Mystery of the Flying Express (2 page)

“Of course we were, Aunty.” Joe grinned. “But we spent most of our time with Chief Collig—on the right side of the law!”

Chet rolled his eyes at Aunt Gertrude. “How's the food situation today? You wouldn't happen to have any of my favorite pies in the house, would you?”

“Maybe I would, Chet. Come on into the kitchen!”

While she put big slices of rhubarb-and-strawberry pie on three plates, Frank took milk from the refrigerator. Then the trio carried their refreshments into the living room.

“You know,” Chet remarked between mouth fuls, “I still don't know how a hydrofoil works.”

“At slow speeds, it floats on the surface like a boat,” Frank explained. “When the pilot revs up the motor, the hull rises clear of the water and skims along like a low flying aircraft. Neat invention, made by Enrico Forlanini in 1906.”

“You mean it actually takes off?” Chet asked.

“No. It never loses contact with the water because it stands on struts attached to submerged foils. They are shaped like wings to give a balancing effect.”

“I think I get it.”

“You see, Chet,” Frank continued, “as speed increases, the water flowing over the rounded top of the foils travels faster than the water underneath. That causes less pressure above, and gives the hull the lift to get clear of the surface. Same principle as a plane in the air.”

Chet downed his last piece of pie. “What about propulsion?”

Joe took up the explanation. “The U. S. Navy has done a great deal of experimenting, using everything from gasoline to jet engines. The Flying
Express
happens to be diesel-powered. The motor turns the screw propellers at the stern. A hydrofoil provides a fast, smooth ride, and it doesn't create much of a wake.”

“Exactly,” Frank pointed out. “So why should the small boat owners object to a hydrofoil on Barmet Bay? It's not going to swamp them. Accidents will happen, but you can say that of anything that sails. Today's protest was mystifying, to say the least.”

Joe sighed. “You said it. Anyhow, it's too bad we won't be aboard on her first trip. We had planned to take Callie and Iola, but went for tickets too late.”

Callie Shaw was Frank's favorite date, and Joe enjoyed being with Chet's sister Iola.

Chet put his glass down with a clank. “Jumping Gemini! I could have told you to save your time and energy. You and Callie are both Aries. Your horoscopes indicate that bad news is all you can expect right now since you were born under the sign of the Raml”

Frank and Joe exchanged knowing smiles. Chet was always involved in some new hobby. Just now it was astrology—casting horoscopes to discover the influence that the stars and planets are supposed to have upon a person's life.

“So you're reading Joe's fate in the stars?” Frank joshed.

“Don't laugh.” Chet spoke with an owlish air of solemnity. “You're Scorpio. The sign of the Scorpion. The planets aren't in the right conjunction for you this month either!”

“Do you really believe all that?”

“Sure I do. What was good enough for the ancient Egyptians is good enough for me.”

Chet adopted the tone of a professor lecturing to rather dimwitted students. It was a pose he enjoyed. “Listen carefully. A Scorpion likes to think things out, taking into account all the factors of a problem. He's good at analyzing clues and motives. He's a born leader. That's you, Frank.”

Chet cleared his throat and went on, “An Arian is more of an activist. He dashes into all kinds of situations without worrying too much about consequences. He's full of enthusiasm and good humor. That's you, Joe. Makes sense, doesn't it?”

The Hardys agreed that it did. On many of their cases, Frank tended to be the leader because he could figure out the logical steps to take. Joe, on the other hand, was impetuous and refused to admit anything was impossible.

“Still,” Frank mused, “there are times when I'm more impulsive and—”

“Hey. Looks as if we're getting company,” Joe interrupted his brother.

The other two boys joined Joe at the window. A man stopped and looked at the Hardy house. He strode past, turned around, paused, and squinted at the number again. Then he approached the front door.

“Here comes more bad news!” Chet quavered.

THE bell rang. Joe headed for the door and admitted the stranger.

“I'm looking for Frank and Joe Hardy,” the man said.

