A Figure in Hiding (8 page)

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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

BOOK: A Figure in Hiding
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Frank suddenly took out the glass eye. “Have you ever seen anything like this, sir?”
“But how intriguing!” The art dealer examined the eye with keen interest. “No, I have never seen such an object before. It is a most beautiful piece of craftsmanship—like the fine quality of Murano glass. Would you care to sell it?”
“I'm afraid not,” Frank replied. “Have you any idea where it may have been made?”
Fontana shrugged, but suggested that it might have come from Venice, Italy. He asked the boys where they had obtained it. Frank said merely that they had found it and politely evaded any further questions. He and Joe thanked the art dealer and prepared to leave the shop.
As Joe was opening the door, he stopped short with a gasp. “Frank! Look!” he hissed.
A blind man with dark glasses and a tray of pencils was standing just across the street!
“That's Zatta, all right!” Frank exclaimed. “Let's go talk to him!”
The boys waited for a break in traffic and darted across. The blind man hastily walked away, tapping with his white cane. Joe plucked his sleeve.
“Get away from me!” Zatta snarled under his breath. “Go on! Beat it! ... I'll get in touch with you later!”
Joe looked at his brother. Frank gave a puzzled shrug and the two boys dropped back among the other pedestrians. Frank flagged a taxi and told the driver, “Penn Station.”
On the way, they continued to puzzle over the blind man's reaction. “Zatta sounded scared to death,” Joe remarked. “I wonder if he was on the level about getting in touch with us.”
“We'll just have to wait and see,” Frank replied. “Maybe he's afraid of having talked too much already.”
The brothers arrived at Long Point in plenty of time for the trial run. Bill Braxton, Frank, Joe, and the engineer Kurt Rummel started off in the
Sea Spook
on the dot of three. Boaters gaped as the hydrofoil streaked across the Sound.
Rummel seemed much impressed. “If she can perform anything like this in heavy weather, you really have something here, Braxton!” he said.
Bill put the craft through a series of tight maneuvers. Plumes of spray flew in the air as the
Spook
pirouetted about gracefully. Suddenly she refused to come out of a turn.
“What's wrong?” Rummel asked with a frown.
“I don't know,” Braxton muttered anxiously. “The rudder must be jammed!”
He dashed out of the cabin toward the fantail. Frank went aft with him to help. Braxton bent over the rail to peer down at the rudder linkage. At that instant the craft lurched and swung sharply to port! As it heeled over, Frank and Braxton were hurled into the water!
Terror chilled Joe. His brother and Bill Braxton might be mangled by the propeller or the foils!
CHAPTER X
Dangerous Dobermans
 
 
 
