The Phantom Freighter

by Franklin W. Dixon

  The Hardys grinned because the girls were their special friends. Frank often dated Callie, while Iola was Joe’s favorite.

  “Hi!” Callie laughed. “Surprise!”

  “I’ll say,” declared Frank. “What are you doing in Hopkinsville?”

  “We followed you,” teased dark-haired, dimpled Iola. “Chet called your house. When he heard you were here he decided to come, too.”

  “I’m glad he did,” said Frank, smiling at blond Callie.

  “Just a little business trip, really,” Chet remarked grandly. “I’ve been calling on some of the storekeepers here. Got orders for a dozen mechanical herrings and some Morton Special flies. Now all I have to do is make the herrings, tie the flies, and deliver them.

  He produced an order book and thumbed the pages with an air of importance, while Frank and Joe howled with laughter.

  “It’s not funny!” said Chet. “It means money. Now if you fellows would only help me—”

  “Help you?” cried Joe. “How about that deep-sea fishing trip?”

  “Guess you’re right.” Chet became silent.

  “Oh,” said Callie. “I have something to tell you. It may be important.”

  “Mighty important, I’d say,” observed Chet. “Sounds to me as if you fellows are playing with dynamite. Tell them about it, Callie.”

  “I will if you’ll give me a chance,” Callie said impatiently. “While Chet was parking the car, I went over to the railroad station, which was across the street. I had to call a friend of mine. The line was busy. While I was waiting, I heard a man talking in the next booth. I didn’t pay any attention until he cried out, ‘Those boys are wise guys. They’ve got to keep out of our business, or their old man won’t see ’em for a long time.”‘

  Callie took a deep breath.

  “Go on,” Frank said.

  “Then the man said, ‘Yes, I mean the Hardys.’ With that he dashed out of the booth and got on a train.”

  “Did you know him?” Joe asked excitedly.

  “No.”

  “What did he look like? Did he have a triangular scar on his face?”

  Callie shook her head. “Not that I noticed.”

  “Did he mention the name of the person he was talking to?” Frank asked.

  “He did at the beginning, but at that time I wasn’t paying much attention. I’ve been trying to remember it. I keep thinking of the word ‘duck’ but it wasn’t that.”

  “Speaking of ducks,” interrupted Chet, “I could go for some food right now. It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten. Let’s try that restaurant over there across the street.”

  While they were waiting for sandwiches and Cokes, Frank and Joe questioned Callie closely about the overheard conversation, but she could recall little more than what she had already told them.

  “It’s silly of me to forget,” she said ruefully. “I know he mentioned the name of the person at the other end of the line.”

  Chet put on his most sagacious expression. “The best way to remember something,” he said, “is to forget about it. I mean, change the subject. Talk about something else. The freighter trip, for instance. You fellows had better book a fourth passage, by the way. Mr. McClintock says he wants me to go along. In fact, he insists on it.”

  “We’ll have to find a freighter first,” Joe said, “and a big one at that!”

  At that moment the waitress brought the food. Chet picked up his sandwich. As he opened his mouth, Callie suddenly cried out, “I know! Duck! Quack! Klack! That’s the name the man mentioned on the telephone!”

  “Good girl, Callie!” Joe praised her, while Chet bit into his sandwich with a smug smile.

  “So Klack’s mixed up in this whole affair!” Frank said grimly. “I thought so!”

  “You know him?” Callie asked.

  “We’ve had the pleasure,” Joe muttered, then told about their contact with Klack.

  Frank decided to talk to the travel agent as soon as possible. When they had finished their snack, they took Chet and the girls back to the railroad station, where Chet had left his jalopy, and said good-by.

  An hour later the Hardys stepped into Klack’s office.

  “The boss is out of town,” said the girl clerk.

  “When do you expect him back?” Frank asked.

  She shrugged. “A week, maybe.”

  “Has he booked passage for us yet?” Joe inquired.

  The girl shook her head.

  “Pardon me, boys,” said a familiar voice. A man stepped up to the desk. “Have you got my tickets, young lady? I telephoned yesterday. Name’s Jennings.” The man smiled at the Hardys. “You fellows taking a trip, too?”

