Tom Swift and His Aquatomic Tracker (13 page)

"Jake-o, dunnit sound a bit artisticious? The yellin’? Recorded-like?"

"A possibility well worth the thinking. Let us confirm our suspection by viewing the evidence."

They worked their way through the dimness among the stacked goods and big crates. Swithins abruptly halted and drew his companion back. "There now, look there. That new bloke, wif the abnormal namenclature, wot?"

"Greek, wudden ’e?" whispered Bill. "Or Italian. No, Japanese. Funny name. Whut was it?"

"Ah!—Frenbo. Orbison Frenbo. Bet me life."

"That’s wh’r it’s coming from, all right. Lookit ’im fiddlin’ around."

The piercing sounds were issuing from Frenbo’s vicinity—no doubt from the small, shiny object in his hand that he was fumbling with with increasing desperation, eyes darting about.

"I know what that thing is," opined Bill Frobisher. "My little ones want ’em. Bit-small tellyphones you carry around and stick in yer ear."

Swithins threw him a disgusted look. "Mate, just how many eyes do you have in your head? Count ’em—I’ll wait. Now. Ditcha come up with
two
, m’haps?
Then kindly use those two at the same time, eh
! What he has is not a cellulite phone. It is most surely a wristwatch!"

"So t’is!—Jake-o, if he took it from a child, the poor urch may still be around here, someplace. Cor!—could be one of them adducements!"

"Then," stated Jake Swithins, "let us take prompt action. Given these facts and likelihoods."

They strode into the open and boldly approached Frenbo, who shrank back. "Whot’s wif all this racky, eh, Mr. Frenbo? Wotchoo got there?"

"Nuffin! New watch."

"And might it be the current style to have a watch that shrieks out for help in the voice of a smidgen child?"

"You just mind yer own, Swith."

Jake and Bill parted and stood on each side of the luckless Frenbo. Then they surged forward as one and grabbed him. Frenbo gulped, but put up little fight. "You let me go! I’ll have you both up fer assault on a fellow laborer!"

"What you’ll
have
," replied Swithins contemptuously, "is a seat in Mr. Kranhold’s office, and a nicely locked door. And keep yer bleedin’ hands off th’ phone!—costs money."

Minutes later, the phone rang in Inspector Raeburn’s office. He snatched it up and spoke with the caller in serious, guarded tones. Sandy, Bud, Bashalli, and Chow Winkler waited breathlessly for his report.

The Chief Inspector hung up. "Your plan worked, Miss Swift!" reported Raeburn very soberly.

"Oh, thank heavens!" Sandy almost burst into tears of relief.

"But—he is—alive?" asked Bash fearfully.

BASHALLI’S question hung in the air.

Chow snorted. "Aw, now, course he is! Tom Swift is always alive!" But he turned a big-eyed gaze toward Raeburn.

"Correct," smiled the Chief Inspector. "He was found in the purloined crate in a Thames warehouse, unconscious—apparently drugged. An ambulance is on the way. I’ll have one of our drivers take you to the hospital."

Bud asked if the details of the attempted kidnapping were known. "Perhaps a few," replied Raeburn. "The man with the watch—you might encourage your friend to reset the default, by the way—led my men to the crate, hidden among others. The workers looked up the orders and shipping instructions. The crate was to be sent to a Jean Forgeron in Calais, France, aboard a small freight vessel due to dock in the Pool of London this evening. Its contents were declared to be Oriental rugs, and the sender was, let me see, the Mustafa Carpet Company, London address. Yet such a firm is not listed in any directory."

"Oh, one thing," said Sergeant Vaughn as they made ready to leave for the hospital. "That watch device—my men are asking... how
does
one switch it off? Rather an annoyance."

Bud reddened. "I—er—never learned how."

"Pity."

Half an hour later, while the police took a statement from Tom, the four were talking to a pleasant young doctor who had just finished examining the youth.

"He definitely was drugged," the doctor told them, "but his respiration is normal, and he seems in good shape, so we’ll let him sleep it off. He may awaken any time. By tomorrow he should be right as rain."

Inspector Raeburn spoke to the Shoptonians before he left. The inspector turned to Sandy. "Good thing you thought of that signal business, Miss Swift, and that we secured the cooperation of London’s cellphone relay-transmission system so quickly. The tower broadcasts were the thing, mm? The crate would have been loaded aboard ship this evening. By midnight she’d have been out of the Thames, bound for Calais.

