The Phantom Freighter

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER I - A Strange Substitute

  CHAPTER II - The Three-Cornered Scar

  CHAPTER III - Suspicion

  CHAPTER IV - No Passengers

  CHAPTER V - More Disappointment

  CHAPTER VI - The Morton Special

  CHAPTER VII - A Weird Tale

  CHAPTER VIII - Missing Letters

  CHAPTER IX - Code Numbers

  CHAPTER X - Frank in Trouble

  CHAPTER XI - Stolen Tickets

  CHAPTER XII - Harrowing Experience

  CHAPTER XIII - “Mrs Harrison” Again

  CHAPTER XIV - Spy in the Shadows

  CHAPTER XV - The Abandoned Farm

  CHAPTER XVI - Success and Failure

  CHAPTER XVII - Danger at the Carnival

  CHAPTER XVIII - “You’ll Never Come Back!”

  CHAPTER XIX - Crowfeet

  CHAPTER XX - Captured!

  THE PHANTOM FREIGHTER

  WHEN eccentric Thaddeus McClintock invites Frank and Joe Hardy to accompany him on a sea voyage, the teen-age investigators become entangled in a web of mystery. Who is trying to block the three from securing reservations on freighter ships that carry passengers? Does Mr. McClintock have unknown enemies? Or is there a sinister conspiracy afoot to keep Frank and Joe from going on the trip? Is Captain Harkness’s report about sighting a phantom freighter just a figment of his imagination?

  The determined efforts of Frank and Joe to find the answers lead to a hazardous game of wits with a ring of slippery smugglers and to a dramatic confrontation on the high seas. At the same time, the boys help their famous detective father solve his current case involving forgers who are selling counterfeit historical documents.

  Here is an exciting, action-filled mystery that will keep the reader on edge with suspense.

  “It’s the phantom freighter!” Captain Harkness cried

  PRINTED ON RECYCLED PAPER

  Copyright © 1974, 1970, 1947 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

  Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

  THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-07640-8

  2003 Printing

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  CHAPTER I

  A Strange Substitute

  “WHAT an odd letter!” exclaimed Frank Hardy, running a hand through his dark hair. “I wonder what the man wants.”

  His blond brother Joe, who was seventeen and a year younger, studied the sheet of paper. “Thaddeus McClintock,” he said, reading the signature. “Never heard of him.”

  “Since he’s living at the Bayport Hotel, he’s probably a stranger in town. Who do you suppose told him about us?”

  The boys were draped over upholstered chairs in the Hardys’ living room. Their mother Laura, smiling at their relaxed teen-age postures, said, “Any one of many people.”

  The letter, which had arrived in the morning mail, was addressed to Frank and Joe Hardy and read:

  I have heard that you are young men with your feet on the ground and wonder if you would call and have a talk with me. I have an interesting job for you if you care to take it.

  Frank looked at his brother. “What do you say? There’s no harm in talking to Mr. McClintock.”

  “Please be careful,” said Mrs. Hardy. The slender, pretty woman went on, “The man may be a schemer of some kind. If he should ask any questions about your father, be on your guard.”

  “That,” said Frank, “is Rule Number One in this household and we’re not likely to forget it.”

  “Don’t worry,” Joe added in an assuring tone. “If this McClintock should try to pry, we don’t know where Dad is, when he’s expected, or what case he’s working on.” He grinned. “Come to think of it, we don’t know. Do you, Mother?”

  Mrs. Hardy shook her head and chuckled. “No, I don’t. But that’s not unusual.”

  Fenton Hardy was a renowned private detective. Trained in the New York Police Department, he had left the big city to work entirely on his own, and with phenomenal success.

  His sons had inherited their father’s natural ability and had been carefully taught the most modern scientific detective methods. Recently they had solved an unusually puzzling mystery known as The Secret Panel.

