. “Why would I want to do that?”
“I know why,” piped a voice at the edge of the crowd, and Spencer Given strode up to the builder. “You want to put me out of business, Malarky!”
The two men began a savage debate, full of mutual denunciations. A shoving match started.
“We’d better break this up!” Joe whispered. He stepped between the two men just as Big Malarky thrust a straight-arm at Given. Joe took the force of the blow, staggered, and fell to the ground.
Malarky helped him to his feet. “Sorry I hit you. I hope you’re not hurt!”
“Not a bit,” Joe replied sarcastically. “And I’ll feel a lot better if you two will cut it out!”
“I’ve said all I had to say,” growled Malarky, moving off with his men.
“I’ve got more to say,” Given called after him, “and I’ll say it next time I get the chance! Thanks for the assistance,” he said to Joe. “I should have more sense than to get into a fight with that jerk. Well, see you later.”
Frank and Joe ate lunch, then drove back to the road to continue their quest. It was evening and they were ready to give up the search as hopeless when suddenly—beep—beep, beep-beep, beep-beep came from the receiver of the electronic detector.
“We’ve located the Sleuth!” Joe exulted.
The sounds increased in intensity as they came to the top of a steep cliff. The boys got out and peered down into the darkness.
“The Sleuth must be at the foot of this precipice,” Joe said. “I’ll get the flashlights.”
“No, we can’t use them. The gang may have left someone on guard. Better take him by surprise. I’ll go first.”
“Okay.”
Frank eased himself over the edge, gripping the top of the cliff until he found a toehold on a protruding root and began the descent. Cautiously he put his foot on a jutting rock, tested it, and moved down to a sapling.
Frank’s weight was too much. The small tree pulled loose and he plunged down the side of the cliff !
CHAPTER XII
Baiting a Trap
FRANK hit something soft, bounced into the air, and came down on his feet. His knees were bent and his hands extended, ready for an attack.
Nothing happened.
Then Joe called from the cliff. “Are you okay, Frank?”
“Yes. Get a flashlight.”
The beam of the flashlight illuminated the base of the cliff, casting a soft glow on the Sleuth. A large yellow rubber raft lay upside down on the sand.
“I landed on the raft,” Frank said. “Come on down, Joe, but watch yourself.”
Quickly Joe found his way to the beach and doused his light. Together the boys put their shoulders against the bow of the Sleuth and began to push the craft back into the water.
Suddenly Frank stopped. “Listen. Someone’s coming.”
They ducked behind their boat and waited in the dim moonlight. A figure appeared, dragging something heavy across the sand.
Frank and Joe jumped up and shone the light in the stranger’s face.
It was Skee.
“Hello,” Joe saluted him nonchalantly. “Long time no see!”
The youth grinned weakly. “You scared me!” He set a power tool down and rubbed his hands. “I’ve been away for a while,” he said. “Where’ve you been?”
“Oh, here and there,” Joe replied airily.
Frank said, “Where’s the foghorn you said you’d get us, secondhand and cheap?”
“Ain’t got it yet.” With a sidewise glance he added, “How’d you know where to find me?”
“Maybe Big Malarky’s aqualantes told us,” Frank replied.
Skee was poker-faced. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Never heard of the outfit.”
“How about this motorboat?” Joe inquired. “You own it?”
“Sure thing.”
“Is it for sale?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, we’re on the lookout for this particular model. But we don’t want to buy a pig in a poke. Let’s take it out for a trial spin on the bay, and if it runs smoothly, maybe we can arrange a deal.”
“Are you crazy?” Skee protested sullenly. “Whoever heard of trying a boat at this time of night? It doesn’t make sense!”
“Why not?” Frank retorted. “No time like the present. You’ve got something to sell, and we’re out to buy.”
“To tell the truth,” Joe added slyly, “I’m not convinced this is much of a boat. Probably has a bad engine.”
Skee took the bait. “Works like a charm. I’ll show you!”
They pushed the Sleuth into the water and climbed aboard. Joe took the controls. Everything worked all right, so he upped the power and roared away from the shore.
“Let’s see what she can do!” he sang out.
The boat responded to his touch like a spirited cow pony. It zoomed into a cove, turned broadside to the beach in a caldron of frothy water, and sped out. It skimmed nimbly among several small islands, slackened speed, went into reverse, and zipped forward again.
Skee was impressed. “You know how to handle this boat better than I thought.”
“She’s easy to handle!” Joe said. “I feel right at home behind the wheell”
Realizing that Skee’s attention was concentrated on the motorboat—which he hoped to sell for a good price—Joe maneuvered toward Cape Cutlass, and made a long curve right into the Starfish Marina.
Skee stood up in alarm. “What’s going on? Oh no you don‘t!”
