The Sting of the Scorpion (5 page)

“Any suspicions as to who that someone might be?”

Quinn shook his head. “Not really. But there are only two possibilities. Either a member of the crew was paid to do it, probably by this terrorist gang, or the grenades were tossed out by one of the passengers.”

“How could a passenger throw something outside?”

“Through an emergency hatch. There are a number of them in the gondola. The
Queen's
not pressurized like a jetliner, you see. It cruises at much lower altitudes. In fact, it can drop down to rooftop height for sightseeing. That's one of the beauties of airship flight.”

“What about the engine noise?” Joe put in. “It seemed a lot louder than usual.”

Quinn smiled wryly. “It sure was. Normally she's as silent as a sky ghost. But some of the muffling came loose.”

“Accidentally?”

“I'd be inclined to say yes if it hadn't happened just before those grenades went off. Under the circumstances, the answer may be sabotage.”

Frank said, “Which would point to a crewman, right?”

“Right,” Quinn agreed, with a troubled look.

“It fits in too neatly to be an accident,” Joe pointed out. “First, the engine noise attracts people's attention and makes them look up at the sky, the way Frank and I did. Then they see and hear the grenade explosions.”

“And the elephant falls out,” Frank added. “Any idea how that stunt was pulled?”

“Not a hint,” Quinn said, getting up from his desk to pace about angrily. “But the whole thing was fiendishly clever. It was purposely planned to give my air service a black eye and remind everyone of the
Hindenburg
disaster!”

Both Hardys had read about the fiery explosion of the famous German dirigible at Lakehurst, New Jersey, in 1937.

“That couldn't happen to the
Safari
Queen, could it?” Joe asked.

“Of course not. It wouldn't have happened to the
Hindenburg
if we'd let them have American helium gas, as they requested. We didn't, so they had to use highly flammable hydrogen. And even at that, what happened was no accident. More likely that, too, was caused by sabotage. But anyhow, the
Queen's
filled with helium, which can't burn. Most people don't realize it, but a helium-filled rigid airship is actually the safest method of air travel known to man.”

“You really think dirigibles are coming back, sir?” Frank inquired.

“They're bound to,” Quinn declared. “Not just because I'm a believer—the facts dictate it. Planes depend on airports, ships depend on seaports, and trucks depend on highways, but airships can haul anything anywhere, and do it cheaply, quickly, and safely.”

“What about helicopters?” Joe questioned.

“Too costly and inefficient to operate, even if they were built big enough for real freighting. By comparison, the
Queen
can haul three hundred tons in a single trip, profitably.” Quinn broke off with a boyish grin. “But don't get me started on all that. You're talking to a lighter-than-air enthusiast!”

He glanced proudly out the big picture window of his office at the
Safari Queen,
the first airship on the Quinn Air Fleet.

“Look at her. Isn't she beautiful? How would you fellows like to go aboard?”

“We'd love to!” the Hardys exclaimed.

In the elevator Frank asked, “By the way, were any of the African animals you were transporting here for Wild World harmed?”

“Not at all. They've all been inspected and safely trucked to the animal park.”

The mooring tower was built with a projecting ramp, somewhat like the lip of a pouring spout. The nose of the dirigible rested atop this ramp, from which an extended walkway and conveyor led directly into the gondola, the cabin structure underneath the airship.

Quinn told the boys the
Safari Queen
was 600 feet long and could cruise at 150 miles per hour. It was powered by four turbines, which drove the main rotor and the blowers for the steering and hovering jets.

Frank and Joe were surprised by the spacious accommodations, which extended above the gondola well up into the main structure. The inside of the airship was not simply hollow and filled with gas, but divided into separate cells so that a sudden disastrous leak would be impossible.

As they went through the engine compartment, Joe noticed a young crewman who was eyeing them furtively. Without saying anything to the others, Joe snapped the fellow's picture with his miniature pocket camera, which he had brought along to photograph any clues that they might discover.

The aerial bridge, or flight deck, was a marvel of neatly arranged dials and control consoles.

“The ship can be flown from here to Africa entirely by autopilot,” Quinn explained. “And the steering jets are computer-controlled to help counteract any crosswinds that might affect our course or stability.”

The boys were thrilled at the view from the dirigible's wide cabin windows. “Sure gives you a lot better outlook than those peepholes on air-liners!” Joe remarked.

Quinn smiled. “You bet they do! There's no finer sightseeing in the world than the view a traveler can enjoy on an airship voyage. And the Germans proved long ago that such trips can take place between continents on regular schedules, with no serious weather problems.”

After showing the boys the
Safari Queen,
Quinn took them to his assembly plant, where a second dirigible, the
Arctic Queen,
was under construction.

“Where will this one fly?” Frank asked.

“To northwestern Canada, hauling supplies for a three-year pipeline project.” Quinn's face darkened as he added, “That is, if what happened this morning doesn't cause the pipeline company to cancel our contract.”

“You think they might, sir?”

“Who knows? Those explosions could arouse their fears about airship safety.”

“Have you had any trouble before this?” Joe asked.

“Yes, two or three sabotage incidents.”

Frank said, “Do you suspect anyone?”

Lloyd Quinn frowned and hesitated before replying. “Don't get me wrong. I'm not making accusations. But the only possible enemy I can think of is a man named Basil Embrow. My former partner.”

