Mystery of the Flying Express (14 page)

“That mechanical right hand!” the man exclaimed. “He took off from here under the name John Read.”

“Where did he go?”

“He bought a ticket to Boston.”

Frank hustled over to Joe with the news.

“Holy catfish, Frank! We'd better stay right on his heels!”

“Then let's go! We just have time to catch the next flight to Massachusetts!”

The plane zoomed into the air and headed north. The boys unfastened their seat belts, yawned, and settled back for the flight.

A moment later the voice of the pilot came through the loudspeaker. “I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but we're returning to Miami. Please fasten your seat belts and observe the No Smoking sign.”

There was no further explanation, but the buzz of excited chatter among the passengers continued until the pilot landed the jet. Everyone was asked to leave the plane. They were directed to the terminal building, where an airline representative spoke to the group. He apologized for the delay and said, “We had a report that there's a bomb hidden aboard. The plane will be checked immediately.”

The passengers gasped.

Joe turned to Frank. “Do you suppose one of Zigurski's men has been trailing us?”

“I'D say so,” Frank answered grimly. “Now we're the pursued. Hooks has turned the tables on us.”

“Well, his plan succeeded,” Joe said glumly. “Except for the bomb scare, we'd be heading into the Boston airport instead of cooling our heels in Miami.”

“Better than being blown up in mid-air,” Frank observed. “Still, the scare may have been a hoax. Zigurski may want to delay us just long enough for him to pull off his caper.”

“Right, Frank. Let's see if the bomb squad found anything aboard the plane.”

The baggage had been removed by now, and experts were giving the big jet a thorough going-over. Police and fire vehicles clogged the runway. An airport maintenance truck stood by with a tank full of chemical foam in case of an explosion.

“Anything doing?” Frank asked the head of the bomb squad.

“Nothing so far. But I won't sign a bill of health for this plane until every square inch has been searched.”

The Hardys walked back to the waiting room.

“Let's give Chet a call,” Frank suggested. “We can find out what's happening at the Starfish Marina.”

“And we can brief him on what's going on here,” Joe added.

They crowded into a pay phone booth. Joe dialed the number. After a moment Chet's voice came on at the other end of the line. Their stocky pal was surprised to hear from them.

“I thought you were in the wild blue yonder. All's quiet here. Whatever excitement there is must be at your end.”

“Excitement is right,” Joe said, and went on to describe the bombscare on the plane.

Chet whistled. “Say, that means you're getting hot! You've singed Zodiac Zig's tail feathers, and he's trying to shake you off!”

“That's the way we read it,” Frank declared. “But we intend to keep after him.”

“How about letting me give you a hand? I've got a few days' leave coming for overtime. Suppose I fly up to Boston as a one-man reinforcement!”

The Hardys willingly agreed. As Joe put it, “We may have a hot potato on our hands when we corner Zigurski.”

Chet chuckled. “Don't forget I'm an expert at dealing with hot potatoes, preferably French fries. Maybe we'd better mash this one!”

Joe laughed. “Mashed Zigurski is a dish I'd like to see. Still, this is no joke, Chet. You'd better come prepared for some rough stuff.”

Chet became serious. “Roger. Where shall I meet you?”

Frank and Joe conferred in the booth, and suggested the Boston Airport Motel at 7 A.M. the next morning. Chet promised to be there.

By now the plane had been cleared and reloaded. The passengers went aboard, and the flight north resumed.

“We need Chet,” Frank said as he and Joe settled into their seats once again. “If Zig is in Boston, chances are that the
Flying Express
is headed in that direction with Sam Radley. And we don't know how many of Hooks' hoods are with him.”

“They've probably arranged a rendezvous along the coast,” Joe remarked. “We could run into a gang of toughs. That's the kind of situation when it's nice to see Chet Morton throwing his weight around.”

The jet roared on. After a while Frank gestured out the window. “We're having beautiful flying weather, Joe. Just look at Cape Cutlass down there.”