  Frank and Joe drove to the Bayport Hotel, and asked to see Mr. McClintock. “Sorry,” the clerk said. “He’s not here right now. Went out about half an hour ago, but left a message for you. You’re to come back this afternoon.”

  “Who is this Mr. McClintock?” Frank asked, “Where does he come from? Is he young or old?”

  The hotel clerk, who had been a friend of the Hardys for years, looked surprised. “You don’t know him? Well, he’s been living here for the past three months—is a little beyond middle age—doesn’t say much.”

  “What’s his line?” Joe asked.

  “He doesn’t work, but pays his bills promptly. Doesn’t seem to have any friends here in Bayport. Maybe that’s because he acts so secretive.”

  “Thanks,” Frank said. “Guess that’ll hold us until this afternoon.”

  He and Joe returned home, more interested than ever in meeting Mr. McClintock. As they entered, they heard a woman talking excitedly.

  “Aunt Gertrude!” said Joe. “And she’s on the warpath!”

  Aunt Gertrude was Mr. Hardy’s unmarried sister, who had come to live with the family some time before. She was tall, peppery, and had an unpredictable temper. But beneath all the bluster she was a kindly soul who loved her nephews dearly.

  “Laura, this box seems to be full of raw wool!” Aunt Gertrude was saying. “And mine contained valuable family papers. I’m going to call the express company and give them a piece of my mind!”

  “What’s wrong, Aunty?” Frank asked as he and Joe strolled in. “Have you been swindled?”

  “Not swindled. No. Just—” She gasped in exasperation. “I’m expecting a carton with some things I had left with a friend a few years ago. But they delivered the wrong one!” She pointed to the box lying on the floor. “I opened it without checking the label.”

  Joe looked at the box. “It’s for a James Johnson,” he stated. “One forty-two Springdale Avenue.”

  “That’s right,” Aunt Gertrude said. “Obviously the shipping people delivered my carton to Mr. Johnson and his to me. I’m going to call the express company and give them a piece of my mind.”

  “Take it easy, Aunty,” Frank said. “Mistakes do happen.”

  Miss Hardy went to the telephone and dialed. As the conversation went on, Aunt Gertrude became more annoyed. “Now you listen to me!” she said, but the clerk at the other end insisted on doing all the talking. Finally Aunt Gertrude hung up. “They won’t do a thing until tomorrow!” she complained. “Meanwhile, my carton may be opened by these Springdale Avenue people. And that,” she added grimly, “must not happen!”

  “How can you stop it?” asked Joe, a twinkle in his eyes.

  “Very easily. You and Frank will have to go there and make the exchange. Right now!”

  Frank looked at his watch. It was nearly time for lunch, and he and Joe wanted to call on Mr. McClintock directly afterward.

  “No excuses,” Miss Hardy said firmly. “It won’t take you any time to drive out there. I’ll whip up a strawberry shortcake while you’re gone.”

  “In that case,” Frank said, laughing, “we’ll leave right away.” He picked up the carton and went out the door. Joe followed
.

  A few minutes later they reached the east side of Bayport. Frank turned into Springdale Avenue. By the time they passed a small stone house numbered fifty-two, they had entered a section where the sidewalks came to an end and buildings were far apart. The car bumped along an uneven dirt road.

  “We’re practically out in the country,” said Joe. “I’ll bet we’re beyond the city limits. Maybe there isn’t any one hundred and forty-two at all!”

  A short distance ahead and set quite far back from the road, they could see a large frame house, surrounded by a picket fence. A small barn stood behind it.

  “This might be the place,” Joe said as they neared it. Then he yelled excitedly, “Joe! Look! The barn’s on fire!”

  A curl of white smoke rolled out from an upper window. It was followed by a heavy black puff and a flicker of red flame.

  Frank drove through the open gate and stopped in front of the house. Joe leaped out, ran up the steps, and hammered on the front door. There was no response. Joe tried the doorknob.

  “Locked! No one at home!” he shouted. “Go get the fire engines, Frank!”

