The Phantom Freighter (10 page)

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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

BOOK: The Phantom Freighter
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“So he dropped you at the cottage?” Joe put in.
“Right. When he left me, he said, ‘Let this be a lesson to you. Mind your own business. Any more snooping and you won't get off so easy!' ”
Chet gulped. “If I were you, I think I'd follow his advice!”
“Are you kidding!” Joe protested. “This gives us all the more reason to nab that gang!”
“By the way,” Frank said, “how did you manage to find me?”
“Your unknown savior called the house.”
“Well, that was nice of him. Wish he'd done it a lot sooner,” Frank said.
By this time the Hardy boathouse loomed ahead, and soon the
Sleuth
was docked. “Let's go home and get some sleep,” Joe suggested. “Then we'd better talk again to that man who's in jail. I'm sure he's the ‘Hank' you've heard mentioned, Frank. I'll bet he knows all about the
Wasp
and Crowfeet.”
“Good idea,” Frank said.
They drove Biff and Chet home. When they finally arrived at the Hardy house, their mother and Aunt Gertrude wept with joy. Aunt Gertrude bustled about the kitchen, preparing breakfast, while Mrs. Hardy notified Chief Collig of the boys' safe return.
Then Frank and Joe went to bed and slept soundly until noon. When they came down, their mother said Mr. McClintock had telephoned.
“I guess he wants to know if we got reservations,” Frank said. “I'll check with the Southport agency and see if the tickets are ready.”
But when Frank spoke to the agent he received quite a shock.
“Tickets?” the man said. “You got them already.”
“No we didn‘t,” Frank told him,
“That fellow you sent over picked them up early this morning and paid for them.”
“We didn't send anyone,” said Frank. “Did he give you his name?”
“No.”
“Describe him, please.”
“In his thirties, I'd say. Dark hair. Since he paid for your fare I had no reason to think he was not on the level!”
Frank groaned. “He stole our tickets!”
The agent was greatly disturbed. “This has never happened to me in all my years in business. It's outrageous. Well, don't worry. When the fellow shows up on the sailing date, we can get an explanation.”
“Will you issue us new tickets?” Frank inquired.
“That might not even be necessary. I'll be on the ship personally to look into this.”
Frank thanked the agent and put down the telephone. “Somebody is going through all kinds of trouble to prevent us from making this trip,” he said to Joe. “Even paid for the fare!”
“You know,” Joe reflected, “maybe our friend McClintock is the reason for all this. Somebody might be trying to keep
him
from going!”
“You're right. Let's go talk with him.”
Mr. McClintock greeted them with a grin. “Sleep mighty late, don't you? When I was a boy I used to get up bright and early—six o‘clock sharp. Well, what luck? Don't tell me you haven't got the tickets yet!”
Instead of answering, Frank asked, “Have you any enemies, sir?”
The man peered at him suspiciously. “Enemies? What do you mean?”
“Can you think of anyone who wouldn't want you to go on this trip?”
“You're talking nonsense. Who could stop me? What's behind all this?”
Frank could not make up his mind whether or not Mr. McClintock was evading his question. When he told him about the mysterious stranger who had picked up the freighter tickets at Southport, McClintock was furious.
“They can't do this to me!” he snapped. “I'll take legal action. I'll make them hand over those tickets. Strikes me that you boys have bungled this whole business from the beginning!”
He gazed at them intently. “Or perhaps you don't really want to go on a voyage? Well, I'll handle this myself. I'll get tickets!”
Grabbing the room telephone, he put through a call to Klack's Agency. “Hello!” he barked. “Mr. Klack? ... Oh. This is Thaddeus McClintock at the Bayport Hotel. I want passage for four on the first freighter leaving this port. What's that? Now you listen to me—”
The person at the other end of the wire had to do a good deal of listening. McClintock made the line sizzle. He voiced dire threats as to what would happen to the agency if they did not procure tickets promptly. But apparently his wrathful predictions failed to produce results, because finally he slammed the receiver down and sat back, muttering.