Below them, the cape spread out in bright sunlight. Not a cloud blocked their view. They could see every turn and twist of the coast, every cove and inlet, for miles in either direction. The landscape zipped past beneath the wing tips as the plane streaked north.

Joe settled back for a snooze. “Wake me when we get to Boston,” he said.

When the plane landed, the Hardys went to the airport motel and turned in early. Next morning there came a knock at the door.

Frank glanced at his watch. “Chet is early. It's only six o‘clock.”

Joe stepped to the door and flung it open.

“Henry Chassen!” Frank and Joe exclaimed together.

The artist smiled apologetically as he entered. “Sorry to disappoint you. I know you're expecting Chet Morton. I'm substituting for him.”

“Anything wrong with Chet?” Joe inquired.

“Nothing at all. He got in touch with me and said he was on to the boat thieves. Felt he should stick with them.”

Frank rubbed his chin. “That's the best thing to do in a case like this. When you've got the criminals in sight, keep them in sight.”

“How about yourself?” Joe queried.

Chassen spread his hands as if to say the explanation was all quite simple.

“I've just finished my commission for the Decor Shop. So when Chet asked me to fly up here in his place, I had no reason to say no. Incidentally, he gave me a message for you.”

The Hardys leaned forward eagerly.

“Here it is. The trail leads to a town on the Maine coast. Place called High Rock. A deputy police chief is waiting there with a vital clue!”

Frank was excited. “Sounds as if Chet's picked up a lead to the
Flying Express!”

Joe looked doubtful. Even though Chassen had dispelled their earlier suspicions, he suddenly felt that something might be wrong. Saying he had to make a call, he went to the lobby and dialed the Starfish Marina. Not a sound came through from the other end. Even the operator failed to get a response. Giving up, Joe returned to the motel room.

“Something bothering you?” Henry asked, studying his glum face.

“Well, I tried to call Chet to see if he had any new dope, but couldn't get through to him.”

The artist smiled sympathetically. “Don't be alarmed. There was a big storm yesterday in the Cape Cutlass area. Thunder and lightning, and gale-force winds. Knocked out electric and phone services.”

“Oh?” Frank asked. “The weather was perfectly clear when we flew over the cape en route to Boston!”

“The storm started later,” Chassen explained.

“Well, let's head for High Rock,” Frank suggested. “No use wasting time.”

The three left the motel and started to walk to a rent-a-car garage on the comer. Frank stopped abruptly.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “I've forgotten something. I'll be right back.”

Entering the building, he raced up the steps two at a time and went to their room. Seizing a laundry slip, he wrote on the back:
Chet
—
High Rock, Maine.
He left the piece of paper on the table, weighted with an ashtray. Then he phoned the manager and asked him to let Chet Morton in when he arrived.

“Just in case Chassen's story is phony,” Frank thought. Then he rejoined the others and they strode quickly to the rental agency.

Frank took the wheel of the hired car. Joe sat on the opposite side and Chassen in the middle. They made good time heading north from Massachusetts to Maine.

“This is a new experience for me, trailing criminals to their hideout,” Chassen remarked cheerfully after a short stop for lunch. “But it must be routine in the Hardy family.”

“We've worked on a few cases,” Joe admitted.

“We give Dad a hand from time to time,” Frank added.

“How's he doing this time?”

Frank spun the wheel, stepped on the gas, and whizzed around a tractor-trailer in the right lane of the highway. “We've lost touch with him in the past couple of days.”

“He's still at Shark Harbor, isn't he?”

Frank frowned. “Maybe yes, maybe no. We just don't know.”

“Could be he's figured out the Maine angle,” Chassen persisted.

“Could be.”

“Let's not jump to conclusions,” Joe put in. “Remember Chet's warning! The stars aren't right for hasty judgments!”

A sign with the name High Rock loomed before them.

“Turn here,” Chassen advised. “That dirt road will take us to a lane leading to the barn where we're to meet the deputy police chief after dark.”

