Mystery of the Flying Express (3 page)

The ringing of the phone interrupted Chet. Joe picked it up. An unfamiliar voice came through.

“Hardy?”

“Joe Hardy speaking.”

“I have a message for you and your brother.”

“Go ahead.” Joe motioned Frank and Chet to put their ears close to the receiver.

“We've heard about you gadflies. Take a friendly word of advice. If you're smart, you'll have nothing more to do with Spencer Given. Turn down whatever deal he offered you and get out while you're still in one piece.”

“Who are you?” Joe demanded.

“Never mind. And by the way, don't ride on the
Flying Express.
It's dangerous!”

The man hung up.

“LEAPING Librasl” Chet blurted out. “Who was that?”

Joe replaced the instrument. “No way of telling.” He frowned. “But he doesn't like Hardy and Company.”

“Still he wasn't really interested in us,” Frank said. “His purpose was to give a warning about the
Flying Express.
I've a hunch he's one of Spencer Given's enemies.”

“Could be,” Joe said. “Probably tailed Given to our house, figured out a deal was in the offing, and made his move to scare us off before we got near the hydrofoil. He must have phoned from somewhere near the house after he saw Given leave.”

“The corner phone booth two blocks away!” Frank exclaimed. “He may still be there!”

The three raced out of the house and down the street. They were a block away from the phone booth when the doors folded inward. They saw a flash of blond hair and a maroon dress on the figure that emerged, slipped hurriedly into a foreign sports car, and sped off.

“Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle! It's a woman!” Joe gasped. “But the caller sounded like a man!”

“Maybe she has a deep voice,” Frank said. “Let's see if she left any clues to her identity.”

The Hardys gave the booth a rapid once-over without finding anything. Then Chet went in, flipped open the coin return slot, and extracted a dime.

“Jupiter is fully aligned with Uranus!” He chuckled. “No wonder my luck has changed! If it holds up from here on out, I'll only need a one-way ticket to Cape Cutlass!”

“Now what does that mean?” Frank inquired.

“Can't tell you yet,” Chet replied mysteriously. “My horoscope says I'd better stay mum for the time being. I'll let you in on it when the signs are more favorable.”

Joe, who had been scrutinizing the area, bent over and plucked something from the gutter. He held the object up with a significant wink. It was a thick cigar butt, still burning. The other end was smudged with lipstick.

“That was no lady,” he quipped. “It was a man with a taste for smelly black stogies.”

Frank nodded. “Pretty clever way to trail friend Given. He's in a tizzy about boatmen and trainmen and bus drivers. But he wouldn't suspect a blonde in a sports car.”

Chet looked worried. He realized that the threat was not an idle one. And Chet had an aversion to danger, even though the Hardys could always count on him when help was needed.

“Maybe he or she or whatever it was will blow up the
Flying Express
after all,” he said. “Do you suppose we should get the police in on it?”

“No. Given certainly doesn't want that. It would be bad publicity for his boat. Also, there's nothing definite to base a complaint on,” Frank decided.

“You're not getting cold feet, are you, Chet?” Joe teased.

“Who, me? Of course not.”

“All right, then let's go on with the game.”

That evening Fenton Hardy returned home. He was surprised to learn that his sons had made a deal with Spencer Given to guard the Flying Express.

“I've heard about the man,” Mr. Hardy said. “He's a shrewd operator. Speculates in real estate and hopes he can trigger a land boom on Cape Cutlass by means of his hydrofoil. You can see why he's concerned. He's staking a fortune on the success of the
Flying Express.”

“He must have quite a bit of money,” Frank put in.

“He does. But he's known to be rather stingy.”

Frank and Joe laughed. “We noticed that. He told us that he couldn't afford to hire
you.
That's why we got the job.”

Mr. Hardy grinned. “Well, you know what you're doing. No doubt you'll have an exciting ride to Providence. Just keep an eye open for that wolf in disguise you mentioned, or it might be too exciting for comfort.”