"All’s well ends well. This fellow Frenbo—a Scotsman—thick file of criminality, always up for hire by whoever wants to use him. Naturally we’ll investigate and backtrack. And if you ever decide on a career as a policewoman, Miss Swift, I hope you’ll apply to Scotland Yard first."

Sandy dimpled. "Thank you. I might do that."

"Any clues to the real shipper?" Bud asked.

"Not yet. The name given was false." The inspector shot Bud a shrewd glance. "Do you know of anyone with a grudge against Tom Swift?"

"Perhaps a
few
," answered Bashalli sarcastically.

The four rushed to Tom’s bedside, and were delighted to find him sitting up and grinning, blue eyes clear.

"You got good color!" declared Chow. "An’ I know color!"

Tom laughed. "You sure do, pardner."

"Tell us what happened, Tom," Bud begged. Tom recounted how the man in the gas mask had knocked him out. "The doctor told me he used a chemical that people with certain medical conditions carry with them in a little squeeze bottle, like people with asthma do. It lowers blood pressure—and in concentrated form it lowered mine through the floor! After that, I really don’t know anything."

"But it’s all obvious," said Sandy. "The man hid in the crate, locking it in a way that only he could open, from inside. He probably drilled a few little holes in it—peepholes, and also to let in air."

"I think you’re right, sis. He may have learned of the planned delivery from a museum employee," Tom commented. "Whoever our enemies are, they probably were following us that day as we walked around."

"In other words, he breaks in and subsitutes himself for the dummy, in the crate," Sandy continued. "And someone fakes a call, changing the delivery to the hotel. Real employees deliver the box to your suite, knowing that you’ll call the same company to move it to the plane."

"With phonies showing up—to take me on an unwanted trip to Calais!" The young inventor rubbed his chin. "They may have intended for me to suffocate along the way. Or it may have been a kidnapping for keep. In any event, the whole ploy was designed to get the gas guy into our suite past security—and to get my body out again."

Bud asked if Tom would be able to recognize the "gas guy" if he were to pop up. "I don’t know, flyboy. His build was pretty ordinary, and the gas mask made a good disguise. His voice was muffled. All I noticed was that he was bald."

"Not much use t’ that," Chow declared, unconsciously touching his own hairless dome. "
Lots
o’ good folks are bald. And a few bad ones!"

The next morning, after a last grateful word with Chief-Inspector Raeburn, the mammoth
Sky Queen
lifted into the stratosphere and headed across the channel for Paris.

There were no misadventures during the first two days in the City of Lights. Everyone, including Chow, managed to relax, sightsee, and shop. Sandy’s appearance at the aircraft convention was over in a matter of hours. "I charmed them," she reported.

"All those elderly men? All those engineers with their protected pockets?" teased Bashalli.

"I was referring to the handsome young pilots," retorted Tom’s sister.

"They may be handsome," Bud stated, "but I’m faster on the quip."

Tom frequently called Shopton on the Private Ear Radio.

"Thurston doesn’t seem to have a clue," declared Harlan Ames, "and I mean that literally. But I’ve been talking to Raeburn and some contacts in MI6."

"Anything meaty?"

"Maybe. The second of the thugs-for-hire has been apprehended, in Dover. He won’t talk, but his movements have been traced. It seems just before the kidnap attempt he purchased airline tickets for a flight to Spain—on behalf of a certain Jean Forgeron!"

"Who probably is the mastermind of the kidnapping—the man in the gas mask," Tom mused. "I know the name is just an alias—it’s French for John Smith. Well, the thug didn’t deliver the tickets, so I guess ‘Jean’ missed his flight."

"
That
flight, anyway. I’m sure he got out of England as soon as the plan went south, though."

"Now the question is—what’s in Spain?"

"I just may have an answer to that one as well," the security chief replied. "Forgeron’s ultimate destination was the city of Huelva in the south of Spain. Within twenty miles of Huelva, on the coast, is a very tiny town called Los Quivires Mercados."

Tom was puzzled. "So?"

"Tom, the
Centurion
was scheduled to dock at a pumping facility just offshore, on its way to Greece!"

"Good night!" The news suddenly seemed important indeed! "Then this all
does
tie in to the sinking of that ship. Harlan― "

Ames interrupted wryly. "You don’t need to say it, Tom. You boys’ll be headed for Quiveres by the time I click off this PER!"

