A Figure in Hiding (11 page)

The Hardys nodded in return and shifted their gaze. The next instant Joe gasped. “Frank! There's that guy who held up the Bijou!” he exclaimed.

The swarthy, hook-nosed man had been standing just inside the doorway to the terminal building. Apparently he had spotted the Hardys, for he turned and quickly strode away. Meanwhile, the disembarking passengers were already coming down the plane's ramp.

“Go after him, Joe!” Frank said. “I'll keep watch for Pampton!”

Joe darted into the building. The holdup man was disappearing into the crowd. Joe sidestepped and elbowed his way through the jostling throng. But he made little progress. In a moment his quarry was lost from sight.

“Gangway, please!” A skycap was pushing a hand truck loaded with baggage directly across Joe's path. The boy groaned.

In desperation Joe yelled, “Stop, thief! Stop that man!”

People sprang up from benches to gape in all directions and the crowd began to mill even more excitedly. By the time airport guards made their way to the scene, the whole terminal was in wild confusion.

A thorough search was made, but the darkcomplexioned man had vanished. Joe rejoined his brother to report failure. Meanwhile, Frank had seen no sign of Pampton. As they walked up and down outside the terminal building, they saw the health-farm chauffeur, Rip Sinder, drive off. His station wagon was empty.

“Looks as though his man didn't arrive either,” Joe remarked glumly.

Two more flights were due from New York that afternoon—one at five-thirty and another at seven-fifteen. The Hardys waited for both. But no one resembling Ace Pampton arrived on either flight.

“Great. This is what I call a well-spent afternoon,” Joe grumbled as they drove off.

“Let's stop at the hospital,” Frank proposed. “Zatta should be conscious by now.”

Joe agreed, eager to learn whatever information the peddler might be able to provide.

The brothers had a quick supper in town, then went on to the Bayport General Hospital. They took the elevator from the lobby to the fourth floor. Zatta was in Room 410.

The Hardys stopped outside with puzzled frowns. A crudely drawn sign had been taped to the closed door. It showed a hand with the fore and little fingers raised, middle fingers clenched over the thumb.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Joe said.

Suddenly Frank's eyes widened. “That's the same gesture Rip Sinder made at the airport!”

 

 

 

 

“WHAT gesture?” Joe said to his brother.

“Don't you remember when Sinder nodded to us, the way he scratched his jaw—with two fingers?”

Joe's eyes kindled thoughtfully. “That's right -I do remember now! It could be just a coincidence, though.”

“Maybe,” Frank said. “Let's find out who put this sign up—and why.”

The boys opened the door and went into the room. Sam Radley was watching the doorway warily, but at sight of the Hardys he relaxed and grinned.

“Hi, Sam!” Frank greeted him. “Did you find someone to spell you on guard?”

“Yes, an operative named Vickers—he's worked for your dad before,” Radley replied. “I just came on again at four.”

Zatta sat propped up in bed, with a black patch over one eye instead of his usual dark glasses. He had been playing checkers with Sam, and the board lay on the bed beside him. He seemed tense and fearful, and his one good eye stared at Frank and Joe with feverish intensity.

“Hi, Mr. Zatta!” Joe said cheerfully. “Feeling better?”

“Naah! I feel terrible!” the peddler croaked. “If I get out o' this alive, it'll be a miracle!”

Frank shot a questioning glance at Radley. “What about that sign on the door?”

The operative indicated Zatta with a slight jerk of his head. “He wanted it up—drew it himself. Then he raised a rumpus till the nurse agreed to stick it on the door.”

“But why?” Joe said.

Radley shrugged. “He wouldn't tell me. Said he'd talk to you fellows or your dad—no one else.”

The Hardys turned toward the peddler. The talk about the sign seemed to have stirred up his fears. Zatta's good eye darted anxiously from one to another of the trio.

“Do you feel like talking to us now, Mr. Zatta?” Frank asked gently.

