A Figure in Hiding (15 page)

Frank and Joe exchanged excited glances.

“How about the fuel tanks?” Joe asked.

“I think they're down a bit, but I'm not positive what the level was when I left,” Braxton replied. “That wouldn't tell us much about the range, anyhow. Whoever took the Spook could have filled her tanks and burned it all up before he brought her back.”

“Have you a chart of the coast around Nantucket?” Frank asked. “I'd like to see it.”

“Sure.” Bill Braxton climbed back aboard and led the way into the cabin. He removed a chart from a drawer and spread it out on the bench.

Frank fingered a spot about midway between Montauk and Nantucket. “Would your tanks have enough capacity to get the
Spook
there and back?”

Bill nodded. “Sure. Easy.”

“How long would the run take—say at top speed?” Frank inquired.

“Three hours each way. Maybe less—say two and a half if I really opened her up and didn't run into any heavy seas. Why?”

“Joe and I have the same wild hunch, I think.” Frank told about the news report that Malcolm Izmir had been lost overboard from the
Cristobal,
and also about the mysterious radio signals he and Joe had picked up over the glass-eye receiver. “Izmir's loss overboard at sea could have been faked to get him out of a financial jam,” Frank reasoned. “Someone could have taken your hydrofoil, picked Izmir up near the
Cristobal,
and brought him back to shore.”

“And the ‘someone' could have been Lemuel,” Joe added. “That would explain why he pretended to be interested in buying the
Spook
and then never showed up again. All he really wanted was for you to take him out on the bay and show him how to operate this job.”

Bill Braxton was stunned. “Could be, all right,” he said slowly. “But to pull a trick like that, Izmir would need the cooperation of the master and crew of the
Cristobal,
wouldn't he? That's pretty hard to swallow.”

Frank was not so sure of this. “Would you, by any chance, know who owns the
Cristobal?”

Braxton shook his head.

“Never mind,” Frank said. “We'd better notify the police, anyhow, and see if they can lift any fingerprints off the
Spook.”

All three climbed off the hydrofoil and Frank telephoned Chief Collig. He reported the overnight theft of the
Sea Spook
and obtained the name of the company the chief had called to inquire about Izmir's sailing.

“Thanks, Chief.” Frank hung up and turned back to the others. “He's sending a detective right over. Joe, let's blast off for home. I have an idea I'd like to follow up.”

Driving back to Elm Street, Frank explained, “The
Cristobal
is owned by the Trans-Ocean Line. Dad handled a case for them once, rounding up a gang of card sharks, remember? I think they should be willing to help us.”

As soon as they arrived home, Frank made a telephone call to the office of the Trans-Ocean Line in New York. After listening to his story, an executive of the company assured him that Captain Rowley, the master of
Cristobal,
had a long, spotless record of service. He could be considered above suspicion. The executive promised, however, to call the liner by radiotelephone and arrange a short-wave interview between the Hardys and the captain. Within an hour, the boys made contact.

“When was Izmir last seen, sir?” Frank asked him.

“Soon after midnight last night,” Captain Rowley replied. “He came up on the bridge and chatted with the officer on watch.”

“What about?”

“Oh, the usual things passengers talk about. He asked the ship's position and course, what the weather outlook was, and so on.”

Frank glanced excitedly at Joe. “What
was
the ship's position, sir?”

“Hold on a moment.” A short while later Rowley's voice came back on. “Our midnight fix put us at forty-one degrees, twelve minutes north latitude and seventy degrees, fifty-nine minutes west longitude.”

Joe had a sudden inspiration. “Could you give us your course and speed at that time, sir?” he put in eagerly.

“According to the log, our course was 080, speed thirteen knots.”

“Is there any indication that Izmir went back to his cabin after that?” Frank asked.

“Apparently not, since his bed wasn't slept in, although we don't know,” Rowley replied. “He may have fallen over the rail or jumped right after leaving the bridge.”

The Hardys thanked the captain and signed off.