Frank drove about five miles before cutting to the left down the lane. Following Chassen's instructions, he parked under a clump of trees. He turned off the ignition and pocketed the car key.

“Joe and I will take a look around,” Frank said. “Get the lay of the land while it's still light.”

“Okay,” the artist answered. “I'll wait in the car.”

A hundred yards into the woods Frank pulled Joe to a halt and muttered, “We're not going back to the car. We can learn more by ourselves. Besides, I don't quite trust our buddy any more.”

“Neither do I,” Joe replied.

They waited for darkness to fall, and then slipped cautiously through the undergrowth to the barn, a derelict building surrounded by weeds, pitted with woodchuck holes along the foundations.

A sudden glow inside the barn told them that someone had lighted a kerosene lamp. Signaling Joe to follow, Frank crept stealthily up to a window. With bated breath the boys peered over the sill.

Two men faced each other in the dim light. One had a hook instead of a hand—Zigurski!

“All right, brother,” Zigurski said harshly, “where's the merchandise?”

Chassen spoke defensively. “They gave me the slip. I don't know where they are, except that they can't be far away.”

The reply came like a clap of thunder.

“You stupid Capricorn!”

FRANK and Joe stared at each other. Chassen was in league with Zigurski! But what did the word brother mean? Were the two men related?

Chassen was speaking loudly. “Don't call me stupid! I cut the phone line at the Starfish Marina! I got the two punks up here where we could grab them, didn't I?”

“What d‘ya mean grab them?” Zigurski stormed. “You let them get away! I shouldn't have let you handle the job.”

“Well, what do we do now?”

“The Hardys will probably tip off the local gumshoes if we don't work fast. We gotta clear out of here. Got the car key?”

Chassen nodded. “I pocketed the duplicate we got from the rental agency.”

“Okay, let's make tracks,” Zigurski growled. He blew out the kerosene lamp. Darkness settled over the barn. Footsteps thumped across the floor and a door creaked open.

Frank and Joe hastily pulled away from the window. They ran through the woods intending to reach the car first and make their getaway. Behind them they could hear Zigurski and Chassen crashing through the undergrowth in the same direction.

“There's the car!” Joe panted. “Hurry up! They've heard us. They know we're here!”

Frank fought for breath. “Where‘s—the—key?” Desperately he rummaged around in his pocket until he felt the metal between his fingers. With a sigh of relief he jerked the key out.

Then, with a gasp, he lost his grip on it. The key fell to the ground, disappearing into a tangle of weeds and small bushes.

“No use searching in the dark,” he grated. “We'll have to make a run for it!”

Their pursuers pounded after them in a frantic chase down the lane. Frank and Joe heard the roar of an approaching motorcycle. Catching them in the glare of his headlight, the cyclist came hurtling to meet them. His tires squealed as the rider skidded to a halt, removed his crash helmet, and jumped off.

Chet Morton!
His round, freckled face broke into a grin. “I found your message! Zoomed right up here on my trusty rented bike! Seems as if I arrived just in the nick of time. What's up?”

“Douse that light!” Frank hissed.

Chet seemed mystified. “What in the world—?”

“Let's get out of here,” Joe interrupted, jumping onto the rear seat. Frank squeezed in behind him. Chet, realizing that the situation was serious, frantically tried to start the bike. The engine would not turn over!

“Try again!” Frank urged.

But before Chet could get the engine going, Zigurski and Chassen were on them. Jumped from behind, Frank and Joe were handcuffed before they could defend themselves.

Chet leaped off his motorcycle and charged the assailants. He bowled Chassen over, and was giving a good account of himself when Zigurski's steel claw clamped around his wrist. It twisted his arm behind his back until he groaned with pain.

Keeping a tight grip on Chet, the ex-con snapped orders. Chassen pulled the motorcycle up on its wheels and rolled it behind a pile of underbrush. Producing the duplicate key, he walked to the car, got in, and started the motor.