Read The Flickering Torch Mystery Online
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
The Flickering Torch Mystery (8 page)
“We can observe the airstrip from here,” he said. “I think something fishy's going on.”
The control tower loomed in the distance, the muted lights from its windows brooding over the semidarkened field. Runway markers stretched out into the distance, and the strange blinking continued.
The airplane came closer and the young people craned to see it. Port and starboard lights were visible now, and the belly beam winked as the craft passed over them.
“Do you suppose the runway signal was meant for this plane?” asked Callie.
“Could be,” Joe said. “Let's watch it.”
Even though the pilot had plenty of runway, he failed to settle the plane down until near the end of the strip.
“Boy, I hope he doesn't overshoot!” Frank declared. As he spoke, the plane dropped several feet, then hit the ground smoothly with only yards to spare.
“Now what is he trying to prove with a landing like that?” Joe wondered as the plane turned about and headed back toward the airport buildings. The pilot taxied to an isolated shed next to a hangar, cut the engine, and stepped out. As he did, the lights stopped blinking along the airstrip.
“It certainly looks as if that signal was for him,” Iola said.
Her words brought a chill of excitement to Joe. Could this incident have any connection with the metropolitan airport thefts? Was the plane carrying some kind of contraband? Why had it stopped at the isolated shed?
Joe mentioned his suspicions to Frank.
“Maybe it's only a wild guess,” Frank said, “but you could be right.”
“Then let's find out.”
“What?” Iola said. “And leave us here?”
“That's a nice way to take two girls on a date!” Callie said in mock seriousness, but added quickly, “We understand. Go ahead. We'll wait for you.”
Frank suggested that the girls drop them off and drive along the road until they found a good secluded spot.
“Pull in there and shut off the lights,” Frank said. “Joe and I have pencil flashlights. When we return we'll blink them once, then follow with three short ones. Be ready to pick us up. Okay?”
Callie giggled. “This is great, playing detective.” She slid across to the driver's seat as Frank and Joe stepped out. They crossed the road and stepped down into a small gully which led to a low swampy area bordering the airport.
“Joe, look out, we're getting into some soft ground,” Frank warned.
By paralleling the highway for a quarter of a mile, the Hardys avoided the swamp and pressed through high grass until they came to the edge of the runway. Both crouched down and looked about.
“If no planes come in for a few minutes, we can dash across the strip without being noticed,” Frank said.
“All set?” asked Joe.
“Roger, keep your head low, and if anyone puts a light on us, hit the deck!”
The boys had taken no more than three strides across the runway when the sound of a twin-engine aircraft suddenly filled the air. They scrambled back for cover and lay flat in the grass, watching a passenger plane touch down smoothly. It reversed its engines, wheeled about, and taxied to the terminal.
“Okay, now!” Frank said.
He and Joe dashed across the runway and flopped prone in damp grass not more than a hundred yards from the shed. They listened tensely. Snatches of indistinct conversation drifted toward them.
“Let's get closer,” Joe said.
Quietly they crept toward the building; then paused and raised their heads to get a better view.
Two men seemed to be getting the plane ready for takeoff. One stood near the wing with a fuel line, his back turned to the boys. The other walked to the rear of the plane.
“See what he's doing?” Frank asked.
“I can't make it out,” Joe replied.
“He's working on the tailpost.”
“Hey, he looks like Dale Nettleton!”
“Sh-sh,” Frank warned. After a moment of silence he continued, “You're right, it is Nettleton. I wonder what he's up to now.”
“Wait, here comes someone else,” said Joe.
A short husky fellow in a pilot's uniform appeared from the shed and looked in the boys' direction. They ducked quickly.
Through stems of grass they saw the one man finish the refueling. Nettleton approached the pilot and they talked for a moment. Then the flier gave the thumbs-up signal and climbed into the plane. The starter whined, the propeller whirled, and the craft swung about to return to the runway.
Its noselight stabbed through the darkness as it bumped its way over the rough ground to the blacktop strip. There it waited for a minute, obviously for clearance from the control tower, and took off into the night sky.
Nettleton and his pal hastened into the shed, and the Hardys stood up. “Well, what do you think?” Joe asked.
“Looked pretty suspicious to me,” said Frank. “The pilot comes in and parks by a far-off shed. Then right away he takes off again.”
“I wonder what's in that place,” Joe said. They scanned the low building ahead of them. It had no windows, at least on the one side.
“Maybe those two guys in there are talking about illegal business,” Joe said. “Let's try to eavesdrop on them.”
Frank, glancing far across the runway and to the road on the other side, replied, “That's a long way to travel without cover. If they should spy usâ”
“I think we ought to take the risk anyhow,” said Joe.
“All right. But if you have any sneezing to do, do it now!”
Treading quietly, the Hardys approached the shed. They had gone no more than thirty feet when the door burst open and Nettleton stepped out. He switched on a powerful flashlight and caught the boys directly in its white beam.
“I thought I heard something out here!” he cried out. “A couple of snoopers!”
Frank and Joe stood speechless for a second, then turned and fled across the runway.
Two shots rang out behind them, which only served to increase the speed of their flying legs. The sudden sprint gave them a headstart on their pursuers, but the men were not to be shaken off that easily.
Shouts of “Halt! Stop! This is the law!” sounded behind them. Joe glanced over his shoulder to see two bobbing lights pursuing them.
“Head for the swamps!” Frank cried out.
“Why?” came Joe's breathless question.
“Because they're a lot older than we are, and will get tired sooner.”
Joe followed Frank straight toward the swampy area. The tall stems of cattails loomed before their faces as they plunged through the wet ground.
“We've got them! We've got them!” Nettleton panted. “They'll never get through the muck!”
