Joe looked up. “Better not. What if it’s a trap?”
“A trap? But why?”
“Maybe someone wants to get us all out of the house, for some reason,” suggested Joe.
Mrs. Hardy was distressed. “Then maybe Frank won’t be there at all,” she said.
“Oh, I’m sure he is, Mother. But we’d better not take chances. Stay here and call Chief Collig. Tell him where we’ve gone.”
Aunt Gertrude nodded. “Joe is right. Sit down, Laura. We’ll guard the house. And if I hear as much as a footstep around here, I’ll ...”
Her voice trailed off.
Mrs. Hardy said, “Better phone Biff Hooper and see if he can go with you, so you’ll have some help in case you need it.”
After calling Biff and asking him to meet them at the boathouse, Joe and Chet hurried off. As they sped through the deserted streets in the Hardys’ car, they spoke little. The same question was in their minds, What had happened to Frank?
If they could have played back a movie of the chase the day before, they might have seen the relief on Frank’s face after Joe’s narrow escape. Frank’s first impulse had been to join his brother and Chet in further pursuit of the fugitive.
But then something caught his attention. On the side of a large box near the truck were the numbers A23—151—C2!
Quickly Frank examined several other boxes. Two of them bore similar numbers. Looking for an address, he found a tag nailed to each carton, marked Wasp—Dock Three, Bayport.
Sure that he had stumbled upon an important clue, Frank hunted for the Wasp. It was a large motor launch, painted yellow and black, with a small cabin. There were no signs of anyone aboard, so Frank leaped onto the deck near an open hatch. Boxes of cargo were stacked below, to within a few feet of the deck.
Frank lowered himself through the hatch to examine the boxes. They were similar in size and appearance to the cartons on the truck. Numbers were painted on the sides. Some of them were identical with the code found in the Armstrong house.
Suddenly Frank heard voices of men who had come aboard. One said, “We’ve got to get that stuff to Crowfeet or he’ll have a stroke!”
“I’m not going to risk it,” argued another. “Too dangerous. We can come back tomorrow.”
A minute later a third voice shouted, “Hey, men, we’ve got to get out of here quick!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Hank’s been arrested. Bayport’s getting too hot for this racket!”
There was a sound of running footsteps on deck. This was followed by a heavy thud and sudden blackness.
The hatch cover had been closed!
Frank heard a bell ring. Engines began to throb, and with a roar the Wasp pulled away from the dock.
Frank struggled to keep calm. Should he make his presence known by banging on the hatch cover? No, he decided. He would stay hidden and wait for a chance to escape.
“Wish I had a flashlight,” he thought. “I’d like to find out what’s in these boxes.” Thinking he might identify it by feel, he took out his pocket-knife and tried to open one, but the blade snapped off. “Tough luck!” Frank muttered.
The air in the hold was getting stuffy. Frank climbed on top of the boxes and thrust his hands hard against the hatch cover. It did not budge a fraction.
After an hour had passed, the terror of the unknown began to seize Frank. Perhaps he should shout for help. But even if he tried to attract attention, his shouts would hardly be heard above the roar of the engines. If the launch was bound on a long trip, he might suffocate!
A short time later the speed of the launch diminished. Finally the engines were cut off altogether. The boat swayed from side to side, and shuddered as it bumped against the timbers of a dock.
Frank heard voices. Footsteps thudded overhead. With a rattle and a crash, the hatch cover was hauled away. Frank tried to slip down among the boxes, but was too late. A seaman shouted, “Hey! We’ve got a stowaway!”
“Take him forward!” rasped another.
Half blinded by the light, Frank was dragged and pushed along the deck toward the cabin.
CHAPTER XI
Stolen Tickets
UNTIL the first light of dawn edged the horizon, Joe, Chet, and Biff roared back and forth on the river near the two-mile mark. They were discouraged when they found no bungalow. The early-morning mist was heavy, and it was difficult to see the homes back of the shoreline of the Willow River.
