The Phantom Freighter

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I saw that guy who tried to get us off the Hawk motioning to someone on the dock. I’ll bet he was signaling for him to swing the boom so it would hit us. But he won’t get away with it!”

  “You bet he won‘t!” Joe said grimly. He started downstairs.

  “Don’t go alone!”Frank called after him.

  Before Joe had time to think about it, the front doorbell rang and he answered. Biff Hooper, a schoolmate and good friend of the Hardys, walked in. He was a blond six-footer and had muscles like steel.

  “Hi!” Joe called. “You’re just the guy I’m looking for. I need a bodyguard. Want to give a big tough guy a good sock?”

  “Since when have you stopped doing that yourself?” Biff grinned as the two boys went out the door. On the way to the dock Joe explained what had happened.

  Although he had superior strength, Biff Hooper never picked fights, and by the time they had reached the Hawk he had almost convinced Joe that the whole affair might have been an unavoidable accident. “There’s no point in starting trouble,” Biff advised.

  “Just the same, I’m going aboard,” declared Joe, “and finish what I started to do, namely see the captain.”

  The two mounted the ladder. This time no loading was going on. The sailor the Hardys had encountered before was not in sight. Two of the crew lounged on deck, and one man rose as the boys approached.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “To see your captain,” Joe replied.

  “What about?”

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  “You will, eh? Not if you don’t find him. And I say you won’t.”

  “Don’t bully me!” Joe said fiercely and Biff cocked his right fist in anticipation. A fight might have started if the captain himself had not appeared. Skipper Sharp lived up to his name. He was a tall, narrow-jawed, thin-featured man with piercing eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” he boomed, striding forward.

  “I’m trying to book passage on a freighter for three people,” Joe explained.

  “You’re on the wrong ship. Can’t accommodate you,” the captain replied shortly.

  “You don’t carry passengers?”

  “We used to. But not any more. It didn’t work out. There’s no point in discussing it.”

  “We’re willing to pay well—” Joe’s attempt to continue the conversation was cut off.

  “No passengers at any price. Get lost!”

  Disappointed, Joe started down the ship’s ladder. Biff followed.

  As they left the dock, Biff expressed his indignation at their rude reception. “I don’t see why the captain had to act like a jerk,” he said. “You’d think we were a couple of criminals.” Then he brightened. “Say, Joe, I know where you can book passage!”

  “Where?”

  “At Klack’s Agency. It’s not far from here. Next block.”

  He led the way to a dingy-looking establishment with several blackboards in the window. On them were chalked such legends as Cook Wanted, Fireman (First Class) for S.A., Cruise and Stokers Wanted.

  “A lot of freighter crews are signed up here,” Biff explained. “I’ve heard they book passengers as a sideline.”

  Mr. Klack was out. But a stringy-haired blond girl inquired languidly what the boys wanted.

  “Can you fix me up with freighter passage for three?” Joe asked.

  The girl shook her head. “There are no ships in port—none takin’ passengers, that is. Give me the names, and if somethin’ turns up, I’ll let you know.”

  Joe wrote down their names and addresses and thanked the girl. Joe drove Biff home, then returned to the Hardy house.

  Aunt Gertrude had gone to the express office to press her complaint, and Frank had fallen asleep. Joe was telling his mother about the second visit to the Hawk when the telephone rang. It was Aunt Gertrude.

  “Joe!” she called loudly. “Come down here right away. Quick!”

  “But where are you, Aunty?”

  “Why, at the express office, of course! There’s a chance to solve the mystery. Hurry!”

  “I’ll be right down,” Joe promised. He hung up and turned to his mother, “Aunty’s on to something big. See you later.”

  Seconds later, he was on his way. When he drove up in front of the express company, Aunt Gertrude ran out, pointing to a truck about to pull away from the curb. It was loaded with trunks, bags, and boxes.

  “Follow him, Joe!” Miss Hardy commanded, jumping into the car beside her nephew and slamming the door shut.

  “Why? What’s the rush?”

  “You want to find out what’s going on, don’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then get going.”

