Read Mystery of the Flying Express Online
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
Mystery of the Flying Express (10 page)
They put the grinder in the boat, and were about to shove off when someone shouted at them from the cliff top.
“Suffering swordfish!” Joe exclaimed. “Sounds like Henry Chassen!”
“It is!” Frank answered excitedly.
“Stay where you are, fellows!” the artist called. “I'll be right down!”
“What brings you here?” Joe asked him.
“I saw an abandoned car early this morning. But it's gone now. Where are you going?”
“To the marina.”
“Take me along?”
“Hop in,” Joe said, and they arrowed out to sea.
“Now tell us what happened to you,” Frank said.
“To begin with,” Chassen said, “I couldn't swim under those boathouse doors. So I went back inside and waited. Those three thugs returned, forced me into their boat, transported me out to sea, and pushed me overboard.”
“Just what they did to us,” Frank told him.
“I thought they were going to let me drown,” Chassen went on, “but one of them threw a life preserver into the water. Except for that, I wouldn't be here. I drifted ashore ten miles south of Cape Cutlass. What an experience! I holed up for a couple of days just to rest!”
“You sure had us worried,” Joe said. “We'll have to tell the police you're safe.”
Chassen resumed his account. “After I reached shore, I heard that you both had landed from a catamaran at the Starfish Marina. I also heard that your father was there.
“I was hoping to meet himâI've never seen a famous private investigator in the flesh,” Chassen went on. “It would be quite a thrill to meet the great Fenton Hardy. Where is he now? Providence, I hope.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Joe said, maneuvering the motorboat to the dock. “Dad's down at Shark Harbor.”
“I'll take a raincheck. You must introduce me sometime. So much for now. I'm off to the Decor Shop. The owner has commissioned me to do some paintings. She thinks they'll sell very well. Hope to see you soon. So long.”
Chassen strode up the street.
Frank looked at his brother reprovingly. “Joe, you shouldn't have let on where Dad is!”
“Why not? Don't we agree that Henry Chassen is as honest as the day is long?”
“Maybe so. But suppose he tells somebody else, who tells somebody elseâuntil half of Cape Cutlass has a book on Dad's activities.”
“Sorry,” Joe said soberly. “I should have been more careful.”
Frank picked the electric grinder up and turned it over. “Here's the name of the hardware store it came from. Address on Main Street. This is one clue we can deal with in a few minutes.”
“Right. Let's go there now.”
The clerk at the hardware store examined the tool and then ran a finger down his register. “We sold this to the Atlas Garage. It's on the corner of Bayshore and Halibut.”
The Atlas Garage was a large and busy place. One car stood on treads over the grease pit. Several others had been dismantled and mechanics were working on them. Two cars were being tanked up with gas.
Frank and Joe headed for the manager's office, where they explained that they wanted to inquire about an electric grinder purchased recently at the hardware store.
The manager ceased pretending to smile and became surly. “I'm too busy for questions like that!”
“But can't you simply tell us what happened to the grinder?” Frank asked.
“How should I know? Now get going!”
Joe grimaced as they left. “Boy, he's not out to win friends!”
“Well, maybe he really didn't know,” Frank said. “But this needs further investigation. What say we come back tonight and look the place over?”
Joe grinned. “And what'll we do meanwhile?”
“We promised Callie to check out the Decor Shop.”
“Okay, let's pay a visit there.”
The girl at the gift counter was free. She readily answered the questions put to her by Frank and Joe. Mrs. Lane, the store's owner, was a pillar of local society and had a spotless reputation.
“What about Rance Nepo?” Joe queried. “He comes in here.”
“Why not? He's a customer.”
“Then there's Henry Chassen the artist,” Frank said. “Can you tell us anything about him?”
“Mrs. Lane likes him, and likes his work. But then, we all do. We're glad she's buying some of his paintings.”
The girl turned to an impatient customer. Frank and Joe went back to the cottage to await the zero hour of their next venture.
Midnight found them at the Atlas Garage.
“Kind of spooky!” Joe said in an undertone.
They sneaked around to the back, found an unlocked window, pushed it up, eased over the sill, and dropped into the interior.
“Forget the cars,” Frank advised as he snapped on his flashlight. “Just look at the rest of the stuff.”
The light flickered through the darkness and picked out a row of engines in one corner.
“Outboard motors!” Joe whispered hoarsely.
“What could be the reasonâ?”
Suddenly the room seemed to be flooded with stars. Frank and Joe slumped to the floor, knocked out!
CHAPTER XIII
Disappearing Act
THE split image in Frank's brain finally converged, and the blur changed to a vision of a plush office. Joe, sprawled beside him on a sofa, also was regaining consciousness.
Frank blinked at the oak-paneled walls and deep-piled carpet underfoot. Across from them, behind a kidney-shaped desk, sat Big Malarky.
Joe immediately became fully alert. He glanced at Frank and then at the building tycoon.
“Wh-what happened?” he asked, gingerly touching the back of his head.
“You were kayoed by a couple of my aqualantes. They spotted you prowling around the Atlas Garage at midnight, kept you under surveil lanceâthen bingo!”
Frank shook his head sadly. “What a deall We were there because we had traced the boat thieves to one of their hideouts!”
Malarky's eyes narrowed. “Do you have proof?”
“Sure!” Frank replied. “We saw several outboard motors in the back of the garage!”
Malarky was impressed. “I tell you what,” he offered. “I'll have the local constable meet you there. We'll get to the bottom of this!”
Malarky picked up the phone and put in a call to the constable's office. “All set,” he declared finally. “He'll be waiting for you.”