He plunged toward the side of the Sleuth in an attempt to jump clear, but Frank wrestled him to the bottom of the boat. They threshed around in a tangle of arms and legs.
Skee broke loose and leaped up to the jetty—almost right into the hands of Chet Morton.
“Get him, Chet!” Frank called.
A blow to the midsection and another to the chin decked the surprised Skee. Chet pulled the prisoner to his feet.
“Groovy!” Joe said admiringly and Frank put in a call to the State Police. A squad car came screeching to the scene and Skee was arrested, but he clammed up when questioned about his gang.
“He’ll talk later,” the trooper said and drove off.
“Good thing I was guarding the marina tonight,” Chet said proudly. “How’d you like that belt to the breadbasket, Frank? Pow!”
&
nbsp; “You did great, Chet.”
The Hardys told what had happened and they all went to bed.
The next morning Chet had some time off, so Frank and Joe took him down the coast in the Sleuth where they had left Callie’s car.
“You can drive it back,” Frank said, “while we scout around for some clues.”
“Okay, fellows,” Chet said.
First thing the Hardys did was to examine the power tool left by Skee. It was an electric grinding machine.
“I’ll bet Skee was going to remove the Sleuth’s serial number,” Joe deduced.
“Remember the motor we picked up from the bottom of the bay?” Frank said. “Its number had been filed off! Well, Skee won’t have any further use for this tool. We’ll take it back with us.”
They put the grinder in the boat, and were about to shove off when someone shouted at them from the cliff top.
“Suffering swordfish!” Joe exclaimed. “Sounds like Henry Chassen!”
“It is!” Frank answered excitedly.
“Stay where you are, fellows!” the artist called. “I’ll be right down!”
“What brings you here?” Joe asked him.
“I saw an abandoned car early this morning. But it’s gone now. Where are you going?”
“To the marina.”
“Take me along?”
“Hop in,” Joe said, and they arrowed out to sea.
“Now tell us what happened to you,” Frank said.
“To begin with,” Chassen said, “I couldn’t swim under those boathouse doors. So I went back inside and waited. Those three thugs returned, forced me into their boat, transported me out to sea, and pushed me overboard.”
“Just what they did to us,” Frank told him.
“I thought they were going to let me drown,” Chassen went on, “but one of them threw a life preserver into the water. Except for that, I wouldn’t be here. I drifted ashore ten miles south of Cape Cutlass. What an experience! I holed up for a couple of days just to rest!”
“You sure had us worried,” Joe said. “We’ll have to tell the police you’re safe.”
Chassen resumed his account. “After I reached shore, I heard that you both had landed from a catamaran at the Starfish Marina. I also heard that your father was there.
“I was hoping to meet him—I’ve never seen a famous private investigator in the flesh,” Chassen went on. “It would be quite a thrill to meet the great Fenton Hardy. Where is he now? Providence, I hope.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Joe said, maneuvering the motorboat to the dock. “Dad’s down at Shark Harbor.”
“I’ll take a raincheck. You must introduce me sometime. So much for now. I’m off to the Decor Shop. The owner has commissioned me to do some paintings. She thinks they’ll sell very well. Hope to see you soon. So long.”
Chassen strode up the street.
Frank looked at his brother reprovingly. “Joe, you shouldn’t have let on where Dad is!”
“Why not? Don’t we agree that Henry Chassen is as honest as the day is long?”
“Maybe so. But suppose he tells somebody else, who tells somebody else—until half of Cape Cutlass has a book on Dad’s activities.”
“Sorry,” Joe said soberly. “I should have been more careful.”
Frank picked the electric grinder up and turned it over. “Here’s the name of the hardware store it came from. Address on Main Street. This is one clue we can deal with in a few minutes.”
“Right. Let’s go there now.”
The clerk at the hardware store examined the tool and then ran a finger down his register. “We sold this to the Atlas Garage. It’s on the corner of Bayshore and Halibut.”
The Atlas Garage was a large and busy place. One car stood on treads over the grease pit. Several others had been dismantled and mechanics were working on them. Two cars were being tanked up with gas.
Frank and Joe headed for the manager’s office, where they explained that they wanted to inquire about an electric grinder purchased recently at the hardware store.
The manager ceased pretending to smile and became surly. “I’m too busy for questions like that!”
“But can’t you simply tell us what happened to the grinder?” Frank asked.
“How should I know? Now get going!”
Joe grimaced as they left. “Boy, he’s not out to win friends!”
“Well, maybe he really didn’t know,” Frank said. “But this needs further investigation. What say we come back tonight and look the place over?”
Joe grinned. “And what’ll we do meanwhile?”
“We promised Callie to check out the Decor Shop.”
“Okay, let’s pay a visit there.”