  Joe accelerated as his aunt snapped the safety-belt buckle. “You mean the expressman is going to lead us to your missing carton?” he asked.

  Miss Hardy snorted, then assumed an attitude of patient tolerance. “No. There’s no word about my carton. Now keep following him.”

  “Look, I’m sort of confused,” Joe said, being careful not to tailgate the truck. “What’s this all about?”

  After giving Joe a few pointers on road safety, Aunt Gertrude said, “This morning a box that looks like mine and also like that other one with the raw wool arrived at the express office.”

  “Oh,” said Joe. “And it’s being delivered somewhere. You think that maybe James Johnson will be there to receive it?”

  “Your brain’s working now,” Aunt Gertrude said. “The carton’s marked for a Mrs. Harrison. The truck’s going there after making a few other deliveries. So I thought it wouldn’t hurt to investigate.”

  “Good idea,” Joe agreed. “By the way, Johnson never called for his carton, did he?”

  “I forgot to ask.”

  The expressman was the same One who had made the initial mistake. Joe was eager to reach the Harrison place, but the driver seemed to be in no hurry.

  He delivered big parcels and little parcels, large boxes and small boxes to various parts of town. Finally, with only the carton left, he headed for the outskirts of Bayport. Joe followed doggedly.

  At length the truck came to a stop in front of a handsome, modern home on a street with scattered houses. The driver unloaded the carton and carried it to the front steps.

  “Now go see, Joe. Hurry!” his aunt urged.

  Joe was out of the car and at the heels of the man as he rang the bell.

  A gray-haired woman opened the door and looked sharply at them.

  “Mrs. Harrison?” asked the driver, setting the carton in the hall.

  “Yes.”

  “Sign here, please,” he said, handing her a pencil and pointing out a blank space on his pad.

  Joe half expected the signature to be in the same handwriting as that of Johnson, and the signer to be masquerading as a woman. But he was wrong. The woman’s writing seemed definitely feminine, as was her voice.

  “Is Mr. Harrison home?” Joe inquired.

  “Mr. Harrison? Why—er—no,” she replied haltingly.

  “This is his carton, isn’t it?” Joe went on, still clinging to a hope that his errand was not in vain.

  “What is this?” Mrs. Harrison snapped. “A teen-age quiz program?” She slammed the door.

  The expressman grinned. “Fool’s errand for you, eh?” he said to Joe as they returned to the street.

  “I’m afraid so,” Joe replied ruefully and got back into the convertible.

  When she heard the story Aunt Gertrude was convinced that the transaction was not entirely aboveboard. “Ladies don’t slam doors in people’s faces,” she said, annoyed. “Those who do are afraid of something.”

  Aunt Gertrude was so chagrined that she avoided mentioning the incident that evening. But the next morning she brought up the subject again and expressed her view about Mrs. Harnson’s conduct. “I never saw such bad manners,” she exploded.

  “Which Mrs. Harrison is this?” asked Mrs. Hardy.
>
  “Oh, she lives on Mount Pleasant Drive,” replied Aunt Gertrude. “Mrs. Robert Harrison. A very rude woman.”

  “Why, Gertrude!” Mrs. Hardy exclaimed, shocked. “I know Martha Harrison. She’s a lovely person. You mustn’t say such things about her.”

  “You may think she’s a lovely person, Laura, but judging from her actions yesterday—”

  “Yesterday?” Mrs. Hardy repeated. “But Martha Harrison is out of town!”

  CHAPTER V

  More Disappointment

  “ARE you sure?” Joe asked his mother excitedly.

  “Yes. Mrs. Harrison is attending a convention of women’s clubs in Highburg. There’s no one home now because her husband is in Mexico.”

  Joe dashed to the telephone and called the Harrison number. There was no answer.

  “I’m going there!” he declared. “Frank, feel well enough to come?”

  “Sure do.”

  Mrs. Hardy’s revelation had convinced Joe that there might well be something strange about the delivery of the box after all.

