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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

BOOK: The Disappearing Floor
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“How was the messenger traveling?” Collig inquired.
“By train—at least they told me he'd get in on the eight-fifteen.”
Collig picked up the phone and called New York City Police Headquarters and asked them to watch the incoming trains. He also called Bayport Headquarters and told his desk sergeant to put out a statewide alarm for the messenger. Finally he tried to contact the diamond importers, but evidently their office was closed for the night.
“Well, that's about all we can do now,” Collig said, hanging up. “But we'll have that messenger here with some answers tomorrow morning or my name's not Clint Collig!”
Frank and Joe hurried home, intending to radio their father immediately and report the mystery. But their mother, who had returned with Aunt Gertrude, told them he could not be reached.
“Your father called while you boys were gone,” she explained. “He and Sam Radley had to rush down to Gary, Indiana, to follow up some urgent clue, and they probably won't get back to Chicago before tomorrow afternoon.”
Next morning, the Hardys still had no further word from Jack Wayne, so they drove to the airport to make inquiries about him. At the office of the Ace Air Service, they found a young freelance pilot named Tom Lester, who often handled charter flying assignments for Jack.
“Are you boys looking for Jack, too?” he asked.
“We sure are,” Frank replied. He told Tom about the puzzling interrupted radio message.
Tom could offer no explanation. “It certainly sounds strange. What worries me is that Jack filed no flight plan. Ordinarily, under those circumstances, I would have expected him to be back last night.”
“Do you think he may have crashed?” Frank inquired anxiously.
“It's possible—especially if his radio conked out. That would explain why he hasn't called for help.” Tom rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “I don't suppose you boys feel like telling me any more about this case you're working on?”
Knowing the young pilot could be trusted, the Hardys filled him in on the mystery. Tom Lester's keen blue eyes showed interest at once.
“Sounds to me as if Jack's onto something big,” Tom surmised. “Maybe he even managed to worm himself into Hirff's confidence. If he went to meet some of the gang, maybe he just hasn't had a chance to contact you again.”
“That makes sense, all right,” Joe said.
“He didn't leave any message for you on his desk?” Frank asked Lester.
The pilot shook his head. “I didn't notice anything. Let's take another look.”
Almost at once Frank pounced on Jack Wayne's phone pad. “Look at this!” he exclaimed.
The pad bore a scribbled notation in Jack's handwriting:
Amethyst calling Seacat.
Tom read the message with a frown. “That word ‘amethyst' ties in with his radio call!”
“Do you know this guy Al Hirff?” Frank asked.
“I know
of
him, and I've seen him,” Lester replied, “but I've never met him.”
“Let's look for him,” Frank suggested. “If we could work him into a casual conversation, we might fish out a clue.”
The private rented hangar in which Al Hirff kept his own plane was locked. The Hardys and Tom Lester wandered around the airport, looking into other hangars and the passenger terminal, but could not find Hirff. When Frank and Joe finally left, Tom promised to keep his eyes open for the pilot.
From the airport, the boys drove straight to Bayport Police Headquarters for news on the previous night's diamond mystery. On the way they discussed the curious notation on Jack's phone pad.
“That word ‘Seacat' sounds to me like the name of a boat,” Joe speculated.
Frank agreed. “You know, Joe, it might even be the name of that mystery cabin cruiser!”
At headquarters the desk sergeant told them to go on into Chief Collig's office. A red-haired man, freckled, and with a wart on one cheek, was seated in front of the chief's desk.
“Glad you're here, boys,” Collig told them. “This is Dan O'Bannion, the messenger.”
The Hardys listened to O'Bannion's story.
“Like I told Chief Collig,” the messenger said, “I took that parcel of gems straight up to Tiffman's office. I delivered them to him and went right back to New York on the next train.”
“Did you get a receipt?” Frank asked.
“You bet I did! It's on the chiefs desk.”
Collig held up an official receipt form. It was signed “Paul Tiffman.”
“I've called Tiffman and asked him to come over here,” Collig added.