When the fog lifted, they were more than three miles from the mouth of the river. It was then that they saw a dark figure sprawled on the porch of a deserted cabin.
“Frank!” cried Joe.
He pulled beside a makeshift, half-rotted pier and the boys jumped out. Quickly they ran up the few steps to the porch.
Frank was bound hand and foot, and tightly blindfolded, but unharmed. As Joe and Biff cut loose the ropes and whipped off the blindfold, they hurled dozens of questions at him. Frank slowly rubbed his aching arms and legs and got up. “I’m starving,” he said. “Do you have any chow with you?”
Joe and Biff stared at each other, but Chet beamed happily. He fished an apple and a package of nuts from his pockets.
“You guys are always kidding me because I never go anywhere without supplies. See how it comes in handy!” He gave the food to Frank.
“Thanks, Chet.”
Frank alternately bit a large chunk of apple and tossed a few nuts into his mouth. When he had finished and thrown the core away, Biff said, “Come on. Let’s get out of here. Frank can tell us what happened on the way home.”
As the motorboat sped back down the river, Frank related his strange adventure. When he reached the point where he had been hauled out of the Wasp’s hold and taken to the cabin, Joe interrupted him excitedly.
“Why, you’ve practically solved the case. You’ll be able to identify those men—”
Frank shook his head. “I didn’t really see any of them. I was blinded by the sudden light after being in the dark hold. Then a blindfold was clapped over my eyes. Some guy gave an order; another said ‘Shut up!’ and after that no one spoke. I couldn’t identify them.”
“What happened then?” Biff urged.
“They moved me from the Wasp to another boat. It cruised around for a while, then I was transferred into a rowboat. One man took me up the river. He was supposed to get rid of me and leave no clues, but I guess he was afraid.”
“So he dropped you at the cottage?” Joe put in.
“Right. When he left me, he said, ‘Let this be a lesson to you. Mind your own business. Any more snooping and you won’t get off so easy!’ ”
Chet gulped. “If I were you, I think I’d follow his advice!”
“Are you kidding!” Joe protested. “This gives us all the more reason to nab that gang!”
“By the way,” Frank said, “how did you manage to find me?”
“Your unknown savior called the house.”
“Well, that was nice of him. Wish he’d done it a lot sooner,” Frank said.
By this time the Hardy boathouse loomed ahead, and soon the Sleuth was docked. “Let’s go home and get some sleep,” Joe suggested. “Then we’d better talk again to that man who’s in jail. I’m sure he’s the ‘Hank’ you’ve heard mentioned, Frank. I’ll bet he knows all about the Wasp and Crowfeet.”
“Good idea,” Frank said.
They drove Biff and Chet home. When they finally arrived at the Hardy house, their mother and Aunt Gertrude wept with joy. Aunt Gertrude bustled about the kitchen, preparing breakfast, while Mrs. Hardy notified Chief Collig of the boys’ safe return.
Then Frank and Joe went to bed and slept soundly until noon. When they came down, their mother said Mr. McClintock had telephoned.
“I guess he wants to know if we got reservations,” Frank said. “I’ll check with the Southport agency and see if the tickets are ready.”
But when Frank spoke to the agent he received quite a shock.
“Tickets?”
the man said. “You got them already.”
“No we didn‘t,” Frank told him,
“That fellow you sent over picked them up early this morning and paid for them.”
“We didn’t send anyone,” said Frank. “Did he give you his name?”
“No.”
“Describe him, please.”
“In his thirties, I’d say. Dark hair. Since he paid for your fare I had no reason to think he was not on the level!”
Frank groaned. “He stole our tickets!”
The agent was greatly disturbed. “This has never happened to me in all my years in business. It’s outrageous. Well, don’t worry. When the fellow shows up on the sailing date, we can get an explanation.”
“Will you issue us new tickets?” Frank inquired.
“That might not even be necessary. I’ll be on the ship personally to look into this.”
Frank thanked the agent and put down the telephone. “Somebody is going through all kinds of trouble to prevent us from making this trip,” he said to Joe. “Even paid for the fare!”