“Sure, I'll talk. I'll tell you everything,” the peddler said in a shaky voice. “Come closer so I don't have to speak so loud.... Yeah, that's better.... Now, about that sign on the door—the hand with the two fingers stickin' out—”

Someone rapped on the door. Zatta broke off with a fearful jerk that sent the checkerboard and checkers clattering to the floor.

Radley strode to the door and opened it—only a crack at first, then wide enough for a nurse to enter. She came into the room holding a large circular bundle wrapped in florist's paper. “For you,” she said, handing it to Zatta. Surprised, the peddler tore off the paper, disclosing a wreath of white lilies. Their heavy perfume filled the air with an almost sickly fragrance.

“Lilies!” Zatta screamed. “This-this looks like a funeral piece! Where'd it come from? Who sent it?” He shoved the wreath at the nurse.

She took the wreath with a shocked look. “Well, I-I don't know,” she faltered. “The florist's deliveryman brought them up to our station. There's an enclosure card here addressed to you, Mr. Zatta.”

She detached a small white envelope from the ribbon on the wreath and handed it to the patient. With trembling fingers he opened it and plucked out the card.

Zatta took one quick look at the card, then let out a hoarse screech. His gaunt frame began to quiver, as if with a sudden chill.

“What is it?” Frank exclaimed. “What's wrong?” He took the card from Zatta's shaking hand. Joe and Radley pressed close to see it.

“What does it mean?” Joe gasped. All three looked at Zatta.

“I'm not talkin'!” he whined. “I'm not sayin' another word, see? They almost got me once, but I ain't stickin' my neck out again!”

“Who are
they?”
Frank asked. Seeing the peddler's look of stubborn panic, he pleaded, “You must tell us. How can we find the people who sent this and turn them over to the police if you won't help us?”

But Zatta shrank back in terror, huddling among the bedclothes. “I told you I'm not talkin‘! So stop askin' me!” His unpatched eye rolled wildly. “Don't let anyone in here! Lock the windows and lock the door and keep 'em locked!”

Seeing the patient working himself into a frenzy, the nurse hastily called a doctor. Zatta was given sedation and the medic advised the Hardys to break off the interview. Frank and Joe reluctantly went back to their car, leaving Sam Radley on guard.

“What a break! Just when he was going to tell us what that sign meant!” Joe grumbled.

“It's pretty clear what the eye means,” Frank said ruefully. “It must be a warning from the same gang that captured him before—probably the Gogglers.”

Joe agreed and added, “Those funeral lilies were warning enough, but the eye really sent Zatta up in smoke. That reminds me—the eye drawn under Mrs. Lunberry's window must have been meant as a warning, too, for her not to talk any more to us.”

Frank nodded. “It was bound to scare her, even if she didn't know what it meant. For that matter, the guy was probably trying to scare us, too.”

As Frank slid behind the wheel of their convertible, he went on, “There's one thing we can check out right now, Joe.”

“You mean, who sent the flowers?”

“Right. The card said Barmet Bay Floral Shop.”

The two boys drove to the shop, which was near the hospital and remained open on Sundays. They arrived just as the owner was about to close for the evening. Frank explained who the boys were and mentioned the wreath of lilies.

“We'd like to know who sent it.”

The shop owner shook his head. “I'm afraid I can't help you, boys—I don't know myself.”

“How come?” Joe queried.

“The order was stuck under the door while I was at lunch.”

“No name or return address on it?” Frank said.

“No. None on the envelope and none inside. Just a twenty-dollar bill and a printed note saying to send a wreath of lilies to Mr. Henry Zatta at the Bayport General Hospital.” The florist scratched his head thoughtfully and added, “Oh, yes. There was something else on the note, too—a funny-looking drawing of an eye. The note asked me to copy that on a gift card and enclose it with the wreath.”

“Do you still have the note and the envelope around somewhere?” Joe asked eagerly. “We'd like to see them, please.”

“Sorry. They got burned up in the incinerator less than ten minutes ago when I cleaned up.”