“Fine way to run a business!” he growled. “Said she'd put me on the list. I have a good mind to cancel the whole plan.”
“Don't worry, Mr. McClintock,” Frank said calmly. “We'll get on a freighter. The Southport agent will be there personally to straighten things out.”
“Thank goodness for that. Say, what's with our fishing trip, meanwhile?”
“Chet's working on it.”
“He's no more successful than you in making arrangements,” Mr. McClintock grumbled. “Tell him to get going, will you?”
“We will,” Frank promised and the boys left. Their next stop was police headquarters. They spoke to Chief Collig, who was an old friend. He listened attentively, then reached for a telephone and asked for information about the
Wasp.
When he turned back to the boys, he frowned.
“The launch doesn't seem to be registered. We'll make some more inquiries. And now, about this man we're holding. You think his name is Hank, and he's part of the gang that wanted to get rid of you, Frank?”
“I'm sure of it. Can I talk to him?”
“Go ahead. If he tells you anything worthwhile, let me know.”
A guard showed the boys to the cells. The man with the scar was lying on his bunk, reading a newspaper.
“Hi, Hank,” Frank said.
The prisoner looked up, startled. Then his expression became wary. “You made a mistake. My name's not Hank.”
“That's what the boys on the
Wasp
call you,” Frank replied coolly.
“The
Wasp?”
The prisoner looked alarmed. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
“A23—151—C2!” said Frank.
The suspect swung himself off the bunk and strode toward the door of the cell. “Now look,” he said thickly. “About those numbers. You can‘t—”
“What?” Frank asked sharply as the man hesitated.
Hank just stared at the boys. Finally he answered, “I don't know anything about those numbers. Talk to my lawyer.”
“Does he represent Crowfeet too?”
The man did not answer. The boys made several attempts to get him to talk, but he stubbornly refused to say another word. Finally they left. But they were sure of two things. He was Hank, and he knew something about the mysterious numbers.
When Frank and Joe reached home they found that their father had returned. He had already been told of Frank's adventure on the
Wasp,
and now listened with interest as his sons reported about their call at headquarters.
“The prisoner recognized the numbers all right,” Frank said. “At first we thought he was going to talk, but then he changed his mind.”
“Let me see those numbers,” his father said.
Joe went to get the copy of the numbers on the crumpled scrap found in Mrs. Armstrong's home, and showed it to Mr. Hardy.
“So Hank wouldn't talk?” the detective said resolutely. “Well, never mind. I believe I can solve that part of the mystery without his help!”
CHAPTER XII
Harrowing Experience
ASTONISHED, Frank and Joe, leaned forward to hear their father's explanation of the mysterious numbers.
“It fits in with something I happen to know,” Mr. Hardy said. “Besides the case concerning the fake documents, I am working on an assignment for a large company manufacturing electric motors.”
“Industrial espionage?” Joe asked.
“Not quite. The president engaged me to check on a lot of new motors which bear his trade name but weren't sold by his company. They've turned up in various cities along the coast, but his branch offices and distributors in those places know nothing about them.”
“Wouldn't it be an easy matter” Frank said, “to check the serial numbers of the motors that leave the factory against the ones being received at the branches, to be sure of this?” asked Frank.
“That's been done,” Mr. Hardy replied. “All the invoices match up. If five hundred motors are produced in the factory, those same five hundred reach the branch offices. So I'm inclined to think the extra ones are being assembled elsewhere from stolen parts.”
Joe was puzzled. “What have our numbers got to do with it, Dad?”
“They sound like the motor numbers and may have a great deal to do with it. At any rate, I'm going to assign Sam Radley to the Bayport waterfront right away.”
Radley had been Mr. Hardy's operative for quite some time and both boys had great respect for his abilities.
“Maybe we could give him a hand?” Frank offered.
“Not at this time,” his father replied, and with that dropped the subject.