  They drove over to Mount Pleasant Drive. Frank rang the bell. No answer. A boy who was riding a bicycle along the street said he was a neighbor, and volunteered the information that the Harrisons had closed their house a week before and would not be back until the end of the month.

  Frank and Joe returned home.

  “I knew it!” declared Aunt Gertrude. “I knew there was something suspicious about that woman the moment I heard she slammed the door in your face, Joe.”

  “But why would she be living in the Harrison house?” Mrs. Hardy asked, puzzled.

  “I have a theory about that,” Fenton Hardy said. “Sometimes burglars watch the social columns of the newspapers for names of people who are to be away. They learn when a house will be unoccupied, then rob it.”

  “Do you think there were thieves in the Harrison home?” Mrs. Hardy cried.

  The detective shrugged. “Perhaps. But not ordinary thieves. I suspect that some gang was using the Harrisons’ home as a convenient address.”

  “For the delivery of cartons?” asked Frank.

  “Exactly. And they probably contain stolen goods. The gang may be moving valuable stuff from state to state, and by using other people’s names and addresses, they practically eliminate the risk of being traced.”

  “What a racket!” Joe exclaimed.

  “It’s not new. But it works,” Mr. Hardy said. “I suggest that you boys notify the express company. No doubt they’ll turn the matter over to the police.”

  Now thoroughly engrossed in the case, Aunt Gertrude spoke up. “The carton that came here had raw wool in it, Fenton. That’s not worth stealing, is it?”

  The famous detective smiled at his sister. “No, of course not. But something valuable might have been hidden in the wool.”

  “Like what?”

  “We’ll have to wait and see,” Mr. Hardy replied, looking directly at his sons.

  In the meantime Mrs. Hardy had put in a long-distance call to Mrs. Harrison, who was shocked at the news. She had given no one permission to use her house and would return immediately to see if anything had been stolen.

  The boys drove downtown once again and called at the express office. The manager, Mr. Nixon, was concerned and upset to hear that his firm’s services were probably being used to move stolen goods.

  “No one has claimed that carton addressed to Johnson,” he said. “I’m going to open it, and if you’re right, I’ll certainly tell Police Chief Collig about it. Come along.”

  He led the way to a rear room. There was no carton in sight. All three searched the place, but in vain.

  “Funny,” said Mr. Nixon, scratching his head. “It couldn’t have walked away!”

  “I’m afraid it has been stolen,” said Frank. “That man Johnson was taking no chances.”

  “You’ll report it to the police?” Joe suggested.

  The manager shook his head. “I’d rather not do that just now. There would be damaging publicity. How about you two taking the case? I’ve heard a good deal about your success as detectives.”

  Frank and Joe hesitated. They did not know how they could accept in view of their trip with Mr. McClintock. Frank explained this to the manager.

  “Fair enough,” Nixon replied. “But why not work on it until you leave on your trip? If it hasn’t been cleared up by the time you go, I’ll turn it over to the police.”

  “All right,” said Frank. “We’ll do what we can.»

  When the Hardys came out of the express office building, they were surprised to see Mr. McClintock.

  “Your aunt told me you were here,” he explained. “I’ve been thinking about that freighter proposition you suggested. Doesn’t sound too bad. But I don’t know a thing about freighters. Do you suppose I could see one?”

  “There’s one in port now,” said Frank. “It’s called the Hawk. We can’t book passage on it, but at least you’ll see what a big freighter is like.”

  Mr. McClintock climbed into the car. When they reached the waterfront, the Hawk was much lower in the water, though not loaded to capacity yet. A large sign said, Positively No Visitors. It was easy, however, to study the details of the ship from the dockside.

  Mr. McClintock was pleasantly surprised. “Might be all right to travel on a ship like that,” he agreed. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Why not come up to our house to dinner tonight?” Joe said. “We’ll have more information by then. I left our names at an agency.”