Tom laughed, but he knew Ames’s prediction was only slightly exaggerated.

That evening he ate in the hotel restaurant with Bud while Sandy, Bashalli, and the travelers from the
Sky Queen
attended a theatrical performance near Monmartre.

"Isn’t it supposed to be the French who are excitable and the Brits who are reserved?" asked Bud humorously. "We were mobbed in London, but here nobody pays a bit of attention."

"Except for that man over there," Tom observed in low tones. He subtly indicated a man sitting alone at a table on the far side of the dining room, half hidden by a potted plant. "Every time I look up I’ve caught him looking back—then he looks away."

"Maybe he recognizes us, Tom."

"Maybe I recognize
him
," retorted the blond-haired youth. "Something about him looks awfully familiar."

Tom had scarcely made the comment when the man abruptly stood and crossed the room toward the boys’ table, smiling blandly. Tom and Bud tensed, but the man stuck out a hand in a friendly manner. "You’re Tom Swift, of course," he said. "And you—Bud Barclay."

The boys shook hands with the stranger. "You’ll pardon me for approaching you so abruptly like this," he said. "My name is Tristan Carlow." His accent branded him an American.

Tom nodded politely. "Nice to meet a fellow American. Do you live here in Paris? Or vacationing like us?"

"A business trip," he said brusquely, evidently not wishing to elaborate. "I won’t interrupt your evening, but—I wonder if we might get together while you’re in Paris? At your convenience, of course."

Tom was unsure how to respond. "Well... I’m traveling with my friends, of course. Did you have something particular in mind, sir?"

"Oh, a scientific matter. Something of benefit to both of us."

"I don’t― " The young inventor was hesitant, uneasy in the wake of the London kidnapping.

But Bud tossed hesitation aside with a flourish. "
We’ll
be happy to! How’s tomorrow morning?—late breakfast, right here."

There was a trace of annoyance of the man’s face. It seemed he had not intended his invitation to extend as far as Bud Barclay. "That would be... I suppose that would be adequate. Yes."

A time was agreed to, and with a curt nod the man left the restaurant.

When Tom turned to his pal with questions on his face, Bud was already holding something in his hand for Tom to look at—a photograph. "It’s been in my wallet since you gave it to me the other day."

"The photo of Chow’s adventure at the Quel Fromage? Okay, but― "

"Take a look it it, Skipper." As Tom gazed at the photo, Bud pointed to one figure in the crowd. "Get a load of this little guy sitting here, watching."

Tom gasped. "
Tristan Carlow!
" He now scutinized the image closely. "Bud—look at that newspaper folded up on his table. Good grief,
he’s the guy in the photo that Raeburn showed us in London—the man with the newspaper that proved the date
!" He looked up at his friend, deep-set eyes ablaze. "I’ll just
bet
Carlow was the snitch who sent Raeburn the incriminating photo and the note making the charges against me."

Bud grinned back with mischievous excitement. "Bet you’re right! No wonder he looked familiar."

Tom seethed with anger. So Tristan Carlow was the informer who had caused the rescued hydronauts such embarrassment! The young inventor repressed an impulse to race after Carlow and knock him down in the street. "Better wait and hear him out," Tom decided.

"That’s what I thought, too. It might be worthwhile to learn what the jerk’s up to now." Bud added with a certain fillip of vanity, "And of course I’ll be along if things get a little crazy."

That night Tom told his friends of the planned meeting, tactfully ignoring their pleas that he not take the chance. "This may be my best chance to make some progress on this mystery," he insisted. "Besides, what could he do out in the open like that?"

"Wa-aal, fer one thing," Chow observed sagely, "he could shoot ya."

When Tom and Bud came down the next morning at the appointed time, Carlow was already waiting for them, a briefcase resting on the table. He greeted them pleasantly. After they had ordered, he opened his briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of papers. "Now then, Tom, enough mystery. I am an electronics engineer and something of an inventor."

"Quite a coincidence," murmured Bud with a gleam of sarcasm.

"I’ve invented something you’ll find quite arresting, Tom," Carlow persisted with a thin smile. "In essence, it’s an electronic camera capable of seeing down to the ocean floor from any height, eliminating glare and the obscuring effects of water. No doubt you recognize its value."