The Pentagon Spy (11 page)

Frank rejoined Joe, and they drove through Washington into Maryland. Heading due east, they came to Chesapeake Crossing down Chesapeake Bay from Annapolis.

The Sunset Motel was a medium-sized establishment made up of an office and a series of cabins along the shore. The Hardys registered and received the key to the last cabin of the group. They were stashing their belongings in the closet, when the phone rang.

Fenton Hardy's voice came over urgently, “I'll see you tomorrow!” Then he hung up abruptly.

“Uh-oh,” Frank said. “Dad must be in a tight spot. He couldn't talk!”

“Do you know where he called from?”

“I have no idea.”

“What do you think we should do?”

Frank shrugged. “He said he'd see us tomorrow. There's no point for us to stay here now. Let's have dinner and case the town.”

“Okay.”

The boys stopped at the motel diner for a quick meal, then went into Chesapeake Crossing. It was a typical town on the bay, with a long dock from which they could see boats bobbing up and down in the distance beneath a blue sky and fleecy white clouds overhead. Two headlands, on either side, protected a fishing fleet riding the gentle swell of the bay. Small craft were tied to the dock or anchored just out from it—rowboats, sailboats, mo torboats, and houseboats.

Chelski's Marina occupied one end of the dock. Here boats were drawn up on land for scraping, painting, and repairs. Cars and barrels of bait lined the walls of the marina. Fishing boots, tackle, and crab nets were visible through the window.

“This is where Clifford Hunter was last seen,” Frank commented. “Let's check it out.”

The owner of the marina was a man named Herb Chelski. As the bell on the door announced the entry of the Hardys, he looked up from a crab net he was inspecting on the counter.

“What kind of boat do you want?” he inquired. “I have boats for the bay and the deep sea, and any kind of fishing boat you can mention. Except whale fishing,” he added with a laugh. “If you're after Moby Dick, forget it.”

“We're not after Moby Dick,” Frank told him. “We're after Clifford Hunter.”

Chelski stopped laughing. “Oh, the navy guy who disappeared. I told the FBI everything I know.”

“We're cooperating with the FBI,” Joe stated. “We're working for the Pentagon.”

The Hardys produced their credentials, which Chelski scrutinized carefully. “Okay,” he said finally. “I'll tell you how it was. Hunter owns a sailboat that he keeps docked here. He rents the space by the month. I got to know him pretty well. I thought he was a nice guy. What's he done?”

“I wish we could tell you,” Frank replied. “But we can't. It's top-secret navy stuff.”

“I understand. Well, I was here when Cliff came for his sailboat. He surprised me because it was a weekday and he usually takes his boat out on weekends. Besides, there was something funny about him this time.”

“In what way?” Joe inquired.

“He didn't seem to be himself—acted nervous, if you know what I mean. But it didn't affect his sailing. He handled the boat as expertly as ever.”

“And that was the last you saw of him?” Frank wanted to know.

“Yes. When he didn't come back, I figured he was on one of his longer trips down the bay. But when the FBI started asking questions, I realized Cliff was in some kind of trouble.”

“Can you give us a description of Hunter's sailboat?”

“Sure. A thirty-three footer with a sail, and a motor for emergencies. The name
Bay
Queen is painted in green letters on the stern.”

“I'd like to write down his address, too,” Joe said. Chelski gave it to him, then the boys left the marina and strolled down the dock.

“I can understand why Hunter was nervous,” Joe commented. “I'd be nervous too if I had just stolen a top-secret document from the navy.”

Frank suddenly gripped Joe's arm. “Look there!” He pointed to a small, wizened figure walking along the dock ahead of them.

“Ed Bryle!” Joe marveled. “Where did he come from?”

“He doesn't know we're here. Let's brace him.”

The Hardys applied their detective training to capturing their suspect. Joe stayed on Bryle's trail to make sure they would not lose him. Frank slipped around the dock and stepped out in front of the former farmhand. Joe at the same time closed in from the rear.