“The two of you broke up?”

“We had to,” Quinn replied. “We were having too many violent disagreements, so I went ahead and formed this dirigible company on my own. Embrow may bear me a grudge.”

After asking for and obtaining computer printout data on the crew and passengers aboard the
Queen's
morning flight, the Hardys returned home.

Their mother informed them that they had received a phone call from Eustace Jarman, a well-known New York industrialist and head of a large corporation called Jarman Ventures.

“What did he want, Mom?”

“Actually, it was his secretary who called. She didn't say what it was about, but left this number. She wants you to call back.”

Frank dialed the number, only to learn that Jarman was out. His secretary asked if the boys would be willing to come to New York City and talk to him. An appointment was set up for eleven thirty the next morning.

Afterward, Frank phoned Mr. Hardy's ace operative, Sam Radley, and asked him to trace Quinn's ex-partner. Frank also read him the names and other data on the twelve passengers who had arrived in Bayport that morning from Africa aboard the
Safari Queen.
All of them were foreigners.

“Would you please find out if the FBI has anything on any of them?” Frank asked.

“Will do,” Sam promised and rang off.

Meanwhile, Joe had developed and enlarged his photograph of the crewman. He had no special distinguishing features, except for a mole near his left eye. A check of their father's crime files revealed no data on him or any other member of the crew.

“Looks as if we're up against a blank wall.” Joe sighed.

“For the moment, anyhow,” Frank agreed.

The boys now set to work on the code message they had found in the envelope hidden in the hollow tree at Wild World. It read:

“There are quite a few X's,” Joe mused. “Those could stand for spaces between words.”

“Right,” Frank said. “If you'll notice, there are exactly eight letters in each group—so those groups almost certainly don't stand for individual words as the message is now laid out. Hm, let's see.”

A lengthy silence followed while the boys racked their brains for a possible key. Each tried various transposition and substitution ciphers without success.

“Wait a second!” Frank exclaimed suddenly. “There are nine groups and eight letters in each group, which adds up to seventy-two.”

“Hey, I get it!” Joe said. “You mean this may be one of those ‘twisted path' ciphers, laid out in a square.”

“Right.”

The boys tried arranging the letters horizontally.

“That's it!” Frank exulted.

 

 

 

 

WITH the nine groups of letters laid out in rows, side by side, the Hardys had the following box:

“In this case, it's not really a ‘twisted path' cipher at all,” Frank said. “Just a straight-line path.”

“Check.” Joe agreed. “Follow each line straight across from left to right, one after another, with the X's representing the spaces between words. Let's see what that gives us.”

The deciphered message read:

The brothers looked at each other, and Joe whistled. “Settle with Hardys!” he read aloud. “That sounds like trouble!”

“It sure does,” said Frank, frowning uneasily. “Seems as if enemies of ours are arranging a meeting to plot how to get even with us.”

“Or get rid of us!”

“Right. The place will be Horseshoe Cove on the north shore of Rocky Isle, at five A.M. Tuesday—tomorrow morning.”

“And the ones holding the meeting,” Joe added, “could be this Scorpio gang that Dad's after.”

Frank looked puzzled. “But that would go against Dad's theory. Remember, he suggested that it might be the Scorpion himself who sent us the park map in the mail—hoping one of us would get stung when we checked the hollow tree!”

“Yes. I'd forgotten that,” Joe said, scratching his head. “But that doesn't add up either, Frank. Why would the Scorpion warn us about a plot by our enemies?”

“Maybe the warning's a phony. I mean this code message may be just a trick to lure us into a trap.”

“In other words, if that scorpion in the tree didn't sting at least one of us, the gang would still get us when we go over to the island tomorrow morning to spy on their meeting.”

“Right,” Frank nodded. “But I think we should check out this information in the message, Joe, phony or otherwise. Only let's not wait till tomorrow morning. Let's go right after dark and keep watch tonight so they don't get a chance to set up a trap.”

“Smart idea. And we'll take a couple of the fellows with us for extra muscle, just in case.”

The boys hopped in their car and drove to the construction project, where they found Tony Prito jockeying a wheelbarrow full of cement. Tony, a dark-haired youth who had taken part in many of the Hardy Boys' mystery cases, readily agreed to accompany them to Rocky Isle.

“And how about taking your boat instead of the
Sleuth?”
Frank added, referring to the Hardys' own motorboat. “If this tip-off in the code message is a trick, the gang may be keeping watch on our boathouse to see if we take the bait.”

“Smart thinking, Frank. The
Napoli's
all set for a run. I topped up her tank this morning.”

From the construction site, the boys drove to the Morton farm on the outskirts of town. They found Chet's slim, pixy-faced sister, Iola, curled up on the front-porch swing, reading a book.

“Hi, Iola,” said Joe, who rated her the cutest girl at Bayport High School. “Where's Chet?”

“Out in that patch of woods behind the barn.” She smiled. “He's busy on a new project.”

“What now?” Frank asked. “Training squirrels to gather nuts?”

Though he avoided most forms of exertion, Chet developed a new hobby every few weeks. He would work at it furiously till the first flush of enthusiasm wore off, or an obstacle arose that threatened to require too much effort to overcome.