The Sting of the Scorpion (4 page)

Kassim had reacted vindictively, cursing both Carter and Sinbad and vowing revenge.

“Said he was going to call down a Djinn or evil spirit to haunt us,” Pop went on. “I paid no attention, of course, and Sinbad was a good elephant from then on. Behaved docilely at all times, up until a week or so ago, that is.”

“Then what happened?” Frank asked.

“One night he started acting up again, trumpeting like all get-out. I live here, you see, and I could hear him, so I jumped out of bed and went to see what was wrong.”

“What did you find?” Joe asked the elderly man.

“Nothing. Couldn't make out a thing, except —well, a dark shape soaring up and away through the trees.”

“You don't mean one of those evil spirits that Kassim called down?” Frank inquired, half joking.

Pop Carter shrugged and looked at the Hardys with a sheepish grin. “I still don't know what to make of it. Maybe you two can solve the mystery.”

 

 

 

 

THE boys were mystified by the park owner's story.

Pop Carter scratched his balding head and gave another helpless shrug. “Anyway, now Sinbad's thrown another tantrum. If it happens again, I may have to get rid of him,” Pop added unhappily.

“Could those dirigible explosions this morning have upset him?” Joe suggested.

“I reckon it's possible. They were certainly loud enough around here. In fact, the airship was practically right over the park when it happened.”

“Or maybe that bearded photographer reminded Sinbad of Kassim Bey,” Frank put in.

“That's what I wondered at first,” Pop admitted.

“Hey!” Joe snapped his fingers in sudden excitement. “Maybe that guy
was
Kassim Beyl”

Pop seemed momentarily startled by this idea. “What did this fellow you saw look like?” he inquired.

“Well, he had bushy black whiskers and a twirled-up handlebar mustache,” Joe replied. “A big man, I think, although we never saw him out of his car.”

The park owner shook his head thoughtfully. “Nope. Doesn't sound like Kassim. He had a slick black mustache that curved down on each side of his mouth and joined a neat little black chin beard. Above the mustache, he was clean-shaven.”

Pop puffed on his pipe for a moment, then added with a sigh, as if annoyed at himself for taking the idea seriously, “Anyhow, it's impossible. I heard Kassim was killed in an accident after he left the circus.”

From his worried expression, it seemed obvious to the Hardys and their friends that Mr. Carter had more on his mind than the elephant's misbehavior. The boys watched him as he moved away from his desk and stared out the window for a moment.

“Wild World seems to be quite a success,” Frank remarked, breaking the silence. “Do you enjoy running an animal park more than a circus?”

“I love it,” Pop said, turning back toward the visitors. “Put my life savings into this place. But now I'm wondering if I made a mistake.”

“How come, sir?”

“Well, I opened the park in April, and I had Sinbad and his two mates brought here in May. Since then, it seems I've had nothing but trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?” Chet inquired.

“First, someone tried to break into the park one night. The fence is wired, you see, so that set off an alarm. Upset all the animals and almost caused the giraffes and zebras to stampede. Terrible time we had getting 'em calmed down again. Then, later on, when the weather got warm, someone threw a stink bomb in the park on a real hot, crowded day. You can imagine what a commotion that caused!”

“I'll bet,” Joe said sympathetically.

“Next, somebody started a rumor that the animals were rabid and might be dangerous to visitors.”

“Hey, that's right. I remember hearing that,” said Phil. “Did it lose you much business?”

“Sure did. Attendance fell way off for the next few days till I managed to get a full denial in the newspapers, and a clean bill of health from the State Wildlife Bureau.” Pop spread his hands. “Why go on? It's been one thing after another. Sometimes I wonder if I wouldn't be smarter to sell out.”

Frank's eyes narrowed with interest. “Has anyone made you an offer?”

“Sure. Matter of fact, two parties keep after me to sell.”

“Mind telling us who they are?”