  Frank swung the car around and roared back toward the road. Joe jumped off the porch and raced to the barn. By this time smoke was pouring from all the upper windows and flames were eating through the shingled roof.

  Joe’s first thought was for any animals that might be trapped inside. He tried to get in, but the doors were locked securely by a chain and padlock.

  The boy ran around the building until he found a small side door, but this too was locked. Catching sight of a window, he rushed to it. A glance through the dusty glass revealed two stalls. They were empty.

  Sheets of angry flame and billows of smoke now leaped up from the floor of the barn. And not far away stood a large cardboard carton!

  “That must be Aunt Gertrude‘s!” Joe thought. “I’ll have to get it out!”

  The window was so small Joe knew he could not crawl through it. He ran back to the side door and thrust his shoulder against the wood. The door creaked but did not give.

  “The barn’s on fire!” Joe yelled

  Looking around, he spotted a woodpile at the back of the house, with an axe beside the chopping block. He rushed across the yard, snatched up the axe, and dashed back to the barn.

  CHAPTER II

  The Three-Cornered Scar

  JOE swung the axe. Thud! He swung again, but the wood was tough and the lock was stout.

  Flames had broken through the roof in a dozen places now, and the upper part of the barn was a roaring inferno. Black smoke swirled toward Joe.

  Suddenly he heard the sharp blast of a horn and the squeal of brakes. Frank was back. He leaped out of the convertible and ran toward his brother.

  “Phoned the firemen from that house down the road,” he called out. “But they won’t get here in time to do any good. What are you up to?”

  “Help me ... break down ... this door!” Joe gasped as he swung the axe again. “The lost carton is in there!”

  Frank caught sight of a four-by-four propped against the side of the barn a few yards away. “Here’s a battering ram! Better than the axe!”

  Holding the wood firmly, they drove it against the door. At the very first impact the boards splintered. They drew back and rammed again. This time the lock snapped and the door fell in with a crash. Dense clouds of smoke poured through the opening.

  As Joe looked into the burning building he knew he must act quickly to retrieve the valuable carton. “Stand by,” he said to Frank. “I’m going in.”

  “Watch yourself,” warned Frank. “Stay close to the floor!”

  Joe nodded. Taking a deep breath of fresh air, he held it in his lungs and crept across the barn toward the carton.

  In a few seconds his groping fingers found it. He grabbed the twine and dragged the carton toward the door. But he felt as if his lungs would burst!

  When Joe emerged, his eyebrows were singed, his skin parched. He drew in deep breaths of the fresh air and grinned weakly at his brother.

  By this time help was arriving. Cars were driving into the yard. A siren wailed as a fire truck raced down Springdale Avenue. The barn, however, was doomed. The firemen turned their efforts to saving the house, which was threatened by flying sparks.

  When the owner of the place and his wife drove into the yard half an hour later, their home was safe but nothing was left of the barn but a blackened foundation and a heap of smoking ashes. Learning that the Hardy boys had given the alarm, they came over to thank them.

  “It was lucky you happened to be driving along and saw the smoke,” the man said.

  “We didn’t just happen to come along,” Frank told him. “As a matter of fact we were coming to make an exchange of cartons. We brought yours. The express company delivered ours here by mistake, and we rescued it from the barn, Mr. Johnson.”

  “Johnson? My name’s not Johnson. It’s Phillips. No one named Johnson lives here.”

  The Hardys stared incredulously. Joe rushed to the carton addressed to Johnson and brought it over. He noticed now that there was no mention of the sender.

  Mrs. Phillips looked at it and shook her head. “I don’t expect anything, and this obviously is not for us.” She turned to Joe and pointed to the box he had taken from the barn. “Do you mean to say that you went into the burning barn after that? There’s nothing in it but old newspapers. I was waiting for the junkman to pick them up!”

  Frank and Joe were flabbergasted. To think Joe had taken such a risk for a lot of old newspapers!

  Just then an express-company truck drove into the yard. The driver got out and came over to them. He knew the Hardys.