“I did have a little luck on another matter,” he said. “Joe, will you ask Aunt Gertrude to come into the library. I think she'll be interested in this.”
Mr. Hardy unbuckled the straps of a big suitcase he carried on his longer trips. When his sister entered the room, he was removing the wrapping of a flat parcel.
“Recognize this, Gertrude?” he asked, holding up a small picture.
It was an oil painting in an old-fashioned frame, showing the portrait of a stern-looking elderly gentleman with muttonchop whiskers.
“Great-Grandfather Hardy!” gasped Aunt Gertrude. “That picture was in my lost carton! Where did you find it, Fenton?”
Mr. Hardy told how he had come across the picture in Washington while visiting antique shops in search of forged documents. He had recognized the portrait at once; because Great-Grandfather Hardy had stared down at him from over the piano in their home when he was a boy.
“He didn't look very happy in that antique shop.” Mr. Hardy smiled. “The proprietor couldn't tell me much about the woman who had sold it to him, along with various odds and ends, about a week ago. She gave her address but it turned out to be a phony one.”
Aunt Gertrude said nervously she hoped the rest of the contents of the box would come back to her without much trouble. “There were certain things—” she said dreamily.
Just then the doorbell rang. “I'll get it!” Aunt Gertrude cried and hastened toward the hallway.
Frank glanced at his brother. “Have you noticed how jumpy Aunty has been ever since she lost that box?”
“Every time the phone or the bell rings she practically runs to answer it,” Joe agreed. “There's got to be more to it than just those missing letters and papers.”
It was obvious that Aunt Gertrude was jittery because she was expecting a message—either a phone call or a letter. Was it in connection with the mystery? the boys wondered.
Aunt Gertrude returned to say that it had been a salesman at the door, and—
The sound of the telephone interrupted her. “I'll take it!” she said quickly. A moment later she called out in a disappointed voice, “It's only Chet!”
When Frank said “Hello,” Chet responded in an aggrieved tone, “It's
only
Chet. A fine thing to say about me!”
Frank laughed. “Don't be so touchy. What's up?”
“Tomorrow's the day we go tuna fishing with Captain Harkness.”
“Great. We'll be there!”
When the Hardys arrived at the wharf the following morning, Mr. McClintock was hopping about like a happy child. Swinging over one of his shoulders were straps holding a binocular case.
“With all my deep-sea fishing, I never went out for tuna,” he remarked excitedly. “Wonderful day for it!”
“All aboard!” bellowed Captain Harkness.
A few minutes later the fishing boat pulled away from the wharf and chugged smoothly down the bay. Chet, as leader of the expedition, bustled about importantly. He assigned places to everyone and explained the technique of tuna fishing, about which he had just read.
It was a calm, warm day and the sea was smooth, with only a slight swell. A few miles beyond the mouth of the bay, the captain announced they had reached tuna water. He distributed the rods and herring he had brought along as bait and scattered fresh chum over the side to attract the fish.
Mr. McClintock took up his position in a fishing chair, and Chet showed him the proper way to hold the heavy rod. He threw the bait overboard and watched it sink until the end of the leader disappeared from sight. Next, he coiled about fifteen feet of the thirty-nine-thread line on the stern and held it.
“Tuna grow pretty big, don't they?” asked Mr. McClintock, becoming a little nervous. “It won't pull me overboard, will it?”
“Could be.” Captain Harkness grinned. “But don't worry, we'll rescue you!”
Frank signaled to Chet. “Hey, how come you didn't bring your own rod? I thought you wanted to sell it.”
“I do. But I thought I'd better wait and see how he likes fishing.”
“Oh. Well, it sounds like a good idea.”
The fishermen had no luck until early afternoon. Suddenly Mr. McClintock let out a yelp as there was a tug at the line. Then it started to uncoil fast.
“Strike him!” shouted the captain.
The line straightened out. McClintock yanked the rod sharply upward. The reel screamed, and he was pulled halfway out of his chair.

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