  Mr. Jennings taught ancient and modern history at Bayport High. As the girl riffled through a list of reservations he chatted pleasantly with Frank and Joe. He had long planned a freighter voyage down the coast for his summer vacation with his two sons, he said, and now he was ready to leave.

  “Here you are, Mr. Jennings,” said the girl.

  The boys gaped in surprise as he paid for the tickets and put them in his billfold.

  “I suppose you made your reservations a long time ago, Mr. Jennings?” Frank asked politely.

  “Oh, no,” returned the teacher. “It wasn’t until yesterday that I knew I could get away at all. Very quick service.”

  He strolled out of the office, leaving the Hardys staring after him in astonishment. Annoyed by the agency’s unfair treatment, Frank demanded that the girl explain why they were unable to get on a ship while others could.

  “You’ll have to ask Mr. Klack about that,” she replied.

  The boys left. They were now completely convinced that there was a definite reason for their failure to get freighter passage and that Klack had something to do with it.

  “I suggest we try an out-of-town agency,” Frank said.

  “Right. Southport, for instance?”

  “Why not.”

  The next afternoon they drove to Southport. The people working in the travel bureau there were a great deal more courteous than at Klack’s and the owner more cooperative. While Frank discussed their problem, Joe picked up a copy of the local newspaper lying on the counter and glanced at the shipping notes.

  “We haven’t anything just now,” said the agent pleasantly, “but I’ll get in touch with the Neptune Line. It may take half an hour or so.”

  “Good,” said Frank. “We’ll come back.”

  “Hey, have a look at this,” Joe said, pointing to an item on the front page. It read:

  UNINVITED VISITORS

  When Mrs. W. C. Armstrong of Rushdale Road returned home yesterday from a vacation trip to Maine, she discovered that someone had broken into her house during her absence and had apparently lived there for several days.

  As far as is known, nothing of value was taken, but the police are investigating.

  A driver for the Southport Express Agency reports having delivered several cartons addressed to Mrs. Armstrong and says they were accepted by a woman claiming to be a relative. The boxes were not found in the house and Mrs. Armstrong claims she had not ordered anything delivered.

  “Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?” said Joe.

  “The same old routine. We’d better call on Mrs. Armstrong,” Frank agreed.

  The woman, like Mrs. Updyke in Bayport, could tell the boys very little other than what the newspaper had reported. Beds had been slept in and kitchenware used, but nothing was missing.

  “The police have searched the house thoroughly,” she said, “but my visitors didn’t leave any clues. Unless you could call this a clue,” she added, taking a ragged slip of paper from the mantel. “I found it in a corner when I was dusting this morning.”

  Frank and Joe examined the paper. Scribbled on it were some letters and numbers:

  A23—151—C2—D576-A19395—M14

  “Can you make anything of that?” she asked.

  Frank shook his head. “It could be a motor number, a safe combinat
ion, a lot of things. Do you mind if I copy these numbers?”

  “Not at all!”

  Frank took a notebook from his pocket. “You’d better give this slip to the police,” he advised.

  “Yes. I’ll do that.”

  After the boys had left the house, Joe said, “I believe it’s some kind of code.”

  “Let’s memorize the numbers,” suggested Frank. “Just in case we should lose them.”

  Both Hardys went over them several times until they were sure they would not forget them, then returned to the shipping agency.

  “I got in touch with the Neptune Line,” the owner told them, “and got reservations for you. One of their freighters, the Crown of Neptune, will be leaving in two weeks.”

  “Can we pick up the tickets now?” Joe asked.

  “Not right away. I’ll have to wait for confirmation. They’ll be ready in a day or so. I suggest that you get passports and vaccination certificates because the ship will be putting in at a couple of Central American ports.”

  “Fine,” said Frank. “We’ll take care of that.”

  They drove back to Bayport, relieved that they would have good news for Mr. McClintock at last.

  “Two weeks, eh?” he said. “Well, that’s not so bad. Meantime, we’ll go fishing. Do you know if Chet had any luck yet?”