  “Your aunt called up the office a while ago about a carton,” he said to Frank. “So I thought I’d better drive out and check up on it. I delivered one to your house and one to this place. Fellow by the name of Johnson signed for it. Maybe—”

  “What!” Mr. Phillips interrupted. “My wife and I have been away several days and the house was locked up!”

  “Maybe so,” returned the driver. “But I delivered a box here this morning just the same. There was a man standing on the porch when I got here. He signed for it.” The driver took out his book and flipped through the pages. “Here’s the name.”

  The boys studied the scrawled signature of James Johnson.

  “Something’s strange about this,” Frank said. “Do you mind if I copy the signature?” Using a piece of plain paper and a carbon from the back of the driver’s book he made a tracing.

  “What did the man look like?” Joe asked.

  “He was about forty, beady-eyed, with a low forehead. Had a scar high up on his right cheek. A three-cornered scar, like a triangle.”

  Mr. Phillips looked grim. “I’d like to meet this guy and find out what he was doing here. I’ll bet he set my barn on fire!”

  Joe spoke up. “If Johnson got the wrong carton, maybe he’ll go to the express office to pick up the right one. Suppose we ask the police to question him if he does?”

  “Good idea,” Phillips agreed.

  “Well, I don’t want any more trouble,” said the driver. “There’s enough already.” Turning to the Hardys, he added, “I’ll take this carton along.”

  As Frank and Joe drove back to Bayport, they discussed the mysterious affair of the two boxes. What had happened to Aunt Gertrude’s? Had the man with the scar taken it away? Or had it been destroyed in the fire? In any case, Frank thought, the man probably had not given his real name, and would not show up at the express office to claim his property.

  “I wonder how Aunt Gertrude will take the news,” Joe said glumly.

  “I hate to tell her,” said Frank. “She made it plain that she didn’t want anyone to see the contents of the carton.”

  As they passed through the downtown section of Bayport, Joe suggested that since it was past lunchtime they have a quick bite to eat and then call on Mr. McClintock. Frank telephoned home, asking that the strawberr
y shortcake be saved until later, but refrained from mentioning the carton.

  “I’m glad you called,” Mrs. Hardy said. “I have a chore for you.” She asked if the boys would stop at a haberdashery and buy socks and handkerchiefs for their father.

  “Okay, Mother,” Frank promised.

  When they entered the Bayport Hotel half an hour later, Joe said, “I hope Mr. McClintock is back.”

  The clerk nodded as they approached the desk. “Just in time,” he said. “Your man returned a while ago. He’s waiting for you. Room 201.”

  McClintock was slightly stoop-shouldered. He had sharp, fidgety eyes and a nervous habit of snapping his fingers when he talked. He greeted the boys affably and asked them to sit down.

  “I’ve heard interesting things about you Hardys,” he said. “Now I’ll come right to the point. My doctor has advised me that I need a complete change in my way of living. Says I brood too much.”

  With that the man bounded from his chair and started pacing back and forth. His face was grim. Then he stopped and continued bitterly, “The doctor would brood, too, if his lifework had been completely—Well, that’s beside the point. Anyway, here’s my proposition:

  “I want to go on a trip. A long trip. And I’d like you to go with me. You must plan it and make all the arrangements.”

  After a moment of astonished silence, Joe gasped, “You—want—us to go?”

  “Exactly. You’re what the doctor ordered, Young people. To cheer me up. After I see how clever you are at planning the trip, I may even give you a mystery to solve.”

  Frank and Joe glanced at each other. Was this man a nut? Did McClintock really have a mystery to solve? Or was he just trying to interest the boys in going with him?

  “Where do you want to travel?” Frank asked.

  “How should I know?” rasped McClintock. “That’s up to you.”

  “But you say you want to go on a long trip ...”

  “Exactly. And I don’t care where. I just want to get away. And I want company. And not be troubled with making arrangements.”