Frank and Joe thanked the shop owner and went back to their car. They were completely disgusted.

“There goes another good lead,” Joe said.

As soon as the Hardys arrived home, they hurried to the basement and warmed up their short-wave radio. Frank sent out a code call and soon made contact with their father, who always carried a small but powerful pocket transceiver with him when traveling. Frank reported the hospital incident and also the fact that no one resembling Ace Pampton had arrived at the airport.

Fenton Hardy was surprised and disappointed. “I can't understand it,” he said. “Since I talked to you this afternoon, I've picked up other clues which convinced me the man who bought the airline ticket here
was
Pampton. Of course he may have stopped over in New York. The last lap of his flight may have been a red herring to throw us off his trail.”

“Or he may have used the stopover time in New York to disguise himself, Dad,” Frank suggested.

“Sure,” Joe put in. “He could have gone into the washroom at the airport terminal and changed to different clothes—or maybe even changed his facial appearance in some way.”

“That's a thought,” the investigator agreed. “The name he used in buying the ticket was Brown—Otto Brown. I should have told you before. Better call the airport and find out if he was on any of those incoming flights from New York.”

“Right. We'll check and let you know, Dad,” Frank promised.

Joe hurried upstairs to make the telephone call and returned a few minutes later, looking glum. “Pampton fooled us, all right,” he reported. “The airline clerk said Otto Brown landed on the three-ten flight.”

Mr. Hardy received the news without losing his good humor. “Just one of those setbacks a detective has to expect, boys,” he said. “I'll explore his trail here for another day or so. I may turn up a clue to what he's after in Bayport. Keep your eyes open for him.”

Next morning Frank and Joe set out for the airport again with the faint hope of tracing Pampton's trail from the terminal. On the way, they stopped off at Bayport Police Headquarters to find out if Chief Collig had anything to report on Malcolm Izmir.

“Yes, I received a written report from the Ocean City chief about half an hour ago. Then I talked to him on the phone. As I told you, Izmir is a respected businessman and quite active in community affairs. But there was one odd discrepancy I noticed.”

“What's that?” Frank asked.

“You said he told you he had received a number of threatening messages. If so, he must have clammed up about them to the police—they knew nothing of any such threats.” Collig paused to pull an envelope from his drawer. “However, a prowler was caught several days ago, trying to break into his house. Here's a mug shot of him the police sent over.”

Collig held out the photograph of a dark-haired, hook-nosed man. Frank and Joe were thunderstruck.

Frank cried out, “That's the Bijou holdup man!”

 

 

 

 

COLLIG looked hard at Frank. “Are you certain this is the theater thief?” he asked the Hardys.

“Positive,” Frank replied. “We spotted the man at the airport yesterday. Joe chased him, but he got away. We thought the airport guards would report it.”

“It's possible they did,” the chief replied. “I haven't gone over all this morning's reports.”

Joe noticed that the name on the photograph was Nick Cordoza. “If he was caught trying to break into Izmir's pace, how come the police didn't hold Cordoza? Joe asked.

“Izmir refused to press charges, so they had to let him go,” Chief Collig replied. “Cordoza has a record—he served time for armed robbery—but he wasn't wanted for anything else when they picked him up at Ocean City. However, we'll put out a general alarm for him on the Bijou job.”

As the boys came out of headquarters, Frank remarked. “That makes two things about Izmir that need explaining.”

“Name them,” Joe said.

“First, why didn't he report those threatening letters to the police?”

“Maybe he never got any,” Joe theorized. “He may have been lying to us.”

“But we know he's frightened,” Frank pointed out. “Why else would he have those savage Dobermans? Which brings up the second question,” he went on. “Why did Izmir let Cordoza go?”

“Maybe he was afraid of gang revenge,” Joe said. “Remember, Cordoza wore a Goggler disguise on the movie holdup.”

“Could be,” Frank said doubtfully. “But if Izmir's already in fear of his life, what has he got to lose by putting Cordoza behind bars?”