“I'd say that's it, Joe!” Frank exclaimed. “The midnight position was the same as the one we picked up over the glass eye!”

“And the next two groups in the message tell the ship's speed and course,” Joe pointed out.

Frank went on breathlessly, “And the last numbers—twelve twenty-seven—could be the time Izmir went over the side. Knowing the
Cristobal's
course and speed, Lemuel could plot the exact spot where Izmir jumped.”

“Right. But did he stay afloat until the
Spook
arrived?”

“He probably had a life jacket, or even an inflatable raft,” Frank guessed. “It would be risky, all right, but not
too
risky if Izmir felt he was in a real jam and might wind up facing a long prison term.”

“Sure,” Joe agreed. “He and Spotty could easily have figured out beforehand, from the
Cristobal's
sailing time, about where she'd be around midnight. All Izmir had to do was radio his exact position and shine a flashlight every so often. The
Spook
could have picked him up in fifteen minutes.”

Just then Mrs. Hardy called to her sons that Dr. Bates was on the phone. Frank hurried from the basement to answer, with Joe close at his heels.

“I've just found out about Dr. Vardar,” the medic reported. “He was a prominent plastic surgeon in New York City up until two years ago. Then he became involved in some sort of scandal. I couldn't find out the details, but his license was revoked for malpractice.”

“Thanks a lot, sir. That tells us all we need to know.” Frank hung up and turned excitedly to his brother, who had been listening in. “Did you get that? Vardar was a plastic surgeon!”

“No wonder Chet thought he saw a mummy!” Joe replied. “Vardar must have operated on someone's face and the patient was still wrapped in bandages.”

“Do you realize what that means?” Frank said. “Doc Grafton's Health Farm isn't just a hideout for criminals on the run—it's even a place where they can buy a new face. What a racket!”

Joe's eyes narrowed. “That malpractice bit just gave
me
an idea, Frank.”

“Like what?”

“Remember Tony said the Italian name for the evil eye is
malocchio?”

“So?”

“Well,
mal
must mean ‘bad' or ‘evil.' And if you shorten Malcolm Izmir's name to one syllable plus a letter, you get ‘Mal I.' That could be where the gang got its name—the Evil Eyes!”

“Wow! We're really hot today!” Frank said, socking his fist into his palm. “I'll bet anything the
Sea Spook
brought Izmir back to Bayport and he's hiding out at the health farm right now, getting his face changed!”

“Great, but all this is just theory,” Joe reminded his brother. “We have no proof.”

“Right,” said Frank. “But if Dad can get a peek inside that building Chet told us about, he may be able to wrap up the case. Let's see if we can raise him on the radio!”

The boys hurried back downstairs and tried to contact their father by short-wave, but got no response. After lunch they tried again without success. They continued calling throughout the afternoon, but Mr. Hardy failed to answer. By dinnertime Frank and Joe were worried.

“Let's find out if Chet knows anything,” Frank suggested.

He telephoned the Morton farm and hung up a few moments later with a shrug of disappointment. “Chet's mother says he doesn't finish work this evening till nine o'clock. I don't want to risk a phone call to him at the health farm.”

“Listen. If we can't reach Dad by that time,” Joe said, “let's go meet Chet and do a little scouting.”

“Okay with me.”

Soon after nine o'clock Chet came ambling through the arched gateway of the health farm. A slight honk drew his attention to the Hardys' parked convertible. He trotted over.

“Hi, fellows!” he exclaimed. “I thought Iola was coming to pick me up.”

“We volunteered,” Frank said. “Hop in.”

As the car drove off, the Hardys gave Chet a quick fill-in. “I think your dad's okay,” he assured them. “I saw him. He gave me a wink. Otherwise, I wouldn't have known him.”

“What time was that?” Joe asked.

“Around five-thirty. Just before chow.”

“Let's try him again,” Frank said hopefully.

He pulled over to the side of the road and Joe beamed out a call over their short-wave. This time Fenton Hardy responded. After hearing their story, he said, “Good work, boys. I've already got hold of a key to that building and I'm going to try slipping in after lights-out at ten P.M. But it may be dangerous. Think you fellows could climb over the fence?”