The girl at the gift counter was free. She readily answered the questions put to her by Frank and Joe. Mrs. Lane, the store’s owner, was a pillar of local society and had a spotless reputation.
“What about Rance Nepo?” Joe queried. “He comes in here.”
“Why not? He’s a customer.”
“Then there’s Henry Chassen the artist,” Frank said. “Can you tell us anything about him?”
“Mrs. Lane likes him, and likes his work. But then, we all do. We’re glad she’s buying some of his paintings.”
The girl turned to an impatient customer. Frank and Joe went back to the cottage to await the zero hour of their next venture.
Midnight found them at the Atlas Garage.
“Kind of spooky!” Joe said in an undertone.
They sneaked around to the back, found an unlocked window, pushed it up, eased over the sill, and dropped into the interior.
“Forget the cars,” Frank advised as he snapped on his flashlight. “Just look at the rest of the stuff.”
The light flickered through the darkness and picked out a row of engines in one corner.
“Outboard motors!” Joe whispered hoarsely.
“What could be the reason—?”
Suddenly the room seemed to be flooded with stars. Frank and Joe slumped to the floor, knocked out!
CHAPTER XIII
Disappearing Act
THE split image in Frank’s brain finally converged, and the blur changed to a vision of a plush office. Joe, sprawled beside him on a sofa, also was regaining consciousness.
Frank blinked at the oak-paneled walls and deep-piled carpet underfoot. Across from them, behind a kidney-shaped desk, sat Big Malarky.
Joe immediately became fully alert. He glanced at Frank and then at the building tycoon.
“Wh-what happened?” he asked, gingerly touching the back of his head.
“You were kayoed by a couple of my aqualantes. They spotted you prowling around the Atlas Garage at midnight, kept you under surveil lance—then bingo!”
Frank shook his head sadly. “What a deall We were there because we had traced the boat thieves to one of their hideouts!”
Malarky’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have proof?”
“Sure!” Frank replied. “We saw several outboard motors in the back of the garage!”
Malarky was impressed. “I tell you what,” he offered. “I’ll have the local constable meet you there. We’ll get to the bottom of this!”
Malarky picked up the phone and put in a call to the constable’s office. “All set,” he declared finally. “He’ll be waiting for you.”
The constable met the Hardys at the front of the garage. He took them directly to the office of the manager, who also had been called in.
“I have nothing against you taking a look around, Constable,” the manager said. “These guys were making a nuisance of themselves yesterday, but now that it’s official, go ahead.”
The boys hastened to the back room with the constable.
Without even looking, Joe pointed to the corner. “There!” he blurted.
The constable scratched his head. “Where?”
Frank groaned. “Joe! The corner’s empty! The outboard motors have been removed!”
“If you weren’t
Fenton Hardy’s sons,” the constable snapped, “I’d suspect some sort of game. As it is, I’ll say you made a mistake, and let it go at that!”
Much depressed, Frank and Joe returned to the cottage, where Chet greeted them.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You don’t look too happy.”
“Someone threw us a curve,” Frank said morosely.
“And I suspect Big Malarky,” Joe declared. He told Chet what had happened.
“That figures,” Chet replied. “I’ve checked up on Big Malarky’s birthday. Found it in the annual listing of the leading citizens of Cape Cutlass.”
“What is he?” Frank inquired.
“Virgo! Governed by Mercury, and Mercury rules the hands. So I’d keep an eye on what Malarky does with his hands.”
Joe nodded. “We’ll have to be extra careful from now on. The crooks know we got close to them this time. They could decide to give us a one-way cruise next time. Maybe they’ll come swarming through the windows tonight!”
“No problem,” Chet argued. “We can rig up an early-warning system. You brought your bug, didn’t you, Frank?”
“Sure thing.” Frank went to his suitcase and removed a kit. Then the three hastened to the marina dock. After planting a detection microphone under a fish net, they strung a wire back to the cottage, through a window to a nightstand between the beds, where they placed the receiver.
Chet inspected the device with satisfaction. .“There! Nothing can move outside without us being cued in electronically. Safe as a good horoscope!”
There were no visitors before bedtime, but when the boys were sound asleep, the receiver began to crackle ominously.
Frank snapped wide awake. “Joe! Chet! Something’s cooking at the dock.” They dressed hurriedly, crept out the back door, and edged silently through the darkness toward the microphone.
Suddenly a quack broke the silence. There was a rustling of feathers, followed by splashing.
“A duck!” Chet exclaimed in disgust. “That’s what brought us out at this time of night.” He shook his head and the boys returned to the cottage.
The next morning Frank and Joe hastened over to the hydrofoil’s berth. Spencer Given looked upset.
“He had less sleep than we did,” Joe thought.
Mystery of the Flying Express Page 7