  Frank suppressed a grin. “As far as I’ve heard he’s talked to a Captain Harkness. The skipper told him he’d call him as soon as he has a free day.”

  “Good.”

  An hour later Frank, Joe, and Chet were at the docks to search again for the man with the scar. Unknown to the boys, a longshoreman followed them at a discreet distance. As they walked toward a truck being unloaded by a stevedore, the man tailing them signaled to the worker.

  Instinctively Joe turned around and saw the fellow’s strange motions. Then he glanced ahead to see the stevedore throw a carton back onto the truck and duck beneath the chassis.

  Joe leaped into action. Racing ahead of the others, he dashed to the truck and looked underneath. The man was crawling out on the other side. Joe ran around just in time to see him dodge through a doorway to a storage shed.

  The man with the scar!

  “Frank, Chet! I found him!” Joe beckoned furiously. “He ran in there!”

  Joe dashed toward the doorway, but was blocked by two workmen carrying crates on their shoulders. The men moved off slowly, revealing the darkened entrance once again. Joe sprinted forward, just as Frank, running up behind him, shrieked out a warning.

  “Joe! Stop!”

  Out of the shadowy doorway sped a hand truck. It was loaded but nobody was at the controls!

  CHAPTER X

  Frank in Trouble

  “LOOK out, Joe!” Frank yelled in horror.

  Joe dived to safety on the cobbled pavement a split second before the cart whipped by and smashed into the parked truck. Boxes and parcels flew through the air.

  Unhurt, Joe scrambled up. He suspected that the fugitive had shoved the hand truck toward him in an attempt to gain time for a getaway in the network of alleys along the waterfront.

  He caught sight of the man at a gateway to the dockyard. Then the fugitive vanished from view.

  Joe raced in pursuit. As he reached the open gate he got a brief glimpse of the fugitive hurrying up the street, but a moment later he was gone again.

  “Probably ducked into one of the stores,” Joe concluded. He dashed up the street, not sure which door the man might have entered. Joe looked into two shops, then spoke to a fellow lounging outside a pawnshop.

  “I saw a guy run into Fit-Your-Figure-Charlie’s a minute ago,” the man told him.

  Joe rushed to the clothing store. It was apparently deserted. No clerk. No customers. Three clothes dummies were in the front window.

  Then Joe heard a groan. He traced it to its source in an anteroom used for tailoring, and found the shopkeeper unconscious on the floor. In the corner was a sink. Joe grabbed a towel, wet it and put it on the man’s forehead. The cold water revived the man and he sat up.

  “Guy came in here—slugged me—” he murmured.

  “Did he have a scar on his cheek?” Joe asked quickly.

  The man nodded. “Knocked me out—don’t know where he went.”

  Both looked up at the sound of footsteps in the doorway. Chet poked his head in. “Hey, what’s going on?” he asked.

  A hurried explanation followed. Then Joe said, “Help Charlie to the couch in his office, Chet. I’m going to call the police.”

  He looked around for a telephone but saw none, and stepped outside. Suddenly he paused. From the corner of his eye he had caught a glimpse of the display window. Four dummies stood there, one of them in a raincoat, with a hat pulled low over its head!

  Joe remembered that there had been only three dummies in the window before! He stepped back inside, quietly slipped the automatic catch on the lock to the window, and went back to Chet. He drew him aside and told him of his discovery. “I locked him in. He’s our prisoner,” he whispered.

  Chet did not like the idea of being left alone with the fellow. “Where’s Frank?” he asked worriedly.

  “I don’t know. Wasn’t he with you?”

  “No.”

  “He must have followed another lead. I’ll go find a phone.”

  Before Chet could object, Joe was out the door. He ran to a drugstore at the corner, called police headquarters, and asked for Con Riley. When he had him on the line, Joe said:

  “This is Joe Hardy. Listen, how fast can you make it to Mack Street? Fit-Your-Figure Charlie’s place. I want you to arrest a guy in the window.”

  “In the window?”