 
THE
Sea Spook
was spinning around Frank and Bill Braxton in a tight circle—completely out of control!
“Stop the engine!” Joe yelled to Rummel, and made his way out onto the tilting afterdeck.
The engineer flung an angry retort over his shoulder. He had already closed the throttle and was probing at the steering controls, hoping to get some response to the helm.
Joe could see the two figures floundering in the water. Flying spray from the Spook was blinding and half-drowning them. Joe was slipping and teetering on the wet deck, but he managed to unhook a life ring from the rail and toss it into the water.
The craft had so much way on from the high speed that it took the
Spook
some time to slow. Gradually her hull settled into the water. In a few moments the
Spook
came to a dead stop.
Frank and Bill Braxton, apparently unhurt, stroked their way over to the hydrofoil, blinking water out of their eyes. Joe and Rummel hauled them aboard.
“What went wrong, Bill?” Frank asked as they dried off with towels from the storage locker.
The young mechanic shook his head gloomily. “I don't know yet, except that the steering system failed. The rudder must have broken and slapped over to one side.”
Kurt Rummel refrained from making any comment, but his face showed professional disapproval. A harbor patrol launch had observed their difficulties and was speeding out to their aid.
“Give us a towline!” Bill called over.
The
Sea Spook
was towed to the dry dock of the Neptune Boatworks. Here, Bill and the engineer gave the craft a thorough inspection.
“Well, there's the answer,” Bill said angrily. “A sheared rudder pintle. It doesn't look to me like an accident, either!”
Rummel looked skeptical. “Your hydrofoil design is new enough to be revolutionary, Braxton. Those high-speed turns may put more stress on the steering than you realize. I think this calls for a whole new study of your design.”
A new pintle was installed and the
Sea Spook
started home to Barmet Bay. Braxton was downcast over the outcome of the test.
“You really think it was sabotage?” Joe asked.
“Sure. But I can't prove it,” Braxton replied.
“When was it done?” Frank asked. “It was docked in plain sight during your conference at the boatworks, wasn't it? There probably were people gawking at it every minute of the time.”
“The dirty work could have been done right in my own boathouse,” Braxton said bitterly. “The pintle was probably sawed partway through, but it took a few hours of operation to break off.”
“Any idea who might have done it?” Frank asked.
Braxton shook his head. “Not a clue—unless it was someone who doesn't want the
Sea Spook
to go into production.”
Frank and Joe exchanged thoughtful glances. “A figure in hiding!” Joe declared, and Frank added, “Who must be found!”
Nevertheless, both boys were wondering if the sabotage might have been committed for a different purpose—to injure them! Had someone guessed—or overheard—that the Hardys would go along on the
Spook's
next cruise, and had this person tried to cause an accident at sea?
Frank and Joe arrived home in the evening and learned that Chief Collig had telephoned. Frank called back but was unable to reach him at headquarters until the next morning. The chief reported that he had had word from the Ocean City police on the green Torpedo sedan.
“That license number you gave was registered in the name of Malcolm Izmir, the owner of Izmir Motors,” Collig informed Frank. “But the car had already been reported stolen.”
“When did that happen—the theft, I mean?”
“The police weren't sure. Izmir's butler reported the theft the same evening he found the car missing. But he said it hadn't been used for a couple of days, so it might have been taken from Izmir's garage a day or two earlier.”
Frank was disappointed. This left the question still unanswered as to who had been driving the green sedan on Wednesday during their trip upriver to Mrs. Lunberry's.
“Another thing,” Collig said. “We called the hotels and found that kid, Fred Hare. He's staying with his parents at the Summerfield.”
“Does his story check out?” Frank asked.
“It seems to. That crack about knowing more than he told you was just bragging. His father promised to give him a good talking to.”
Frank grinned and thanked the chief. When Frank discussed the news with Joe, however, neither was satisfied with the story that Izmir's car had been stolen.
“Somehow it sounds phony,” Frank said. “Especially the butler's not being sure when the car was taken!”
“It strikes me the same way,” Frank agreed. “I vote we do some more checking when we go to Ocean City to get our car.”
Frank called the repair garage and was told that their convertible was ready for pickup. Meanwhile, Joe had had a sudden idea.
“We've been passing up an easy lead on this case!” he exclaimed.
“What's that?” Frank queried.
“Checking the calls Lambert made from his motel. The manager said all calls passed through the central switchboard, remember?”
Joe promptly leafed through the telephone directory and dialed the number of the Bayview Motel. His hunch paid off.
“Sure, we keep a record of all outgoing phone calls,” the manager said. “The time and the number go right on the guest's bill after the desk clerk gets his party for him.”
“Will you please look up and see if Lambert placed any calls while he was staying there?”
“Easy. Hold the phone.” There was silence, then the manager's voice returned to the line. “Well, according to his bill, he made three calls—all to the same number.”
Joe copied it down, thanked the motel manager, and hung up.
“That looks like an Ocean City listing,” Frank remarked as he read the number. “Hmm. I wonder ...”
Frank dialed Information and asked for the number of Izmir Motors in Ocean City.
It checked with the number on the pad!
“Now we're getting some place!” Joe exclaimed. “Let's hop over to Ocean City right away!”
The boys caught a bus which dropped them not far from the repair garage. They got their car and drove to Izmir Motors.
This time, the Hardys walked straight through the showroom to Sykes' office. His face seemed to turn a shade paler as he caught sight of the brothers. He gave them a smile, took off his glasses, and began polishing them nervously.
“Come in, boys! ... Please sit down.”
Frank and Joe were struck by his change in manner.
“I suppose you've heard what happened to us the other night,” Frank said coolly.
“Why, yes—yes, I did. The police informed me. A terrible thing! It upset me very much.”
“Why didn't you tell us that was your boss's car when we gave you the license number?” Joe demanded.
Sykes looked embarrassed. “Believe me, I didn't know. Our office only keeps a record of the licenses of salesmen's cars and demonstrators—and Mr. Izmir wasn't here at the time.”
“You sure weren't very cooperative.”
“To tell the truth, I'd had a call about you two fellows,” Sykes said sheepishly.
“What sort of a call?” Frank asked.
“An anonymous phone tip the previous afternoon—Wednesday, that is. It was a man's voice. He warned me that two young fellows might drop in, trying to trace a license number. He said you were really a pair of gyps—shakedown artists. You were just setting things up to make a fake accident claim against a car owned by someone connected with Izmir Motors.”
Joe gave the sales manager a scornful look. “You didn't even try to get his name?”
Sykes shrugged. “He hung up before I could ask. But I was still on my guard when you two walked in. Naturally I wasn't going to go out of my way to help you.”
“Well, maybe you can help us now,” Frank said. “Have you ever heard of a man named Lambert—or Spotty Lemuel?”
The sales manager shook his head. “No, I don't believe so.”
“Here's a picture of him.” Frank held out a photograph, borrowed from Mr. Hardy's files.
Sykes looked at it and again shook his head. “Never saw him in my life. Why?”
“Because he's mixed up in the case we're working on,” Frank said, “and we have proof that he called Izmir Motors three times recently.”
Sykes seemed startled and offered to check the firm's file of customers and prospects. But he soon came back and reported that his clerks could find no record of either name.
“We'd better speak to Mr. Izmir,” Frank said.
The savage guard dogs raced toward them!
Sykes gulped. “Uh—I'm afraid that's impossible. He's not here.”
Joe started to ask where they could get in touch with him, but Frank quickly interrupted and said they would call back later. When they got outside, Frank explained, “I figured it might be better if Sykes didn't know our next move. He might tip off Izmir we're coming.”
“Quick thinking,” Joe approved. “Maybe we can catch the boss man when he's not expecting us.”
The boys checked Malcolm Izmir's name in a phone directory and drove to his home address. This proved to be a palatial walled estate in the hills overlooking Ocean City. Joe jabbed the gate bell repeatedly, but no one answered.
“You game to go over the top?” he asked Frank.
Frank sized up the situation warily. “Okay. At least we can find out if he's home.”
The boys shinned directly over the gate.
“Good thing we didn't try climbing the wall,” Joe muttered, pointing to a
cheval-de-frise
of broken glass strewn along the top.

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