Bryle started when he saw Frank. He turned as if to run, but Joe was too near for him to get away.

“Hello, Bryle!” Frank said.

“Long time no see,” Joe added.

Bryle flushed red and blinked his eyes. His voice shook. “What do you guys want?”

“A few answers,” Frank replied. “What are you doing in Chesapeake Crossing?”

Bryle looked sullen. “I work at the marina. You got any complaints?”

“We heard you left the Hammerley farm,” Joe stated.

“So? I got a better job here. Any objections?”

“Not as long as you return the
Galloping Rider.
Remember? The weather vane you snatched at Joshua Korbo's auction.”

“You must be nuts!” Bryle snarled. “I wasn't at no auction.”

“Come on, Bryle, we saw you!” Frank said. “You probably stole the
Galloping Rider
and hid it at the auction when Korbo wasn't looking. Then you came back to sneak it out during the bidding.”

“And you only got away with it because the tent collapsed,” Joe noted. “Otherwise we'd have collared you and returned the
Galloping Rider
to its owner. What have you done with it?”

“You can't prove a thing!” Bryle jeered. “Now let me go!”

Realizing he was right, the Hardys shrugged and Bryle smirked as he ambled down the dock.

“Too bad we can't blow the whistle on him,” Frank said. “But we can always find him at the marina if we get any evidence against him that'll stand up.”

The boys wandered around some more, then decided to take a boat out into the bay. Retracing their steps to the marina, they rented an outboard from Herb Chelski. They questioned him about Ed Bryle, and he said that Bryle was responsible for cleaning boats that had been rented and returned.

“Ed also brings boats to the dock when they're called for. He left one outboard tied to the dock. You can have it. Here are the keys.”

Joe took the tiller as he and Frank chugged away from the dock and gained speed into Chesapeake Bay. Both were experienced sailors. They had their own motorboat back in Bayport called the Sleuth, which they cruised on Barmet Bay.

When they reached open water, they heard a roaring sound in the distance. The sound grew louder as it approached. A line of boats raced past, circled around a buoy, and zoomed up the other side.

“It's a race!” Frank shouted over the roar of the motors. “I wish we had the
Sleuth
here to participate.”

The last boat in the competition cut out too wide from the course and headed directly at them. Its propellers were low in the water, and its hull slapped the waves as it came. A youth about their age clung to the tiller, struggling to keep his boat on course. A couple of girls were perched on the seat watching him.

“I hope he has his boat under control!” said Joe.

“He doesn‘t,” Frank warned. “Get ready for a maneuver to port!”

The other craft was almost upon them. Joe threw his weight against the tiller in a violent swing to the right. His outboard barely cleared the other boat as the girls giggled and waved at the Hardys. Spray deluged Frank and Joe, who heard the boy yell, “Sorry!” as he careened past them toward the buoy.

“Why don't you learn how to handle a boat!” Frank muttered, wiping the water from his eyes.

As dusk was falling, the brothers returned their boat to the marina and went back to their motel cabin. Half an hour later they heard a series of soft taps on the door. Frank positioned himself next to it against the wall, while Joe reluctantly turned the lock.

A man in ragged clothing, a scraggly beard, and bright red hair pushed past him into the room!

Frank grabbed the strange intruder around the shoulders as Joe kicked the door shut.

“Hold it!” said a familiar voice. “No need to be physical. But you could offer me a chair instead!”

“Dad!” the boys exclaimed in unison.

“Sh! Keep your voices down.”

Frank looked puzzled. “You said you'd be here tomorrow.”

“I had to say that in case the phone in this cabin is tapped. If someone listened in, he'll try to trap me tomorrow, and by that time I'll be gone.”

“What's up?” Joe inquired.

“Joseph Wickerson relayed a warning from the FBI that foreign agents are on my trail. That's why I'm using this disguise and barged in on you without warning. Now fill me in on the Hammerley weather vane case.”

The boys described their experiences at the farm, at Juniper Field, and in the town. They mentioned the weird, squeaky voice that threatened them over the phone, and told about encountering Ed Bryle, first at the auction, then in Chesapeake Crossing.