For a moment Frank doubted whether his tactic had been correct. Mud sucked and slurped at his shoes as he bulldozed his way through the marsh. Once Joe fell flat on his face, and Frank turned back to lend him a hand.
After scrambling another fifty feet, Frank whispered, “Let's stop for a second.”
The boys crouched low in the muck like a couple of muskrats. They listened. There was no sound of thrashing now. Their pursuers were standing still, too.
“Do you see any sign of them?” asked Nettleton.
“Not a thing.”
Frank and Joe recognized the voice immediately.
Bill Zinn,
the assistant airport manager.
Bill Zinn,
the assistant airport manager.
A flashlight swept back and forth over the tips of the cattails.
“You think they got away?”
“I doubt it. They're playing possum.”
“Then we'll flush them out.”
“I told you we shouldn't have shot over their heads. I wanted to zap âem!”
“None of that,” Nettleton said. “They might be just a couple of skylarking kids. We'll find out soon enough.”
The sound of sloshing feet began again. Joe rose to move on, but Frank restrained him. “Look, this is a big swamp,” he whispered. “They might not find us at all. We can just wait them out.”
“That's taking an awful chance,” Joe whispered. The steps drew nearer.
“What do you see on your side?” came Nettleton's loud voice.
“Nothing,” Zinn replied. “I can't make out any tracks, either. Let's go back.”
“Nothing doing. We'll stick it out until we reach the road.”
“Is Nick patrolling?”
“Right,” Nettleton replied. “I've got him on the walkie-talkie.”
“Okay, I'm with you.”
The two forged ahead, each step bringing them closer and closer to the Hardys. Frank and Joe had flattened themselves in the muck, their chins pressed into the slime.
The men's heavy breathing became clearly audible.
“Good night!” Joe thought. “They'll be able to hear my heart beat!” It pounded with the excitement of danger.
The men took another step forward. Suddenly a heavy boot came down squarely on Joe's back. The boy let out a scream and jumped to his feet. Frank did the same.
Their double action stunned their pursuers momentarily. With an elbow thrust Joe knocked the wind out of the pilot, who had stepped on him. Frank's left jab caught Zinn flush on the chin. He fell over backward and lay still.
Without a word, Frank and Joe snatched up the men's flashlights.
By the time the two regained consciousness, the Hardys were well out of sight. All the boys could hear were curses behind them.
“We nearly got it that time,” Frank said, pulling himself out of the edge of the swamp onto firmer ground.
“But we'll have to look out for Nick, whoever he is,” Joe warned.
They tossed the big flashlights on the ground. Making their way in total darkness, the young detectives climbed the short embankment and reached the side of the road. Around a curve came two headlights. Frank and Joe ducked for cover again.
A car drove by slowly and a spotlight flashed across the marsh. But the cattails gave perfect cover to the boys. The car turned about and drove back toward the airport.
Minutes later Frank and Joe stood beside the road again, cold, wet and muddy, peering into the darkness.
“Lucky the girls are waiting for us,” Frank said and took out his pencil flashlight. He gave a long beam, then three short ones. Several minutes went by, but there was no sign of the convertible.
An owl hooted in the distance, and the growl of an engine sounded as another plane took off.
“That's strange,” Joe observed. “Why do you think the girls don't react?”
“I don't know,” Frank replied. “Let me give them a couple more signals.” He flashed the light again. Still no response.
“Good night!” Joe said worriedly. “Do you suppose something's happened to Callie and Iola?”
CHAPTER XI
No More Rocks
HAD the mysterious Nick come upon Iola and Callie in their hiding place? If so, the girls might be in danger!
Frank and Joe hastened along the edge of the road, giving the flashlight signal.
Suddenly, from a turnoff in the woods, a pair of headlights snapped on. For several seconds they glared into the darkness, then they went off, only to reappear in three quick blinks.
“Our signal!” Frank exclaimed, running toward the place of concealment. Joe followed him in full stride.
There was the convertible, backed into a clump of big bushes, between a stand of pine trees. Callie and Iola stepped out to meet the boys.
“Are we glad to see you!” Callie said, grabbing Joe's right arm with both her hands.
“Same here,” Joe replied.
Iola said, “We thought you'd never come back! What happened?”
“Didn't you see our signal?” asked Frank. “You really had us worried.”
“Of course we saw it,” Callie answered. “But there was another car patrolling the road. We couldn't reveal our position!”
“Good thinking,” Frank said. “We saw that car, too. Some guy named Nick was out to find us.”
“Who's he?”
“He's part of the mob,” Joe said as the boys climbed into the convertible. Briefly they told what had happened and pledged the girls to secrecy.
He slid behind the wheel and drove onto the highway, but instead of turning to the airport, he took the opposite route back toward Beemerville.
“Where are you going?” Iola inquired.
“This Nick might still be watching for us around the airport entrance,” Joe replied. He explained that he would take an alternate route which would bring them into Bayport on a parallel road. After about three miles, Joe took a left turn and made a long detour to a secondary highway. He kept the car at speed limit all the way back.
The girls were let off at their homes with quick good-nights, then Frank and Joe continued on to Elm Street. The first floor of their home was well lighted.
Joe put the car away and the boys entered through the back door. They were faced immediately by their mother and Aunt Gertrude, who had waited up for them.
“Wherever in the world have you been?” Mrs. Hardy inquired with a worried look.
“A body can't get any sleep any more!” Aunt Gertrude complained. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Of course we do,” Joe said, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. “We were mixed up in a new development in our case. We just couldn't help being late.”
“Looks as if you were mixed up in a mud bath,” Mrs. Hardy said, the comers of her mouth relaxing.
“You're not kidding!” Frank kicked off his dirty shoes and set them beside the kitchen door. Joe followed suit.
“Aunt Gertrude, we're lucky to be back at all,” Joe said. “We got chased, shot at, andâ”
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