“One of them is Arthur Bixby. He owns several animal parks in other parts of the country, and now he wants to open one around here.”

“Who's the other one?” Biff asked.

“Manager of a real-estate firm—fellow named Bohm. Clyde Bohm. Wants to develop this land around here as an industrial site, or some such.”

Frank said, “Do you think one of them might be making trouble for you on purpose, trying to pressure you into selling out?”

Pop Carter tapped out the ashes from his pipe. “I won't say the idea hasn't crossed my mind. ‘Course I can't prove anything. As far as facts are concerned, the whole thing's still a mystery.”

“Joe and I will look into it,” Frank promised.

“I'll sure appreciate it if you turn up anything.”

Before the boys left his office, the elderly park owner insisted on giving them free passes to all the amusement rides.

Chet was ecstatic. “Wow! What a break! Let's try everything!”

His enthusiasm cooled, however, by the time they had sampled the first five. In fact, he appeared slightly green around the gills and decided to wait on a bench while his friends boarded the Ferris wheel.

Frank and Joe strapped themselves into one seat, with Biff and Phil facing them in the other. Presently the wheel began to turn.

“Wow! What a view!” Joe gasped. From the top of the wheel they could see not only the whole Wild World layout but most of Barmet Bay, with Rocky Isle clearly visible far out from shore.

“Know who invented the Ferris wheel?” Frank asked.

Biff grinned. “That's easy. A guy named Ferris.”

“Wrong. It was William Somers, who built one in Atlantic City. Ferris copied it for an exposition in Chicago in 1893 and got all the credit.”

To the boys' surprise, the wheel squeaked to a halt as their car reached the top for the third time.

“Something must be stuck,” Phil said apprehensively.

Anxious minutes passed before the operator cupped his hands and shouted up that the drive mechanism had temporarily jammed but was now being fixed.

“Another headache for Pop Carter,” Frank muttered.

The wheel soon began to revolve again, but the experience of being stranded helplessly in midair had been unnerving. Afterward, Biff and Phil went off in Chet's jalopy with a parting wave, while the Hardys drove home in their own car.

“Hmph! Late for lunch again,” Aunt Gertrude observed as they entered the kitchen.

“We got hung up.” Frank grinned.

The tall, angular woman was about to retort sharply when Joe added, “On a Ferris wheel.”

“My stars! What happened?”

The boys described the amusement park mishap.

“Sounds suspicious, if you ask me,” Miss Hardy commented. “If I'd been there, I'd have questioned the operator.”

“We did,” Frank told her. “He claimed it was just an accident, and that no one who doesn't work at the park had had any chance to tinker with the mechanism. We think he was telling the truth.”

Their aunt eyed the boys shrewdly. “Are you two working on a new case?”

The boys winked at each other and nodded with a smile, well aware they had no chance of evading her cross-questioning. Besides, although Miss Hardy would never have admitted it, they knew what a thrill she got out of their detective work. They, in turn, enjoyed hearing their aunt's opinions, which more than once had given them a new angle on a mystery.

Over ham sandwiches and milk, followed by juicy wedges of apple pie, they told her about the anonymous letter and map that had led them to Wild World and the hollow tree incident. Miss Hardy was incensed when she heard how Frank and Joe had been waylaid in the woods when they first arrived at the animal park.

“I'd have taken a stick to those scoundrels!” she declared.

“I'll bet you would have,” Frank said.

Just then the telephone rang, and he glanced at his watch. “One-thirty on the nose. That must be Dad!”

Both boys jumped up from the table. Frank hurried to the living-room phone, while Joe answered on the kitchen extension. Sure enough, it was their father, calling from St. Louis.

“What's up, Dad?” Frank inquired after switching on a scrambler to insure secrecy for their conversation. This synchronized with a portable device Fenton Hardy used whenever circumstances permitted.

The sleuth explained that he had been hired by the government to help round up a band of political terrorists known as the Scorpio gang.