Frank concluded, “We haven't found a clue to connect Chesapeake Crossing and the paper with the Hammerley hex sign we discovered in the chopper at Juniper Field.”

“Perhaps you should put the weather vanes on the back burner for the time being,” Mr. Hardy said thoughtfully. “I could use you on the Pentagon spy mystery. I suppose Wickerson brought you up to date on the facts?”

“Yes,” Frank said and told his father about their suspicion of Archie Olson.

Mr. Hardy stroked his chin quizzically. “I checked Olson out,” he said, “and he came up clean. Of course, I may have missed a piece of incriminating evidence. Anyway, if Wickerson has him under surveillance, he won't be able to do any more damage.”

He stood up and paced about the room. “Clifford Hunter is our real problem. To begin with, he hasn't left the country with the navy document. The CIA is quite certain, because if the foreign power involved had received the sub plan, it would have taken certain measures, like jamming our maser beams, for instance. Our monitoring devices show this hasn't been done.

“The danger is that Hunter might get out of the country at any time. The airports and shipping lines are being watched, and our government has special patrols on duty along the borders. So Hunter is probably lying low until the heat's off.”

Frank spoke up. “Since he was last seen in Chesapeake Crossing, perhaps he's hiding not far from here. The bay's a great place to disappear. Lots of coves and inlets where a crook could hole up and nobody'd be the wiser.”

Fenton Hardy nodded. “My thoughts exactly. Chesapeake Bay is so big, even the navy and the FBI haven't been able to look everywhere between Baltimore in the north and Norfolk in the south. My hunch is that Hunter hasn't gone any farther.”

“So what's our next step?” Joe asked.

“I'll investigate by land to the south of Chesapeake Crossing while you two cruise in a powerboat along the shore. If we don't see any sign of Hunter or his sailboat, we'll try the north side.”

“Good idea. When do we start?”

“Tomorrow morning. You know what the sailboat looks like. Here's a picture of Hunter.”

He handed over a photograph. It portrayed a youngish man with brown hair and eyes and a moody expression. Frank and Joe examined it closely, then Frank slipped it into his pocket.

“We got Hunter's address from Mr. Chelski,” Joe said. “Do you think it would be worthwhile to question the neighbors?”

“I've done that already. And the government has searched his apartment thoroughly and contacted practically everyone he knew. All we came up with is that he was known to be a nice guy, who liked to read and sail. No suspicious traits or acquaintances. That's what makes this case so difficult.”

Mr. Hardy stood up. “I'll keep in touch with you through this motel. And now I'd better leave, but I don't want to use the door. Someone may be watching it.”

He went to an open window at the back of the room, climbed quickly and silently over the sill, and dropped to the ground. Seconds later he had vanished amid the shrubbery into the darkness of the night.

Early the next morning, Frank and Joe walked back to Chelski's Marina, where they found Herb Chelski going over his list of customers for the day.

“We'd like to hire a powerboat,” Frank said.

“I've got just what you want,” Chelski replied and went to the door. “Ed, bring the small cabin cruiser up to the landing. It's for Frank and Joe Hardy.” He turned back to the boys. “Go on down. I'll be there in a few minutes.”

At the landing the boys saw a sleek powerboat approaching. Ed Bryle was at the wheel. Putting the motor in idle, he jumped onto the dock with a rope in his hand.

“Okay, fellows,” he said in a friendly manner. “The boat's all yours.”

Frank and Joe got in and Bryle tossed the rope onto the deck. Then he pushed the hull away from the landing. Frank shifted into gear and the boat moved off.

“What's come over Bryle?” he wondered. “He's so friendly all of a sudden.”

“Probably didn't want his boss to know that we've met before and under what circumstances,” Joe guessed.

They rounded one of the Chesapeake Crossing headlands and cruised along the shore, which was indented by coves and inlets, some small enough to be inspected from deep water, others requiring a closer approach.