When the diamond merchant arrived, O'Bannion looked astonished. “This isn't the man I gave the gems to!” he exclaimed.
“And I've never seen
you
before, either,” Tiffman said tartly.
“You certainly weren't in the office when I arrived,” the messenger agreed.
“I was in my office every minute of the evening. And nobody could have taken my place!”
Tiffman added that the signature on the receipt form was not his, and proved it by displaying his driver's license and other identification cards. O'Bannion shrugged, tight-lipped.
Frank suggested they all go to the Haley Building. “If we reconstruct what happened last night, it may throw a new light on the mystery.”
“Good idea, Frank!” Chief Collig said.
In ten minutes they were on their way to Tiffman's office. As they stepped off the elevator, the messenger's expression changed.
“What's the matter?” Joe asked him.
O'Bannion pointed to a large, unsightly crack in the wall plaster. “I'm positive that crack wasn't there last night,” he said.
“It's been there for the past two weeks,” Tiffman said. “Some careless workmen banged into the wall when they were delivering furniture.”
When they entered Tiffman's office, O'Bannion looked more bewildered. “This wasn't the office I came to!” he exclaimed. “The furnishings were altogether different!”
“Maybe you need glasses!” Collig snapped. “Didn't you look at the sign on the door?”
“I did look!” O‘Bannion flared back. “The office number was 507 and the sign said, ‘Paul Tiffman, Gemologist'!”
Chief Collig's face took on a tinge of purple. “I'm sending for the county polygraph expert!” he roared, thumping his fist on the desk. “You and Mr. Tiffman and the night watchman are all going to get lie-detector tests!”
“That suits me fine!” O'Bannion snapped.
Frank and Joe were mystified as they drove away from the Haley Building. Both boys would have liked to go out in their boat to sift through their thoughts in the fresh salt air and sunshine. Since the
Sleuth
was not yet repaired, they settled for a drive to the harbor.
The
Napoli
was moored at the dock. Tony was touching up worn spots with varnish, while Chet Morton lolled on a thwart, practicing knots. Frank and Joe strolled out to chat with them.
“Anything new on the case?” Tony asked.
“Plenty,” Joe grumbled. “The problem is how to unravel it all.”
“Rats!” Chet muttered. “I just can't seem to tie a bowline on a bight!”
Suddenly Frank let out a gasp. “Maybe that's what Jack Wayne's message meant!”
CHAPTER XIII
Snoop Camera
JOE gave his brother a puzzled look, at first seeing no connection between Chet's remark and Jack Wayne's interrupted radio message.
“What do you mean, Frank?”
“Look! We've been assuming all along that when Jack said ‘tigers' bite' he meant the kind of biting that's done with teeth,” Frank observed.
Joe exclaimed, “I get it! You think he was talking about the kind of bight spelled b-i-g-h-t!”
“Exactly.”
“You mean the message had something to do with a rope or line?” Chet asked blankly.
Frank shook his head. “That wouldn't make much sense. But remember, ‘bight' can also mean a sort of bay or indentation in a coastline. In other words, maybe Tigers' Bight is the name of a
place.”
Joe snapped his fingers excitedly. “Sure! Tigers' Bight could be the name of the place Jack was heading when we saw him fly south!”
“Any of you fellows ever hear that name before?” Frank asked.
Chet shrugged his beefy shoulders. “Not me.”
Joe also had to admit that the name was new to him. But Tony frowned thoughtfully. “That rings a bell. I have a hunch I
have
heard it.”
“Where?” the Hardys asked in chorus.
“I don't know. But if you're right, it must be some place along the coast. Maybe I've been there in the
Napoli.
Why don't we look on a map?”
Tony opened his boat locker and took out a sailing chart of the Barmet Bay area. He and Chet then climbed up onto the dock, and the boys spread out the chart. But after poring over it for several minutes, they could find no such name as Tigers' Bight.
“Another clue conked out!” Joe muttered.
“Let's not give up too soon,” Frank said. “Maybe it's not important enough to show on the map—or maybe the name's not official.”