“You know,” Joe reflected, “maybe our friend McClintock is the reason for all this. Somebody might be trying to keep him from going!”
“You’re right. Let’s go talk with him.”
Mr. McClintock greeted them with a grin. “Sleep mighty late, don’t you? When I was a boy I used to get up bright and early—six o‘clock sharp. Well, what luck? Don’t tell me you haven’t got the tickets yet!”
Instead of answering, Frank asked, “Have you any enemies, sir?”
The man peered at him suspiciously. “Enemies? What do you mean?”
“Can you think of anyone who wouldn’t want you to go on this trip?”
“You’re talking nonsense. Who could stop me? What’s behind all this?”
Frank could not make up his mind whether or not Mr. McClintock was evading his question. When he told him about the mysterious stranger who had picked up the freighter tickets at Southport, McClintock was furious.
“They can’t do this to me!” he snapped. “I’ll take legal action. I’ll make them hand over those tickets. Strikes me that you boys have bungled this whole business from the beginning!”
He gazed at them intently. “Or perhaps you don’t really want to go on a voyage? Well, I’ll handle this myself. I’ll get tickets!”
Grabbing the room telephone, he put through a call to Klack’s Agency. “Hello!” he barked. “Mr. Klack? ... Oh. This is Thaddeus McClintock at the Bayport Hotel. I want passage for four on the first freighter leaving this port. What’s that? Now you listen to me—”
The person at the other end of the wire had to do a good deal of listening. McClintock made the line sizzle. He voiced dire threats as to what would happen to the agency if they did not procure tickets promptly. But apparently his wrathful predictions failed to produce results, because finally he slammed the receiver down and sat back, muttering.
“Fine way to run a business!” he growled. “Said she’d put me on the list. I have a good mind to cancel the whole plan.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. McClintock,” Frank said calmly. “We’ll get on a freighter. The Southport agent will be there personally to straighten things out.”
“Thank goodness for that. Say, what’s with our fishing trip, meanwhile?”
“Chet’s working on it.”
“He’s no more successful than you in making arrangements,” Mr. McClintock grumbled. “Tell him to get going, will you?”
“We will,” Frank promised and the boys left. Their next stop was police headquarters. They spoke to Chief Collig, who was an old friend. He listened attentively, then reached for a telephone and asked for information about the Wasp. When he turned back to the boys, he frowned.
“The launch doesn’t seem to be registered. We’ll make some more inquiries. And now, about this man we’re holding. You think his name is Hank, and he’s part of the gang that wanted to get rid of you, Frank?”
“I’m sure of it. Can I talk to him?”
“Go ahead. If he tells you anything worthwhile, let me know.”
A guard showed the boys to the cells. The man with the scar was lying on his bunk, reading a newspaper.
“Hi, Hank,” Frank said.
The prisoner looked up, startled. Then his expression became wary. “You made a mistake. My name’s not Hank.”
“That’s what the boys on the Wasp call you,” Frank replied coolly.
“The Wasp?” The prisoner looked alarmed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“A23—151—C2!” said Frank.
The suspect swung himself off the bunk and strode toward the door of the cell. “Now look,” he said thickly. “About those numbers. You can‘t—”
“What?” Frank asked sharply as the man hesitated.
Hank just stared at the boys. Finally he answered, “I don’t know anything about those numbers. Talk to my lawyer.”
“Does he represent Crowfeet too?”
The man did not answer. The boys made several attempts to get him to talk, but he stubbornly refused to say another word. Finally they left. But they were sure of two things. He was Hank, and he knew something about the mysterious numbers.
When Frank and Joe reached home they found that their father had returned. He had already been told of Frank’s adventure on the Wasp, and now listened with interest as his sons reported about their call at headquarters.
“The prisoner recognized the numbers all right,” Frank said. “At first we thought he was going to talk, but then he changed his mind.”
“Let me see those numbers,” his father said.