“I've heard about them in the news!” said Joe. “They go in for bombings, don't they?”

“Among other things,” Mr. Hardy replied drily. “But bombs are by no means their only weapons. They'll use any form of terror to hurt American companies or individuals they don't like.” The gang's leader, he went on, was code-named the Scorpion.

“So that's what you meant by that warning in your radio message!” Frank exclaimed.

“Right, son. He knows I've been assigned to crack his gang, so he may well try to strike back at my family. I want you two to be on guard at all times.”

“We will, Dad!” the boys promised.

Mr. Hardy related how he had zeroed in on the gang's hideout in New York City more than a month ago, and had tipped off the FBI only to have the group escape moments before the police closed in. Since then he had been following up fresh leads in other parts of the country.

He was keenly interested when the boys told him of their morning adventures.

“I'd say there's no doubt the Scorpion himself was responsible for that park map you received in the mail,” Fenton Hardy declared. “What's more, I believe the Quinn Air Fleet has been chosen as the gang's next target.”

The owner of the airship service, Lloyd Quinn, he went on, had already received threatening messages. The messages called Quinn an imperialist tool and accused him of using the Safari Queen to help loot the resources of new African countries.

Mr. Hardy said he himself had been informed by the FBI about the dirigible explosions that morning, within minutes after they occurred.

“That's why I radioed you boys. I believe those explosions may be only the first move in the gang's war of nerves against Quinn. Now then, I'd like you to go out to the air terminal and talk to him. Scout for clues. You may be able to—”

The detective's voice broke off with a sudden gasp. “Hold it, sons! I think I'm being—”

Again his voice halted. The boys heard confused sounds, then a loud report.

Next moment the line went dead!

 

 

 

 

“DAD! Dad!” Frank cried, jiggling the hook frantically. It was useless. The only response was a dial tone.

Hanging up, Frank went glumly back to the kitchen, where Joe greeted him with a worried look.

Noting their expressions, Aunt Gertrude demanded sharply, “What's going on? Is something wrong with your father?”

“He broke off the conversation suddenly, Aunty,” Frank admitted, “but that doesn't mean he's in trouble.”

Miss Hardy started to retort, then pursed her lips. “Hmph. Perhaps you're right. We'd better not alarm your mother.”

Frank phoned the Quinn Air Fleet terminal and asked to speak to the head of the company, Mr. Lloyd Quinn. When he explained why he was calling, he was put through immediately.

Lloyd Quinn listened to Frank's opening remarks, then said, “The FBI told me about your father's investigation of the Scorpio gang, so I'll be happy to talk to you and your brother. If you can do anything to clear up this problem, believe me, I'll cooperate in every way possible.”

“Could we see you this afternoon?” Frank asked.

“Any time. The sooner the better, as far as I'm concerned.”

“Good. We'll be right over.”

The terminal was a vast, sprawling complex of buildings, which included both an assembly plant and spacious maintenance hangars. It was also, in effect, an international airport. There was a reception building for passengers, with customs and immigration personnel to deal with incoming flights.

Dominating the whole scene was the mooring tower, with the huge, silvery, cigar-shaped
Safari Queen
floating majestically in full view.

“Boy, what a sight!” Joe exclaimed as they drove through the gate. “I wonder when the next airship in the fleet will be ready for its maiden voyage?”

“In a month or two, I think,” said Frank.

Lloyd Quinn's office was in the reception building. After announcing themselves, the boys were whisked up by a private elevator and ushered in to see him. Quinn, a stocky, broad-shouldered man in shirt-sleeves, with a pug nose and a friendly grin, shook hands with the Hardys and invited them to sit down. His dress and manners were as plain as his office.

“What would you like to know, fellows?” he said, coming straight to the point.

“For one thing,” Frank said, “have you any idea what caused those explosions this morning?”

“Grenades. Not much doubt about that. Someone aboard the
Safari Queen
dropped them just as she was arriving over Bayport.”