The Sting of the Scorpion (10 page)

“These aren't just scribbles,” Frank declared. “It looks to me like some kind of Oriental script. This must mean something!”

“True.” Joe nodded. “And something tells me the meaning's not pleasant!”

 

 

 

 

FRANK had the same foreboding as his brother about the strange inscription chalked on the door. “Who do you suppose wrote it?” he wondered aloud.

“That's easy,” Joe said. “It's got to be that mustached guy you spotted in the parked car last night.”

“I think so, too, which makes me more certain he must've been Raman. He could have sneaked back here after we left for Wild World.”

“Right. It was dark when we got home, and we went in the back door after you pulled into the garage, so we wouldn't have noticed.”

“Maybe we can find some professor at Ardvor College who can translate it for us,” the older Hardy boy suggested.

“Smart thinking, Frank. Here—I've got some paper. Let's copy it down.”

It was nine fifteen when they arrived at the downtown offices of the real-estate firm of which Clyde Bohm was the local manager. He eyed them suspiciously as they were shown into his office, and, without rising, gestured curtly for the boys to sit down.

“What is it you want to see me about?”

Frank decided blunt frankness was the best policy. “About the Wild World animal park,” he said in a clear, firm voice.

His words seemed to take Bohm by surprise. The manager snuffled nervously and retorted, “What about it?”

“We'd like to know why you've tried so hard to buy Mr. Carter out.”

“What business is that of yours?” Bohm demanded, blinking and squinting rapidly through his steel-rimmed glasses.

“Mr. Carter's been having certain troubles at Wild World,” Frank replied. “We're investigating them for him, and we're trying to get an overall picture of the situation. You seem to be part of the picture.”

Bohm fiddled with his glasses and squinted at the boys more suspiciously than ever. “Exactly what is that remark supposed to mean?”

“You've tried desperately to buy Wild World. Do you mind telling us why?”

“Certainly not. I've made no secret of that. My company believes that land could be more profitably developed into an industrial site, or perhaps a shopping plaza.”

Bohm suddenly rose to his feet and sniffed again. “You'll have to excuse me a moment,” he said and went abruptly out the door.

The Hardys looked at each other. Joe rolled his eyes, and, pointing to his head, twirled his forefinger rapidly. Frank grinned.

Presently Clyde Bohm returned, still squinting and snuffling. He made no move to sit down, as if to make it clear to the boys that the interview was over. “Now then, I'm a busy man,” he said. “If you've nothing more important to talk about, I'm afraid I have other things to do.”

“Just one more question, Mr. Bohm,” Frank persisted. He was determined to apply more pressure in the hope of extracting a possible clue from Bohm's reaction. “Can you suggest any reason why someone might harass Pop Carter and try to drive him out of business?”

“I've no idea,” snapped the real-estate man. “But you'd better not make any such charges against
this
company, if that's what you're implying, or you may find yourself facing legal action!”

Frank rose from his chair calmly. “Mr. Carter may also have to consider taking legal action, if the harassment continues,” he said, leaving Bohm gaping open-mouthed at the Hardy boys as they walked out of his office.

Outside, Joe chuckled. “You really took the wind out of his sails with that last crack, Frank!”

“I hope so. He strikes me as a first-class creep!”

“What do we do next?”

“See what we can find out about Bohm and his real-estate company.”

The boys got into their car and Frank drove several blocks through the business section to the Bayport Bank and Trust Company, where Fenton Hardy kept his professional accounts. In the lobby, he asked to speak to Henry Dollinger, the vice-president, who knew all the Hardys.

“Howdy, boys.” Mr. Dollinger, a shrewd-eyed man with a gold watch chain across a slight paunch, greeted the brothers with a friendly smile and handshakes in his office a few moments later. “Can I help you?”

“Hope so, sir,” Frank said. “We're working on a case that involves a tract of land outside of town. We've just been talking to a real-estate man named Clyde Bohm. Is that name familiar to you?”