  “Never eat much at night,” said Mr. McClintock. “Don’t go out to dinner at people’s houses because they always expect me to sit around for a couple of hours afterward and it keeps me up long past my bedtime. Now if you want to make that lunch—”

  “Lunch it is.” Frank laughed. “Let me call the house and tell Mother you’re coming,”

  Mr. McClintock apparently enjoyed himself immensely at the meal. To the amazement of the boys, he and Aunt Gertrude took an immediate liking to each other. They chatted gaily about times past and present, even voicing approval of at least part of the new generation.

  “Of course, my two nephews are unusual,” Aunt Gertrude remarked.

  “Quite so,” Mr. McClintock agreed.

  The two shook hands warmly when their guest departed, and early that evening Mr. McClintock telephoned, to say that he had made up his mind. He wanted to leave on a freighter trip right away. In fact, he had already picked his ship.

  “The one we saw at the dock looks all right to me. Book passage on it at once and we’ll sail as soon as it’s ready.”

  Vainly Frank tried to explain that the Hawk’s captain had already refused them passage.

  “Try them again. Offer double fare. That’ll bring him around. I want to go on that boat!”

  To please him, Frank telephoned Klack’s Agency. Klack himself answered the call.

  “No passengers,” he said. “You couldn’t go on the Hawk now anyway. She sailed a few minutes ago.”

  That, apparently, settled it. But the Hardy boys had not reckoned with a very persistent streak in Mr. McClintock.

  “I want to take a trip on that boat and I’m going to,” he announced when Frank reported to him over the telephone.

  “But how?” Frank asked. “She’s gone!”

  “We can find a fast motorboat and catch her,” came the reply. “Don’t you know where to get one?”

  “We own a motorboat,” Frank said. “It can go a good deal faster than a freighter and we might overtake the Hawk all right, but—”

  “Then what are we waiting for? Throw some clothes in a suitcase. I’ll call for you in a taxi in ten minutes.”

  “But we’ll have to find somebody to bring our boat back,” Frank protested.

  “That’s your business,” replied their client and hung up.

  Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude helped the boys pack, while Joe telephoned to several of their friends. Finally he reached Tony Prito, who was willing to go along
and bring back their boat, the Sleuth, if the Hardys could get on the Hawk.

  Mr. McClintock was at the Hardy house on time, and ten minutes later the Sleuth was nosing its way out of the boathouse and roaring off into the twilight.

  “When this Captain Sharp sees we’re determined to go with him, he’ll change his mind,” predicted Mr. McClintock.

  Even though the Hawk had a good start, the Hardys knew that their boat would be able to overtake the freighter. The regular steamer channel was clearly marked by buoys, and as the Sleuth ate up the miles Frank and Joe were confident it would be only a matter of minutes before they would see the lights of the big ship ahead.

  But they sped on and on, peering into the gloom.

  “Thought you said this boat of yours was a speedy one,” gibed McClintock. “Can’t you catch up to a slow steamer?”

  “There isn’t a faster motorboat on Barmet Bay,” spoke up Tony, quick to defend his friends’ craft.

  The moon rose, flooding the water with light. They could see to the mouth of the bay. The Hawk was not in sight.

  “She’s faster than I thought,” said Frank. He put his boat to the limit of her power and they came out into the open sea. Nothing but water. No moving lights indicated the presence of any ship.

  Frank swung the wheel. The Sleuth turned.

  “Giving up?” demanded McClintock.

  “Not entirely,” Frank replied. “We’ll go back to Bayport and find out the Hawk’s first port of call. If it’s not far away, we can go there by car and board the ship.”

  McClintock grumbled a little, but he realized that there was no point in continuing the chase by sea. The Sleuth roared back to port. There the boys learned by phoning Klack at his home that the Hawk was to stop at Southport.

  They took Mr. McClintock to his hotel, then drove home. Before they went to bed, Frank telephoned the harbor master in Southport. The reply to his question left him astonished and bewildered.

  “That freighter hasn’t docked here,” the harbor master said. “We aren’t even expecting her!”

  CHAPTER VI

  The Morton Special

  WHEN Frank and Joe reported to Mr. McClintock the next morning that the Hawk had vanished mysteriously, he went into a tirade. But by this time the boys had become used to his outbursts and scarcely heard him.