The Sting of the Scorpion (8 page)

The boys finally walked on as the dirigible sailed southeast toward Brooklyn and Long Island. At the Jarman building, they took the elevator to the industrialist's penthouse office. A smiling, beautifully dressed secretary ushered them in.

Jarman was a tall, intense-looking man with long dark hair and a hawklike profile—the perfect picture of a hard-driving business executive. He got up from behind his huge modem desk to shake hands with Frank and Joe.

“Glad you fellows could come. I'm sorry I was out when you returned my call yesterday.”

“What was it you wanted to see us about, Mr. Jarman?” Frank asked when they were all seated.

“My security department's been in touch with the FBI about the activities of those confounded terrorists, the Scorpio gang,” Jarman explained. “I gather you Hardys are working on the case.”

“Dad is, sir. We're helping unofficially,” Frank replied.

“That's good enough for me. From what I've heard about you two, your ‘unofficial help' is often mighty effective.”

“Did you want us to investigate something, Mr. Jarman?” Joe inquired.

“Yes,” the businessman said emphatically. “If you're not already working full time to run down those terrorists, I'll pay you to do so.”

“Thank you, sir, but there's no need for that,” said Frank. “In fact, I doubt if it would be right for us to accept such an assignment from you, since Dad's already in charge of the case. But, as I say, we're working with him, and Joe and I intend to do all we can to help catch the Scorpio gang. May I ask what your interest is in the case?”

“Jarman Ventures is a vast corporation. We do business in many fields, and we've already had several brushes with terrorists. But that's not all.” Jarman clipped off the end of a long cigar, lit it, and eyed the boys with a thoughtful frown as he blew out a cloud of smoke. “I'm sure any thing I tell you will be kept confidential.”

Frank and Joe nodded. “Of course.”

“The fact is, Jarman Ventures is moving into the lighter-than-air field.”

“You're building a dirigible yourself?” Joe asked with keen interest.

The businessman nodded. “My aircraft division has already laid the keel of one even larger than Quinn's. It'll be called the Globe Girdler to indicate its worldwide flight range. So naturally I'm pretty angry over what happened yesterday.”

“You mean,” Frank said, “the bad publicity?”

“Exactly. Anything harmful to
his
dirigible is bound to affect my project, too. That's why I want to do anything I can to help nab these filthy terrorists. And that's why I contacted you two.”

“Believe me, sir,” Frank declared, “we're as anxious to round up the Scorpio gang as you are. And we'll be happy to follow up any leads you can provide.”

“Good. Then I'll instruct my security department to pass along any clues they uncover.”

“What got you interested in the lighter-than-air field, Mr. Jarman?” Joe inquired.

“The tremendous future I see for it. Matter of fact, we've been building blimps, which are non-rigid airships, for several years.”

The Hardys exchanged surprised grins.

“Those little ones we saw this morning wouldn't be yours by any chance, would they?” Joe inquired.

“You bet they would!” Eustace Jarman replied with a pleased smile. “I keep them berthed right here on the roof of this skyscraper.”

He got up from his desk again and strolled across the room to gaze out the huge floor-to-ceiling window of his penthouse office.

“Here they come now!” he said.

Frank and Joe both joined the industrialist. Looking east, they could see the two little craft over Manhattan.

“I got the idea of sending them up on the spur of the moment, when the
Safari Queen
appeared over New York,” Jarman related proudly. “Then I had my public-relations department phone all the news agencies and TV networks.”

“It made a terrific spectacle,” Frank said, genuinely impressed.

“I knew it would,” the tycoon boasted. “Unless I miss my guess, that scene will show up in news photos clear across the country. I expect it to generate as much publicity as those dirigible explosions yesterday morning.”

Jarman glanced at his watch, and the boys got the impression they were politely being dismissed. “I wish I could have lunch with you fellows, but I'm booked with some European manufacturers. You'll have to excuse me. This is a high-pressure schedule I work under.”

He strode to his desk and picked up a pen. “Let me write you a check, though, to cover your time in coming here today.”

When the Hardys declined, Jarman promised to take them for a ride personally in one of his baby blimps on Thursday, and asked them to meet him at Bayport Airport at noon.

“We'll really enjoy that, Mr. Jarman,” Frank said, shaking hands.

After leaving the tycoon's office, the Hardys went down to the lobby.

“There are phone booths up ahead.” Joe pointed. “Maybe we ought to call home and see if anything's happened.”

“Good idea. I hope they've heard from Dad!” Frank found enough coins in his pocket to cover the call and dialed the Hardys' area code and home number. After depositing the amount of money requested by the operator, he was put through.

Aunt Gertrude's voice came on the line. “Hardy residence,” she said crisply.

“This is Frank, Aunt Gertrude. We're still in New York.”

“Well, make it brief. These long-distance calls cost money!”

“You're telling me.” Frank grinned as he looked at his depleted stock of coins. “We just wanted to find out if anything has come up while we were gone.”

“Yes. You had a call from Sam Radley. It sounded important. He wants you boys to phone him right away!”

 

 

 

 

“OKAY, Aunt Gertrude, I'll ring Sam as soon as I hang up.” Frank hesitated uneasily before adding, “No word yet from Dad, I suppose?”