Mr. Dollinger nodded. “Bohm, eh? Yes, I know him.”

“Can you tell us anything about him? Is he an honest, reputable businessman?”

The banker pursed his lips and frowned thoughtfully. “Well, let's say I've never heard anything against him. But suppose I check with our credit department.”

Lifting the phone, he dialed a number and carried on a low-voiced conversation for several minutes. Finally he hung up and turned to the Hardy boys again. “The real-estate company Bohm works for is a fairly large firm. He simply manages their local office, which was opened recently. From all reports, it's a profitable, well-run business with no black marks on its record.”

“What about Mr. Bohm himself?” Joe inquired.

“That's a little harder to say,” the banker replied. “He came to Bayport a month or two ago to take charge of the company's new office here, so we have nothing on him before that. However, he does have a private account at our bank. So far none of his checks have bounced, and he hasn't run up any bad debts that we know of.”

The last words were spoken with a slight waving gesture and an offhand smile.

Frank grinned back. “Thanks a lot, sir. We appreciate what you've told us.”

As they drove off, Joe remarked, “Bohm may be a creep, but apparently he operates inside the law.”

“So far, anyhow,” Frank agreed, “or at least so far as the bank knows. But that doesn't clear him completely. It doesn't prove he didn't have some kind of sneaky part in causing Pop Carter's troubles, like the stink bomb or the phony rumors about the park animals being rabid.”

“You mean, trying to ruin attendance at Wild World so Pop would have to sell out?”

“Right.”

Joe nodded thoughtfully and scratched his head. “I guess it's a mistake to judge a person's character from the way he acts the first time you see him, but Bohm sure
looks
the part. I wouldn't put it past him. What's next on the schedule?”

“How about running out to Ardvor College?”

“Suits me.” Joe noticed his brother watching the rearview mirror. “Anything wrong?” he asked.

“Don't look now,” Frank said, “but I think we've got a tail.”

“Since when?”

“A green sedan with a radio antenna on its right front fender was behind us all the way from the real-estate company to the bank. Now it's following us again.”

“I'd say that's no coincidence.”

“So would I.”

Frank pulled to the curb sharply and braked to a stop. As the green sedan went by, the boys caught a fleeting glimpse of a driver with a crew cut.

Frank hastily started up, turned into an alley, emerged onto a residential block, then zigzagged through several side streets. When he finally headed for Ardvor College via a different route, there was no further sign of their shadow.

“Looks as if you've shaken him,” Joe said, with a glance out the back window.

“For the time being, anyhow.”

Ardvor College was located in a nearby town. The Hardys drove to the administration building in the midst of a pleasant, tree-shaded campus. A secretary told the boys the dean was busy, but would see them in a few minutes.

While they were waiting, Frank slipped out to the corridor on a sudden impulse and called Sam Radley from a phone booth.

“What can I do for you?” the operative responded good-naturedly when he heard who was calling.

“Does the name Clyde Bohm ring any bells?” Frank asked.

“Not offhand,” Sam replied. “Who is he?”

“A real-estate man who keeps pressuring the owner of Wild World to sell out. A middle-sized guy with glasses. Very ordinary-looking, except that he has this nervous tic—he keeps snuffling and squinting at you when you talk to him.”

“Wait a minute,” Radley said in a slow, thoughtful voice. “That tic does ring a bell.”

“Somebody in a case you and Dad have worked on?”

“No. I doubt if you'd find him in Fenton's crime files. But I recall some crook with a snuffling, squinting tic who was wanted a few years back on an out-of-state fugitive warrant. Let me check with the FBI and get back to you later.”

“Thanks, Sam. I'd appreciate it.”

When Frank returned to the office, the boys were told that the dean would see them. He was a tall, distinguished-looking man with a thick mop of silvering hair and a brisk, friendly manner. The Hardys had consulted him more than once before.

“Another mystery?” he asked with a twinkle in his eyes as they shook hands.