The constable met the Hardys at the front of the garage. He took them directly to the office of the manager, who also had been called in.
“I have nothing against you taking a look around, Constable,” the manager said. “These guys were making a nuisance of themselves yesterday, but now that it's official, go ahead.”
The boys hastened to the back room with the constable.
Without even looking, Joe pointed to the corner. “There!” he blurted.
The constable scratched his head. “Where?”
Frank groaned. “Joe! The corner's empty! The outboard motors have been removed!”
“If you weren't Fenton Hardy's sons,” the constable snapped, “I'd suspect some sort of game. As it is, I'll say you made a mistake, and let it go at that!”
Much depressed, Frank and Joe returned to the cottage, where Chet greeted them.
“What's the matter?” he asked. “You don't look too happy.”
“Someone threw us a curve,” Frank said morosely.
“And I suspect Big Malarky,” Joe declared. He told Chet what had happened.
“That figures,” Chet replied. “I've checked up on Big Malarky's birthday. Found it in the annual listing of the leading citizens of Cape Cutlass.”
“What is he?” Frank inquired.
“Virgo! Governed by Mercury, and Mercury rules the hands. So I'd keep an eye on what Malarky does with his hands.”
Joe nodded. “We'll have to be extra careful from now on. The crooks know we got close to them this time. They could decide to give us a one-way cruise next time. Maybe they'll come swarming through the windows tonight!”
“No problem,” Chet argued. “We can rig up an early-warning system. You brought your bug, didn't you, Frank?”
“Sure thing.” Frank went to his suitcase and removed a kit. Then the three hastened to the marina dock. After planting a detection microphone under a fish net, they strung a wire back to the cottage, through a window to a nightstand between the beds, where they placed the receiver.
Chet inspected the device with satisfaction. .“There! Nothing can move outside without us being cued in electronically. Safe as a good horoscope!”
There were no visitors before bedtime, but when the boys were sound asleep, the receiver began to crackle ominously.
Frank snapped wide awake. “Joe! Chet! Something's cooking at the dock.” They dressed hurriedly, crept out the back door, and edged silently through the darkness toward the microphone.
Suddenly a quack broke the silence. There was a rustling of feathers, followed by splashing.
“A duck!” Chet exclaimed in disgust. “That's what brought us out at this time of night.” He shook his head and the boys returned to the cottage.
The next morning Frank and Joe hastened over to the hydrofoil's berth. Spencer Given looked upset.
“He had less sleep than we did,” Joe thought.
“I've got a court order,” Given announced, “to keep those aqualantes away from the Flying
Express.
But Marlarky hasn't stopped hounding me. My plans for a real-estate development on Cape Cutlass are going up in smoke. People are turning down my discount offers on lots. They're afraid to buy at any price!”
Express.
But Marlarky hasn't stopped hounding me. My plans for a real-estate development on Cape Cutlass are going up in smoke. People are turning down my discount offers on lots. They're afraid to buy at any price!”
“Why is that?” Joe asked.
Given waved a Bayport newspaper at them. “Here, read this!”
An advertisement had been placed by Big Ma-Iarky. It read: “Come to Cape Cutlass in safety by car, train or bus. What good is a discount if you don't live to enjoy it?”
“A duck!” Chet exclaimed in disgust
Joe folded the paper and handed it back. “Rather unethical, Mr. Given, but I'm afraid it isn't illegal.”
“Not illegal,” Given retorted testily, “but it's a threat, wouldn't you say?”
“No doubt about that,” Frank agreed. “Malarky intends to run you out of business. We'll do our best to prevent him from doing it.”
“Your best is what I'll need! Keep trying!”
The Hardys discussed what to do next.
“Let's talk to Henry Chassen again,” Frank suggested. “Maybe there's somethingâsome kind of clueâhe forgot to tell us when he described his rescue yesterday.”
“You know, we never even asked him where he lives,” Joe reminded his brother.
“You're right. Maybe we can find out from the Decor Shop.”
When Frank and Joe arrived there, Chassen and Rance Nepo were standing in front of the door talking.
“Hi, fellows,” Henry said. “Rance is trying to sell me another camera.”
Nepo smiled cordially and extended one of his instant models on the palm of his hand. “Here's a beautiful example of the art. Have a look through the range finder.”
Frank raised the camera and began to take some practice views while Joe struck up a conversation with Nepo and Chassen. They spoke about the technique whereby a snapshot could be taken and developed almost immediately.
“We've come a long way in photography,” Nepo remarked. “No more need to take pictures outside and develop them in a darkroom.”
There was something about Nepo that made Frank uneasy, something he could not quite put his finger on. “How about letting me work this lovely gadget myself,” he said. “Suppose I take a snapshot of you two.”
“By all means,” Nepo invited him. He was eager to show off this new and expensive model he had just received from the manufacturer.
Frank took a picture of Nepo and Chassen standing together. Sixty seconds later he removed a clear picture of the two men and held it up for inspection.
Nepo grinned. “Ever see a clearer photo?”
“Can't say I have,” Frank admitted. He handed the camera back. While the other three were deep in the technicalities of photography, he pocketed the picture.
“Incidentally, fellows,” Chassen said, “have you any pictures of your family? It would be interesting to see your parents together.”
“The only one I happen to have is of Dad,” Joe answered. He reached into his pocket for the passport picture of Fenton Hardy that he had picked up in Bayport and forgotten to give to his father.
Frank nudged him. “Wait a minute, Joe. You gave it to me. Here it is.”
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