“No, indeed—we've heard nothing so far.” Miss Hardy's voice reflected her own anxiety. Then she reverted to her usual tart tone, like a top sergeant bracing up recruits. “But I don't want you boys to worry about him. Do you understand? Just mind your own p's and q's, especially in a city as big as New York. The streets are dangerous these days, from all I hear. As for Fenton, he can take care of himself!”

“Thanks, Aunty, we'll bear that in mind,” Frank said, comforted in spite of himself by her brisk, no-nonsense manner. “Tell Mother we'll be home soon. ‘Bye now.”

He replaced the receiver in its cradle and shook his head in response to Joe's questioning glance. “She says they haven't heard from Dad. But we're to call Sam Radley, which means I'd better get some more coins.”

After breaking a bill at a drugstore news counter, just off the lobby, Frank returned to the phone with his brother and rang his father's long-time operative.

“Hi, Sam. This is Frank,” he said when the detective answered. “Aunt Gertrude gave us your message. Got something for us?”

“Sure have,” Radley replied. “I've traced Quinn's ex-partner, Basil Embrow.”

“Nice going. What's the scoop?”

“He's now running a business called Embrow Exports in Manhattan. I figured you two might want to check him out while you were there.”

“Right. We'll do that. What's the address?”

The operative read it over the phone and Frank copied it down. “Thanks a lot, Sam,” he said and hung up.

“Lower Manhattan,” Joe noted, glancing at what Frank had written. “We can take the subway.”

Leaving the building, the boys were thrilled to see the two baby blimps directly overhead. The minicraft were just about to settle into their berths on the penthouse deck, high atop the skyscraper.

“Boy, I can hardly wait to ride in one of those things,” Joe said eagerly.

“Right. They're tubby little cigars, but they do look like fun.”

The Hardys took a subway train downtown. Embrow Exports occupied a tenth-floor suite of offices in a dingy area, but the firm looked busy and prosperous.

“I'm not sure Mr. Embrow can see you,” a receptionist told the boys. “Have you an appointment?”

“No, but give him this, please,” Frank said. He wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to the young woman, who excused herself and took the message to her employer.

Joe shot his brother a quizzical glance. “What did you write?” he asked in a low voice.

“Just ‘Quinn Air Fleet.' Let's see if it works.”

Apparently it did. The receptionist soon returned and said that Mr. Embrow would see them.

The businessman wore a puzzled frown as the boys were ushered into his office. “What's this supposed to mean?” he asked, flicking his finger. nail at the paper.

“Nothing in particular. It's the only thing I could think of that might get us an interview,” Frank replied.

Embrow, a balding, raw-boned man, responded with a smile to Frank's boyish grin. “Fair enough. At least you're honest. Sit down and tell me what I can do for you. Am I mistaken in thinking you two are the sons of that famous detective?”

“No, sir, you guessed right,” Joe replied. “Fenton Hardy's our father. In fact that's why we're here. We're helping him on one of his cases.”

“Indeed? What sort of case?”

“It has to do with those dirigible explosions yesterday morning,” Frank replied.

Embrow sighed, nodded, and settled back in his chair. “I see. I thought there might be some connection.” He rolled a pencil back and forth between his palms for a moment and frowned. “Well, what would you like to know? Do I take it I'm under suspicion?”

“Why should you think that?” Frank inquired.

“Look! Let's not play games. I'm sure you've found out by this time that I used to be Lloyd Quinn's partner and that we broke up after a quarrel. Why else would you be here?”

“Naturally we have to check out every angle,” Frank said.

“Sure, I understand that. But if you think I had anything to do with those explosions, you're barking up the wrong tree.”

“Any comment you'd care to make about the case, Mr. Embrow?”

“Just one. No. Make that two. First, I hope you Hardys catch whoever's responsible. And second, I wish Lloyd Quinn nothing but good luck.” Embrow grinned at the boys' wary expressions and added, “Does that surprise you?”

Joe grinned back. “Well, it's not exactly the sort of attitude we were led to expect.”

“I can imagine. Lloyd and I are both hot-tempered guys. We went at it hammer and tongs before we busted up. But that's water over the dam. I've got too much going for me right here to waste any time harboring grudges.”

“How did you two meet?” Joe asked curiously.

“We served in the Navy together,” Embrow replied. “In blimps, on Atlantic-patrol duty. That's what got us interested in dirigibles. We both made up our minds that someday we'd go into the field commercially.”

“Do you regret leaving?”

“Frankly, sometimes I do. It's an exciting field with a great future. On the other hand, my export business has been highly successful, and I must say, I don't envy Lloyd any of his present headaches.”

Joe nodded at a framed desk photograph that Embrow had been toying with as he spoke. It showed a youth in an academic cap and gown. “Is that your son?”

“Yup, it's his high-school graduation picture.” Basil Embrow smiled proudly. “Quite a lad if I do say so, though I don't see much of him these days.” He moved the photograph aside with a brisk back-to-business gesture and said, “Well, is there anything else I can tell you fellows?”

“No, sir. You've answered all our questions,” Frank replied, rising. “We appreciate your frankness.”

“And thanks for your time,” Joe added.

The boys shook hands with Embrow and left. Outside the building, they headed back to the subway entrance, a couple of blocks away.

“What do you think?” Joe asked his brother.

Frank shrugged. “Hard to say, but he seems a decent enough guy.”

“I agree. He's not my idea of a sneaky saboteur.”

“By the way, why did you ask him about that high-school picture?”

Joe's eyes twinkled. “Don't tell me you didn't spot it?”

“Spot what?”