“Why don't you ask old Clams Dagget?” Chet suggested.
“That's an idea,” Joe said. “He'd certainly know if anyone would.”
Dagget was a retired seafaring man, who now operated a ferry service to Rocky Isle in Barmet Bay.
Frank glanced at his wristwatch. “Clams won't be here to pick up any more passengers before one-thirty. Let's go home and have lunch, Joe. We can stop by later and ask him.”
“Okay. I can sure use some chow!”
Each of the boys ate two hamburgers and a generous portion of French fried potatoes. They were just finishing helpings of Aunt Gertrude's old-fashioned strawberry shortcake when the telephone rang. Tom Lester was calling from the airport.
“Al Hirff just showed up,” the pilot told Frank. “If you want to talk to him, now's your chance.”
“Where can we find him?”
“Right now he's in the hangar, checking his plane. He has a pug nose and wears his hair in long sideburns. You can't miss him.”
“Okay. Thanks, Tom.” Frank hung up and told Joe. “It's not one o'clock yet. Let's whip out to the airport before we see Clams Dagget.”
“Suits me. And say, why don't I take my new camera along and snap Hirff's picture? Dad might recognize him.”
“Good idea.”
Joe had recently bought an ultraminiature camera from money he had saved. It could be attached to his lapel for taking secret photographs. Both boys slipped on sport jackets to allay suspicions on Joe's maneuver.
A short time later they pulled into the airport parking lot and headed for Hirff's hangar. The door was open, and inside they could see a big, twin-engined amphibian plane. But the pilot was not in sight.
The boys walked cautiously into the hangar to look around for him. Joe shot an inquisitive glance at the airplane's cabin, but the fuselage was too high for a full inside view. He climbed up and noticed a folded navigation chart, with penciled markings, clipped above the pilot's seat.
“Hey, Frank!” Joe exclaimed excitedly. “I see a chart of the Bayport coastal area—and it has some markings on it!”
Frank warned, “Watch it, Joe! Here he comes now!” A man who answered Tom Lester's description of Hirff was striding toward the hangar!
Joe quickly unhooked his lapel camera, held it up, and snapped a picture of the map. Then he jumped down.
“What're you punks doing here?” the pilot yelled, charging into the hangar almost at a run.
Joe calmly snapped Hirff's picture, then slipped the camera into the sport-coat pocket. The pilot, livid with rage, tried to hurl Frank aside and get at Joe.
Instead, Frank met the attack. He spun him around with a judo grip and followed with a punch to the jaw that landed the man on the floor. Hirff sat up and blinked in surprise.
Frank repressed a grin. “If you want me to step out of the way, just ask politely.”
Hirff got to his feet, scowling. “All right, wise guys! Suppose I call the cops!”
“Go ahead,” Frank said coolly. “The hangar was open so we walked in to say hello. Didn't touch a thing.”
“When the police get here,” Joe added, “maybe we can chat about Tigers' Bight.”
The remark was a shot in the dark. Joe had hoped it might startle Hirff or provoke some interesting reaction. But the effect was out of all proportion to what Joe had expected. Hirff's face paled and all the bluster seemed to go out of him.
“I ... I d-don't know what you're talking about,” Hirff faltered. “Sorry if I lost my temper. Thought maybe you kids had sneaked in here to strip the plane or something. Go on now, scram, and we'll forget all about it!”
“Sure, if that's the way you want it.” Frank turned to his brother. “Come on,” he said.
Joe could not resist a parting taunt. “If you change your mind about calling the police,” he needled, “they can find us at the boat dock.”
Both boys could feel Al Hirff's eyes burning into their backs as they walked toward the parking lot. Driving away, Frank remarked, “Boy! You sure struck gold that time ! But I hope it wasn't a mistake, telling him our next move.”
Joe shrugged. “I doubt if the gang would try any dirty work in broad daylight. Anyhow, if they do, so much the better. That's
one
way to draw ' em into the open!”

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