“You've guessed it, sir,” said Frank. “It has something to do with those dirigible explosions Monday morning. One of the crew is named Maris, Hector Maris, and according to the personnel records, he went to Ardvor College. We wondered if you could tell us anything about him.”

“Maris, hmm.” The dean frowned briefly. “Oh, yes, Hector Maris. I recall him now. Very nice young chap. Graduated a year ago. He's not under suspicion of anything, I hope?”

“Not exactly,” Joe said. “In fact we're wondering if there may be a mixup in identities.”

“I see. Well, the Hector Maris who attended Ardvor got very good marks as I recall. He was a pre-med student. Also on the swim team.”

“A pre-med student?” Frank echoed and exchanged a puzzled glance with Joe. “Why would a pre-med student apply for a job on a dirigible crew?”

“Good question,” said the dean, pinching his upper lip thoughtfully. “Maybe he couldn't raise the money to continue his education. Or perhaps he wasn't accepted at any medical school. There's intense competition among applicants, you know. But let me just check our files.”

The dean pressed a switch on his intercom and spoke to his secretary. A few moments later, she brought in a folder bearing the name Hector Maris.

“Now then, let's see what we have on him,” said the dean, opening the folder. “Ah, perhaps this picture of him would help to clear up any confusion. All students here at Ardvor are required to include a photo with their entrance application.”

Frank and Joe were startled as they looked at the form the dean handed them. The young man shown in the attached photo was blond and stocky. But the Hector Maris Joe had photographed aboard the
Safari Queen was dark and slender!

Frank scanned the application data hastily before handing the form back to the dean. “Thanks, sir. You've cleared up one question, at least. This isn't the fellow we're investigating.”

“He's the only Hector Maris who attended Ardvor,” the dean reported after having his secretary double-check the files.

Frank nodded. “Which means either someone's goofed in the Quinn Air Fleet personnel department, or somebody's trying to pull a fast one.”

“There's one other thing you might be able to help us on, sir,” Joe put in, handing the dean the piece of paper on which he had copied the inscription chalked on the Hardys' front door. “We think this may be some kind of Oriental script.”

The dean studied the odd markings. “Yes, I agree.”

“Could someone please translate it for us?”

“Hm. Yes. I think our professor of Oriental studies may be able to help.” Picking up the phone, the dean arranged for the boys to meet Professor Meister, who proved to be an elderly, pipe-smoking man with bushy eyebrows. He needed only a brief look at the markings to translate them.

“These are three words in Hindi, a language spoken in India and written in the Devanagari script.
Hoshiar! Bura kismet!”

“What do those words mean, sir?” Frank asked.

“I suppose you could call it a warning. They stand for
Beware! Bad luck!”
The professor brushed some ashes off his vest and flashed the Hardys a quizzical look. “Where did you run across them?”

“On our front door,” Joe replied with a wry smile.

As the boys were driving away from the college, Frank said, “I guess this practically proves that our unknown caller was Jemal Raman. He's a Hindu.”

“Could be,” said Joe. “But the language might also apply to that elephant trainer, Kassim Bey. That is, assuming Pop Carter's mistaken and Bey is still alive.”

“Pop said Kassim Bey was a Pakistani.”

“Sure, but Pakistan used to be part of India, and the two countries are right next to each other. It wouldn't be surprising if he could read and write Hindi.”

“Guess you're right,” Frank conceded, scratching his head. “But if Pop Carter says Kassim's dead, let's leave him that way unless we find out otherwise. Jemal Raman's a big enough headache!”

When they reached their house, the Hardys decided to phone the airship crewman who called himself Hector Maris and give him a chance to explain why the photograph on his college application differed so drastically from his appearance.

“Of course it's still possible there are two Hector Marises,” Joe mused.

Frank shook his head. “No chance. I took a good look at the data on his college application. It matched the Quinn Air Fleet personnel data all the way.”