Joe went to get the copy of the numbers on the crumpled scrap found in Mrs. Armstrong’s home, and showed it to Mr. Hardy.
“So Hank wouldn’t talk?” the detective said resolutely. “Well, never mind. I believe I can solve that part of the mystery without his help!”
CHAPTER XII
Harrowing Experience
ASTONISHED, Frank and Joe, leaned forward to hear their father’s explanation of the mysterious numbers.
“It fits in with something I happen to know,” Mr. Hardy said. “Besides the case concerning the fake documents, I am working on an assignment for a large company manufacturing electric motors.”
“Industrial espionage?” Joe asked.
“Not quite. The president engaged me to check on a lot of new motors which bear his trade name but weren’t sold by his company. They’ve turned up in various cities along the coast, but his branch offices and distributors in those places know nothing about them.”
“Wouldn’t it be an easy matter” Frank said, “to check the serial numbers of the motors that leave the factory against the ones being received at the branches, to be sure of this?” asked Frank.
“That’s been done,” Mr. Hardy replied. “All the invoices match up. If five hundred motors are produced in the factory, those same five hundred reach the branch offices. So I’m inclined to think the extra ones are being assembled elsewhere from stolen parts.”
Joe was puzzled. “What have our numbers got to do with it, Dad?”
“They sound like the motor numbers and may have a great deal to do with it. At any rate, I’m going to assign Sam Radley to the Bayport waterfront right away.”
Radley had been Mr. Hardy’s operative for quite some time and both boys had great respect for his abilities.
“Maybe we could give him a hand?” Frank offered.
“Not at this time,” his father replied, and with that dropped the subject.
“I did have a little luck on another matter,” he said. “Joe, will you ask Aunt Gertrude to come into the library. I think she’ll be interested in this.”
Mr. Hardy unbuckled the straps of a big suitcase he carried on his longer trips. When his sister entered the room, he was removing the wrapping of a flat parcel.
“Recognize this, Gertrude?” he asked, holding up a small picture.
It was an oil painti
ng in an old-fashioned frame, showing the portrait of a stern-looking elderly gentleman with muttonchop whiskers.
“Great-Grandfather Hardy!” gasped Aunt Gertrude. “That picture was in my lost carton! Where did you find it, Fenton?”
Mr. Hardy told how he had come across the picture in Washington while visiting antique shops in search of forged documents. He had recognized the portrait at once; because Great-Grandfather Hardy had stared down at him from over the piano in their home when he was a boy.
“He didn’t look very happy in that antique shop.” Mr. Hardy smiled. “The proprietor couldn’t tell me much about the woman who had sold it to him, along with various odds and ends, about a week ago. She gave her address but it turned out to be a phony one.”
Aunt Gertrude said nervously she hoped the rest of the contents of the box would come back to her without much trouble. “There were certain things—” she said dreamily.
Just then the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it!” Aunt Gertrude cried and hastened toward the hallway.
Frank glanced at his brother. “Have you noticed how jumpy Aunty has been ever since she lost that box?”
“Every time the phone or the bell rings she practically runs to answer it,” Joe agreed. “There’s got to be more to it than just those missing letters and papers.”
It was obvious that Aunt Gertrude was jittery because she was expecting a message—either a phone call or a letter. Was it in connection with the mystery? the boys wondered.
Aunt Gertrude returned to say that it had been a salesman at the door, and—
The sound of the telephone interrupted her. “I’ll take it!” she said quickly. A moment later she called out in a disappointed voice, “It’s only Chet!”
When Frank said “Hello,” Chet responded in an aggrieved tone, “It’s only Chet. A fine thing to say about me!”
Frank laughed. “Don’t be so touchy. What’s up?”
“Tomorrow’s the day we go tuna fishing with Captain Harkness.”
“Great. We’ll be there!”
When the Hardys arrived at the wharf the following morning, Mr. McClintock was hopping about like a happy child. Swinging over one of his shoulders were straps holding a binocular case.
The Phantom Freighter Page 7