“Sure. What do you want us to do?” Joe said.

“Keep watch for a signal—just in case I run into any trouble.”

“Roger!”

Chet was nervous but agreed to help. The boys waited until after ten o'clock, then parked the convertible on the north side of the wooded estate. Scaling the fence, they made their way silently among the trees toward the suspicious two-story frame building. The health farm lay shrouded in darkness. Other than faint gleams from a few shaded windows, most lights on the estate were out. Only the chirping of crickets broke the silence.

“Seen any sign of your dad?” Chet whispered as the three youths joined one another after circling the building.

“Not yet,” Frank murmured.

Suddenly they heard the noise of a violent scuffle inside the house—then a muffled cry! The boys' hearts thudded. A light flashed on in an unshaded upper-story window.

“Good grief! What happened?” Joe exclaimed.

Fearing for his father's safety, Frank darted closer to the building. Joe and Chet followed. All paused in the shadow of a dead, gnarled elm tree.

“I'm going to take a peek in the window!” Frank whispered. He scooped up a stone. “Also try to find out with this who's up there. Give me a boost, Joe. Chet, you watch the door!”

Joe laced the fingers of his hands together for Frank to step on, then gave him a quick hoist. Frank grabbed a tree limb and swung himself upward. Meanwhile, Chet had crept to a position which gave him a clear view of the front door.

Frank hurled the stone at the lighted window.
Crash!
Chunks of glass from the broken pane tinkled to the ground. The next moment a figure stepped into sight at the sill—a thick-necked man wearing a dressing gown. He was partly silhou etted against the light, but Frank recognized him.

At that instant the door of the house burst open! Two men came rushing out!

Chet hastily retreated, but stumbled over a rock and fell. Scrambling up, he fled toward the trees and shrubbery.

“Get him!” yelled one of the men.

Frank slid down the tree trunk and he and Joe dashed to their pal's aid. As the men whirled, the Hardys tackled them full force. But the man who had not spoken thrust the boys back with the force of a battering ram, then seized them in a crushing grasp. His partner now dealt the brothers several stunning blows.

“Inside!” he snapped. “Quick!” Squirming and kicking, the Hardys were dragged into the building.

Lemuel's lips twisted in a cruel sneer. “Now you'll get the same treatment your father got—in our steam room!”

 

 

 

 

SINDER released Frank and Joe, but the ex-pug stood glaring at them watchfully, his huge hands clenching and unclenching.

“You can't get away with this!” Joe panted. “Our friend will have the police here in two minutes!”

Lemuel's eyes glittered in his pale face. “Don't kid yourself, junior! The fence around this joint is electrified—and Sinder turned on the juice as soon as we spotted you punks.” He gestured toward a wall switch. “Your buddy will sizzle the second he tries to climb out!”

Frank and Joe went white with fear at the thought. They were in the vestibule of a gloomy, high-ceilinged hallway which appeared to split the large, rambling house into two wings.

“Okay, upstairs, both of you!” Lemuel ordered. He gestured toward a steep staircase just beyond the vestibule. “And no funny business! We'll be right behind you, every step of the way!”

The Hardys obeyed, but their minds were working at top speed. As they mounted the stairs, side by side, they could hear Sinder and Lemuel clumping behind them.

Suddenly Frank sagged, as if still stunned from the blows he had received. He seemed to miss his footing, and sprawled wildly against the steps.

“Hey, on your feet, punk, before I crease your skull!” Lemuel snarled. The gangster prodded Frank with his foot.

Frank moved like lightning. His hands grabbed Lemuel's upraised foot while the man was still off balance and jerked it high in the air! With a scream the man went flying down the staircase!

Sinder grunted with rage and tried to seize Frank, but Joe whirled and gave him a terrific kick on the shoulder. The thug toppled backward, wide-eyed with terror. He clawed vainly for the stair rail, but rolled, thumping and pounding, down the full flight.