“We will,” Joe promised.

“Meanwhile, I'm leaving for Shark Island. The State Police have asked me to track down a gang who specialize in stripping small craft. They're clever pros with a profitable gimmick.”

“What is it?” Joe asked eagerly.

“It seems that first they go around taking orders for engines, props, radios, anything needed to keep a boat operating in the water,” Mr. Hardy said. “Then they case the shoreline for unprotected boats.”

“What a racket!” Frank reflected. “Satisfaction guaranteed! Orders filled right on time with hot merchandise!”

“That's about the size of it,” Mr. Hardy concurred. “They haven't gotten this far north yet, so I'm going down to Shark Island to do some undercover work.”

“That's about fifty miles below Cape Cutlass, isn't it?” Joe asked.

“Right. It seems like a logical lair for the gang, especially since most of the activity is going on around there.”

“Dad, maybe we can help you,” Frank suggested. “We'll only be tied up with Given for a few runs!”

“There's not much you boys can do for me at this point in the case. I won't have a clear picture until I've snooped around Shark Island. However, it would be a good idea for you to keep in touch. Here's my phone number.” Mr. Hardy handed Frank a slip of paper.

“Also,” he went on, “you'd better activate the electronic beeper on the Sleuth. Even though there haven't been any thefts up here yet, the gang might expand at any time.”

Frank nodded. “And we certainly don't want to lose our boat!”

Mrs. Hardy packed her husband's bag. She was a slender, pretty woman who had long since learned what a detective needed in the field. Disguises, bugging devices, emergency rations—all went into the suitcase before she snapped it shut.

Shortly afterward Fenton Hardy was on his way to Shark Island.

At breakfast the next morning the phone rang. Joe reached for the instrument with suppressed excitement. “If it's Dad, perhaps he's got an assignment for us already!”

The voice of Chet Morton bubbled through the receiver. “Guess what? Lady Luck is really smiling today. I've got a job!”

“No kidding? As an astrologer?” Joe asked.

“Of course not. I wanted to work for the summer, so I had applied at the Starfish Marina in Cape Cutlass a while ago. Naturally I didn't expect any answer while the Cancerian conjunctions weren't right.”

Joe whistled. “I see. But now they are?”

“Yes sir. The moon is marching on through the Zodiac. The owner phoned and told me to report immediately. That's what I meant yesterday when I said I might only need a one-way ticket.”

“Well, that's great, Chet. But what about our sleuthing on the hydrofoil? If you're leaving right away—”

“Who said I won't wait till tomorrow?” Chet pretended to be hurt. “I promised you I'd come along. I'm a man of my word!”

“Okay. We'll see you in the morning, then.”

Frank and Joe started out early the next day to pick up their friends. Callie and Iola were waiting in front of the Morton farm.

“Chet left already,” Iola called out. “He said he had some sleuthing work to do—on his own!”

The two girls were attractive in different ways. Iola Morton, a brunette, had mobile features, sparkling eyes, and a lot of vitality. She was wearing a pink suit. Callie Shaw was blond, tall, and slender. She wore a yellow skirt and striped jacket.

As they were driving toward the dock, Iola remarked, “I think it was just swell of you boys to invite us along on the
Flying Express.”

“I think so, too,” Callie declared. “How did you ever manage to get the tickets?”

Joe did the explaining while Frank drove. Callie sat up straight, her hands in her lap, and stated primly, “Well, we might have known! Whenever Frank and Joe take us out, we're bound to end up in the middle of a mystery!”

“I'm not complaining.” Iola laughed. “A ride on the
Flying Express
is worth a mystery!”

Frank parked the car and the four got into the line of passengers boarding the hydrofoil. Joe presented the tickets that Spencer Given had provided, and they stepped onto the deck.

Everything was new and shiny, an attractive combination of fiberglass, chromium, and highly polished wood. The pilot, a salty man about thirty, sat behind the wheel. Given stood beside him, beaming with satisfaction.

