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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

BOOK: The Phantom Freighter
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Then Joe heard a groan. He traced it to its source in an anteroom used for tailoring, and found the shopkeeper unconscious on the floor. In the corner was a sink. Joe grabbed a towel, wet it and put it on the man's forehead. The cold water revived the man and he sat up.
“Guy came in here—slugged me—” he murmured.
“Did he have a scar on his cheek?” Joe asked quickly.
The man nodded. “Knocked me out—don't know where he went.”
Both looked up at the sound of footsteps in the doorway. Chet poked his head in. “Hey, what's going on?” he asked.
A hurried explanation followed. Then Joe said, “Help Charlie to the couch in his office, Chet. I'm going to call the police.”
He looked around for a telephone but saw none, and stepped outside. Suddenly he paused. From the corner of his eye he had caught a glimpse of the display window. Four dummies stood there, one of them in a raincoat, with a hat pulled low over its head!
Joe remembered that there had been only three dummies in the window before! He stepped back inside, quietly slipped the automatic catch on the lock to the window, and went back to Chet. He drew him aside and told him of his discovery. “I locked him in. He's our prisoner,” he whispered.
Chet did not like the idea of being left alone with the fellow. “Where's Frank?” he asked worriedly.
“I don't know. Wasn't he with you?”
“No.”
“He must have followed another lead. I'll go find a phone.”
Before Chet could object, Joe was out the door. He ran to a drugstore at the corner, called police headquarters, and asked for Con Riley. When he had him on the line, Joe said:
“This is Joe Hardy. Listen, how fast can you make it to Mack Street? Fit-Your-Figure Charlie's place. I want you to arrest a guy in the window.”
“In the window?”
“Live dummy. He slugged Charlie. I think he's the scarred man we're after.”
“Be right over, Joe.”
The young detective started back to the store. Suddenly he heard a crash. A figure hurtled through the show window and landed on the sidewalk. It was followed by a man in a raincoat.
At the same instant Chet raced from the store and tackled the fugitive. They went down in a heap. The scarred man struggled to escape, but Chet hung on grimly, yelling to Joe.
Joe raced up and helped subdue the suspect. A moment later a police car arrived and Con Riley jumped out. He snapped handcuffs on the man's wrists.
“What's this all about?” the prisoner snarled. “I haven't done anything.”
“That's what they all say,” replied Riley. “You're coming down to headquarters.” Riley then informed the prisoner of his rights.
“Yeah, I understand. When I want a lawyer, I'll tell ya,” the man muttered.
Chet and Joe, after making sure that Charlie was all right, climbed into the squad car with Riley and the scowling prisoner. They drove to headquarters. There the man gave his name as John Smith. He denied that he had ever gone under the name of Johnson, that he had ever been to the Phillips house, or that he had received any cartons.
He was booked on a charge of assault and battery. The express-company driver was sent for and identified him as the man who had signed for Aunt Gertrude's missing carton. The suspect said the expressman was crazy, and then maintained a stony silence.
A figure hurtled through the window
“Any identification on him?” Joe asked Riley after the man had been searched.
“Not a thing,” the policeman replied. “Just some figures scribbled on the back of an old envelope. Can't make head or tail of them.” Riley produced the evidence. Joe whooped. Scrawled on the paper were letters and numbers:
A23—151—C2—D576—A19395—M14
“The same as those found at Mrs. Armstrong's home!” Joe thought excitedly.
Written beneath the figures was Falcon.
“The name of the phantom freighter!” Joe gasped.
“What?” Riley asked.
Joe quickly told him Captain Harkness's story and the officer promised to investigate.
When Joe and Chet arrived at the Hardy home, they expected to find Frank there. But he had not yet come back.
“That's strange,” reflected Joe. “I wonder where he went.”
For the next few hours the family and Chet anxiously waited for news of Frank. With growing concern, Joe and Chet returned to the waterfront and searched the docks thoroughly, making scores of inquiries. But to no avail!
When they arrived home they found Mrs. Hardy, pale and tight-lipped, near the telephone. Her husband was away, and Aunt Gertrude paced up and down nervously. “That man they have locked up in jail—I'll bet he knows what happened,” she declared. “If I had my way—”
“But the police have questioned him a dozen times, Aunty,” said Joe. “He won't talk.”
“What time is it?” asked Mrs. Hardy.
“Two o‘clock in the morning, Mother,” Joe replied. “You'd better go to bed and get some rest.”
“I wouldn't be able to sleep. If Frank doesn't show up by seven,” said Mrs. Hardy, “I'll have to telephone your father.”
“No use bothering Fenton until we're sure it's serious,” said Aunt Gertrude. “Frank will turn up,” she added to calm Mrs. Hardy, but to herself she said, “I'm afraid something terrible has happened.”
The telephone jangled harshly. Mrs. Hardy sprang to her feet, but Joe reached the instrument ahead of her.
“Is this the home of Fenton Hardy?” demanded a rough voice.
“Yes.”
“Who is this?”
“Joe Hardy.”
“All right, kid. In case you're worrying about your brother, here's a tip. You'll find him on the porch of a summer bungalow about two miles up the Willow River. Better go and get him because he's in no shape to walk home.”
“Who's speaking? What bungalow? Is he all right?”
The caller hung up.
“What is it, Joe?” Mrs. Hardy asked tensely, and he repeated the conversation.
The message had been ominous, but Joe tried to be cheerful. “Oh, I'm sure Frank's all right. Come on, Chet. We'll take the
Sleuth
and go out there.”
“I'm going with you,” Aunt Gertrude said brusquely. “Come on, Laura, you too!”