“I'm Joe. Come on inside.”

Joe escorted the visitor into the living room and introduced Frank and Chet. The man seemed a bit jumpy, as if his nerves were on edge. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and twisted the brim of his felt hat between his fingers.

“My name is Spencer Given,” he began. “I'm here because I want you boys to ride on the
Flying Express
for a few runs, starting the day after tomorrow!”

Frank and Joe stared at each other in surprise. “Are you kidding?” Frank said. “We tried to get tickets days ago. They're all sold out!”

“Don't joke,” Given replied. “I happen to own the hydrofoil. And I'd like to hire you as detectives!”

Frank raised his eyebrows. “You expect trouble?”

“Well, the small boat owners of Bayport, the railroad, and the bus companies all resent the competition. That's why they spread the rumor that the
Flying Express
wasn't safe and that was the reason for the demonstration down at the dock today.”

Frank nodded. “We know.”

“Completely unfair!” Given exploded wrathfully. “Boats on Barmet Bay won't be in any danger from my craft. And I won't be taking any substantial number of patrons away from the trains and buses. Yet they won't listen. They're determined to drive me off the run to Cape Cutlass.”

The boys listened with growing interest.

“I don't believe they'd stop at anything,” Given continued. “What's got me worried is the possibility of sabotage—those foils and propellers are vulnerable.

“That's why I want you on board. You could circulate among the passengers and keep your eyes open. If you spotted anyone up to mischief, you could blow the whistle on him.”

Frank pinched his lower lip. “I don't know,” he said doubtfully. “Since you're looking for a detective, why didn't you contact my father? Dad's an old master at sabotage cases.”

“Fenton Hardy would be ideal,” Given admitted, “but he's too high-priced for this assignment. Amateurs should be able to handle it. I want you two fellows because I've checked your records. You're pretty good detectives who've cracked quite a few cases.”

The boys' accomplishments in crime detection were almost as well known as those of their famous father. Their first success was solving the mystery of
The Tower Treasure,
and their recent adventure was known as
The Disappearing Floor.

Frank turned to his brother. “What do you think, Joe?”

“I'm all for it,” Joe declared enthusiastically. He turned to Chet. “Want to give us a hand?”

Chet looked doubtful. “This—er—saboteur won't be able to blow up the boat or something drastic like that, will he?”

Frank chuckled. “That's what we're hired for. To prevent any funny business he might have in mind. Well, Chet, you want to come or not?”

“Sure, sure. Somebody's got to look after you!”

“Another point,” Joe put in. “Our girl friends would never forgive us if we traveled to Cape Cutlass without them. Do you think you could get us a couple of extra tickets, Mr. Given?”

Given wagged his head approvingly. “That's not a bad idea! With your girls along no one will suspect that you're there for any other purpose than the joy-ride. But I don't want you to pay all your attention to the girls, now. Remember, you've got a job to do!”

“Don't worry,” Frank said. “We'll be on the ball.”

Given sighed in relief and extended a hand. “It's a deal.”

Just then footsteps were heard on the stairs and Aunt Gertrude bustled into the living room. When she saw Given, she stopped short.

Frank introduced their visitor. “Aunt Gertrude, this is Mr. Given. He owns the hydrofoil.”

“Oh,” Aunt Gertrude said. “How do you do? I was just about to tune in the five-o‘clock news. There might be something on the waterfront trouble. You don't mind, do you?”

“No, of course not,” Given said as she snapped on the television set.

Frank and Joe exchanged appalled glances, remembering how the TV camera had isolated them in the midst of the anti-hydrofoil picketers. What would Given think of that? Better ease him out of the house pronto!

“No need for us to hold you any longer, Mr. Given,” Frank hinted broadly.

“Here's your hat, Mr. Given,” Chet said quickly.

“Let me show you to the door, Mr. Given,” Joe offered as calmly as he could.

Their visitor started to leave but turned back to the living room. “Come to think of it, I'd better hear the news too. The trouble your aunt mentioned is of great concern to me. Let's see if they show the
Flying Express
on the screen.”