“I hope Chet gets here on time,” Joe remarked. “Didn't he tell you anything about where he was going?”

Iola shook her head. “No. He said he'd meet us on the Flying Express. He was sure he wouldn't have any trouble getting aboard, since Given invited him.”

Frank and Joe walked around the narrow rear deck while Callie and Iola stepped down into the long cabin, where comfortable seats were arranged in rows on either side of a center aisle. The passengers were chatting gaily, but Chet was not among them.

Finally the Hardys came inside. “Chet didn't make the scene,” Frank reported.

As he spoke, the engine started with a muffled roar and the
Flying Express
began to move. Slowly it churned away from the pier and out into Barmet Bay.

“Chet's got me worried,” Joe said anxiously as the waves flashed by more quickly.

The hull rose above the surface of the water and the foils beneath came into view. Soon the
Flying Express
was skimming at top speed out across the bay on its way to Providence.

“Certainly no sabotage on that take-off,” Iola commented with a thrill in her voice.

“So far so good,” Joe agreed. “If the rest of the trip is like this, Mr. Given should be a happy man by the time we get to Cape Cutlass.”

Frank rubbed his cheek. “That's where we come in. It's our business to see that the
Flying Express
does have a smooth trip. The take-off is only the beginning. There'll be many more chances for sabotage farther down the bay.”

He turned to the girls. “You two can enjoy yourselves while we have a look-see. Joe, suppose you take the bow and find out if anything's stirring. I'll take the stern. We can compare notes afterward.”

Iola and Callie settled into comfortable lounge seats. Joe went forward. Everything seemed peaceful throughout the vessel.

Frank stepped onto a catwalk at the stern. The wind buffeted him and he had to hang onto the railing. Below him a foil hissed along the surface and the propellers kicked up white foam. Fascinated by the hydrofoil's principle of physics, he leaned over for a better look.

Suddenly Frank sensed someone creeping up behind him. He tried to dodge. Too late! A pair of hands struck him heavily between the shoulders, flipping him over the side!

Down he plunged toward the protruding foil —and toward the churning propeller beneath it!

WILDLY Frank threw his arms out. His hands clutched the upper end of the foil and braked his descent.

For a moment he teetered there, straining every muscle to save himself from falling onto the deadly propeller, whirling like a buzz saw only a few feet below. His grip held! Frank pulled himself against the foil. He wrapped his arms tightly around it, lifting his feet clear of the foaming water which tore at his body. His shouts for help were soundless in the din.

How long could his strength endure? The foil was slippery under his fingers because of the spray washing over it. Desperately Frank tried to hold on. But his grip was beginning to weaken! He started to slide down the foil toward the water! In a moment he would be caught in the propeller !

Frantically he glanced up, and with hazy vision was amazed to see a girl looking down. Spotting Frank half in the water, she froze momentarily, then shouted for help.

“Man overboard! Man overboard!”

Joe had gone to the stern to join Frank. He had just climbed to the rear deck when he heard the warning cry. Instinctively he knew that Frank was in trouble and rushed to alert the pilot, who cut the power.

The propellers stopped whirling and the
Flying Express
settled slowly to a stop in the middle of the bay. Joe and the pilot lowered a line and Frank was pulled onto the deck.

“Just in time,” Frank gasped as he sat down, exhausted.

Spencer Given pushed through the knot of gawking passengers. His face showed the familiar tinge of purple that the boys had noticed the day he had come to the Hardys' house.

“What's the meaning of this?” he fumed. “You might have damaged my boat!”

“Mr. Given,” Frank protested, “your boat might have damaged me! It was touch-and-go down there!”

“Is this any time for joking? How's the foil and the propeller?” Given asked. Told that they were in good working condition, he stalked back to the bridge.

“Real huff he's in,” Joe remarked.

“I guess he has a right to be,” Frank said in a low voice. “A detective should know better than to go up on a catwalk alone when he suspects there's a saboteur on the prowl. We're here to prevent trouble not to invite it.”