Joe looked up. “Better not. What if it's a trap?”
“A trap? But why?”
“Maybe someone wants to get us all out of the house, for some reason,” suggested Joe.
Mrs. Hardy was distressed. “Then maybe Frank won't be there at all,” she said.
“Oh, I'm sure he is, Mother. But we'd better not take chances. Stay here and call Chief Collig. Tell him where we've gone.”
Aunt Gertrude nodded. “Joe is right. Sit down, Laura. We'll guard the house. And if I hear as much as a footstep around here, I'll ...”
Her voice trailed off.
Mrs. Hardy said, “Better phone Biff Hooper and see if he can go with you, so you'll have some help in case you need it.”
After calling Biff and asking him to meet them at the boathouse, Joe and Chet hurried off. As they sped through the deserted streets in the Hardys' car, they spoke little. The same question was in their minds, What had happened to Frank?
If they could have played back a movie of the chase the day before, they might have seen the relief on Frank's face after Joe's narrow escape. Frank's first impulse had been to join his brother and Chet in further pursuit of the fugitive.
But then something caught his attention. On the side of a large box near the truck were the numbers A23—151—C2!
Quickly Frank examined several other boxes. Two of them bore similar numbers. Looking for an address, he found a tag nailed to each carton, marked
Wasp
—
Dock Three, Bayport.
Sure that he had stumbled upon an important clue, Frank hunted for the
Wasp.
It was a large motor launch, painted yellow and black, with a small cabin. There were no signs of anyone aboard, so Frank leaped onto the deck near an open hatch. Boxes of cargo were stacked below, to within a few feet of the deck.
Frank lowered himself through the hatch to examine the boxes. They were similar in size and appearance to the cartons on the truck. Numbers were painted on the sides. Some of them were identical with the code found in the Armstrong house.
Suddenly Frank heard voices of men who had come aboard. One said, “We've got to get that stuff to Crowfeet or he'll have a stroke!”
“I'm not going to risk it,” argued another. “Too dangerous. We can come back tomorrow.”
A minute later a third voice shouted, “Hey, men, we've got to get out of here quick!”
“What's the matter?”
“Hank's been arrested. Bayport's getting too hot for this racket!”
There was a sound of running footsteps on deck. This was followed by a heavy thud and sudden blackness.
The hatch cover had been closed!
Frank heard a bell ring. Engines began to throb, and with a roar the
Wasp
pulled away from the dock.
Frank struggled to keep calm. Should he make his presence known by banging on the hatch cover? No, he decided. He would stay hidden and wait for a chance to escape.
“Wish I had a flashlight,” he thought. “I'd like to find out what's in these boxes.” Thinking he might identify it by feel, he took out his pocket-knife and tried to open one, but the blade snapped off. “Tough luck!” Frank muttered.
The air in the hold was getting stuffy. Frank climbed on top of the boxes and thrust his hands hard against the hatch cover. It did not budge a fraction.
After an hour had passed, the terror of the unknown began to seize Frank. Perhaps he should shout for help. But even if he tried to attract attention, his shouts would hardly be heard above the roar of the engines. If the launch was bound on a long trip, he might suffocate!
A short time later the speed of the launch diminished. Finally the engines were cut off altogether. The boat swayed from side to side, and shuddered as it bumped against the timbers of a dock.
Frank heard voices. Footsteps thudded overhead. With a rattle and a crash, the hatch cover was hauled away. Frank tried to slip down among the boxes, but was too late. A seaman shouted, “Hey! We've got a stowaway!”
“Take him forward!” rasped another.
Half blinded by the light, Frank was dragged and pushed along the deck toward the cabin.
CHAPTER
XI
Stolen Tickets
UNTIL the first light of dawn edged the horizon, Joe, Chet, and Biff roared back and forth on the river near the two-mile mark. They were discouraged when they found no bungalow. The early-morning mist was heavy, and it was difficult to see the homes back of the shoreline of the Willow River.
When the fog lifted, they were more than three miles from the mouth of the river. It was then that they saw a dark figure sprawled on the porch of a deserted cabin.
“Frank!” cried Joe.
He pulled beside a makeshift, half-rotted pier and the boys jumped out. Quickly they ran up the few steps to the porch.
Frank was bound hand and foot, and tightly blindfolded, but unharmed. As Joe and Biff cut loose the ropes and whipped off the blindfold, they hurled dozens of questions at him. Frank slowly rubbed his aching arms and legs and got up. “I'm starving,” he said. “Do you have any chow with you?”
Joe and Biff stared at each other, but Chet beamed happily. He fished an apple and a package of nuts from his pockets.
“You guys are always kidding me because I never go anywhere without supplies. See how it comes in handy!” He gave the food to Frank.
“Thanks, Chet.”
Frank alternately bit a large chunk of apple and tossed a few nuts into his mouth. When he had finished and thrown the core away, Biff said, “Come on. Let's get out of here. Frank can tell us what happened on the way home.”
As the motorboat sped back down the river, Frank related his strange adventure. When he reached the point where he had been hauled out of the
Wasp's
hold and taken to the cabin, Joe interrupted him excitedly.
“Why, you've practically solved the case. You'll be able to identify those men—”
Frank shook his head. “I didn't really see any of them. I was blinded by the sudden light after being in the dark hold. Then a blindfold was clapped over my eyes. Some guy gave an order; another said ‘Shut up!' and after that no one spoke. I couldn't identify them.”
“What happened then?” Biff urged.
“They moved me from the
Wasp
to another boat. It cruised around for a while, then I was transferred into a rowboat. One man took me up the river. He was supposed to get rid of me and leave no clues, but I guess he was afraid.”

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