“Good night, we're sunk!” Joe whispered to Frank.

Too late to do anything about it now! The camera swept across the milling crowd on the dock, then focused on a group of three—Frank, Joe, and Chet! Each was holding an anti-hydrofoil placard!

Spencer Given turned purple with rage. “You were with the pickets trying to run me out of businessl” he shouted. “And to think I offered you a job! Well, you fooled me once, but never again! The deal's off!”

“Mr. Given,” Frank pleaded, “this wasn't our fault. Somebody pushed those signs—”

The TV picture changed to Chet doing his sleight-of-hand with the placards. In a moment he was holding up Frank's arm. The lettering on the placard could be seen clearly:

Aunt Gertrude chuckled at the antics of her nephews and their friend. “I think you owe the boys an apology, Mr. Given,” she said.

“Well, perhaps I do,” Given said sheepishly. “For a moment I thought somebody was stabbing me in the back. Anyway, the deal's on as far as I'm concerned.”

The boys nodded their agreement.

All the while Chet had been sizing up the caller. Suddenly he blurted, “Mr. Given, when's your birthday?”

The question took the boat owner by surprise. “What's that got to do with my hydrofoil?”

“It might have a lot to—” Chet began, but Given was impatient.

“Cut the comedy,” he said and turned away.

Aunt Gertrude chuckled and said, “Now I'm curious, Chester,” she said. “Mr. Given, please give the boy your birth datel”

“March first,” Given grumbled.

Chet clucked sympathetically. “Too bad! You're a Pisces, governed by the sign of the Fishes. That bodes ill at this phase of the moon!”

“Bah, what nonsense!” Given shook his head in disgust, said good-by to Aunt Gertrude, pulled on his hat, and left.

“I don't think he takes your astrology very seriously, Chet,” Joe remarked with a laugh.

“Not as seriously as he takes his hydrofoil. That's for sure,” Frank observed.

“But they go together!” Chet protested. “The unfavorable conjunction of the heavenly bodies relates to everything he does—and that includes his commuter service to Cape Cutlass. There's a lot of trouble ahead for Given.”

Gertrude Hardy had been listening with mounting interest. “Chet Morton, what's all this about you taking up astrology? Can you really cast horoscopes? How about mine?”

“Sure, Aunt Gertrude. But it takes time to read the stars. I can tell you a few things right off the bat, though. Day and month of birth, please.”

“Well, since you're not asking for the year, I don't mind telling you that I was born on August twenty-fifth. Which sign is that?”

Chet gulped, blushed, and evaded the gaze of his questioner.

“You—You're a—a beautiful young goddess!” he stammered.

Aunt Gertrude blushed. “Chet Morton, you're impossible!”

“Well, it's Virgo, the sign of the Virgin,” Chet said lamely.

Aunt Gertrude smoothed her hair with one hand. “Go on!”

Chet continued the analysis. “Virgos have great analytical ability. They know how to get to the heart of important matters without wasting time on inconsequential details. They're also sensitive persons who enjoy dealing with other people, and they prefer the simple life. They talk a lot, which is all right because they often have something to say that's really worthwhile.”

Miss Hardy looked pleased.

“The stars insist you'd make a good critic or perhaps a repairman!” Chet went on.

Miss Hardy looked at him through her steel-rimmed spectacles and giggled. “Thank you, Chet. I can't say that I'm charmed by that repairman bit! The rest, however, is quite satisfactory. If every horoscope you draw up is as complimentary as mine, you'll have more friends than you need.”

Chet grinned.

“I'll see that you get a big slice of my angel food cake as a reward,” Aunt Gertrude concluded as she pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen.

“How about your own horoscope, Chet?” Joe inquired teasingly.

“I'm Cancer. The sign of the Crab. You fellows can probably guess that I'm fated to be a good cook! The signs haven't been on my side recently, but I'm happy to report that a change is coming. The moon and the Crab ...”