  “Live dummy. He slugged Charlie. I think he’s the scarred man we’re after.”

  “Be right over, Joe.”

  The young detective started back to the store. Suddenly he heard a crash. A figure hurtled through the show window and landed on the sidewalk. It was followed by a man in a raincoat.

  At the same instant Chet raced from the store and tackled the fugitive. They went down in a heap. The scarred man struggled to escape, but Chet hung on grimly, yelling to Joe.

  Joe raced up and helped subdue the suspect. A moment later a police car arrived and Con Riley jumped out. He snapped handcuffs on the man’s wrists.

  “What’s this all about?” the prisoner snarled. “I haven’t done anything.”

  “That’s what they all say,” replied Riley. “You’re coming down to headquarters.” Riley then informed the prisoner of his rights.

  “Yeah, I understand. When I want a lawyer, I’ll tell ya,” the man muttered.

  Chet and Joe, after making sure that Charlie was all right, climbed into the squad car with Riley and the scowling prisoner. They drove to headquarters. There the man gave his name as John Smith. He denied that he had ever gone under the name of Johnson, that he had ever been to the Phillips house, or that he had received any cartons.

  He was booked on a charge of assault and battery. The express-company driver was sent for and identified him as the man who had signed for Aunt Gertrude’s missing carton. The suspect said the expressman was crazy, and then maintained a stony silence.

  A figure hurtled through the window

  “Any identification on him?” Joe asked Riley after the man had been searched.

  “Not a thing,” the policeman replied. “Just some figures scribbled on the back of an old envelope. Can’t make head or tail of them.” Riley produced the evidence. Joe whooped. Scrawled on the paper were letters and numbers:

  A23—151—C2—D576—A19395—M14

  “The same as those found at Mrs. Armstrong’s home!” Joe thought excitedly.

  Written beneath the figures was Falcon.

  “The name of the phantom freighter!” Joe gasped.

  “What?” Riley asked.

  Joe quickly told him Captain Harkness’s story and the officer promised to investigate.

  When Joe and Chet arrived at the Hardy ho
me, they expected to find Frank there. But he had not yet come back.

  “That’s strange,” reflected Joe. “I wonder where he went.”

  For the next few hours the family and Chet anxiously waited for news of Frank. With growing concern, Joe and Chet returned to the waterfront and searched the docks thoroughly, making scores of inquiries. But to no avail!

  When they arrived home they found Mrs. Hardy, pale and tight-lipped, near the telephone. Her husband was away, and Aunt Gertrude paced up and down nervously. “That man they have locked up in jail—I’ll bet he knows what happened,” she declared. “If I had my way—”

  “But the police have questioned him a dozen times, Aunty,” said Joe. “He won’t talk.”

  “What time is it?” asked Mrs. Hardy.

  “Two o‘clock in the morning, Mother,” Joe replied. “You’d better go to bed and get some rest.”

  “I wouldn’t be able to sleep. If Frank doesn’t show up by seven,” said Mrs. Hardy, “I’ll have to telephone your father.”

  “No use bothering Fenton until we’re sure it’s serious,” said Aunt Gertrude. “Frank will turn up,” she added to calm Mrs. Hardy, but to herself she said, “I’m afraid something terrible has happened.”

  The telephone jangled harshly. Mrs. Hardy sprang to her feet, but Joe reached the instrument ahead of her.

  “Is this the home of Fenton Hardy?” demanded a rough voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Joe Hardy.”

  “All right, kid. In case you’re worrying about your brother, here’s a tip. You’ll find him on the porch of a summer bungalow about two miles up the Willow River. Better go and get him because he’s in no shape to walk home.”

  “Who’s speaking? What bungalow? Is he all right?”

  The caller hung up.

  “What is it, Joe?” Mrs. Hardy asked tensely, and he repeated the conversation.

  The message had been ominous, but Joe tried to be cheerful. “Oh, I’m sure Frank’s all right. Come on, Chet. We’ll take the Sleuth and go out there.”

  “I’m going with you,” Aunt Gertrude said brusquely. “Come on, Laura, you too!”