Mystery of the Flying Express (6 page)

“This job is too big for us!” Frank called to Joe. “They'll have to bring in the Coast Guard!”

By the time the Hardys had climbed back aboard, a message for help had been sent. Within half an hour two Coast Guard cutters converged on Barmet Bay. Their searchlights probed the misty darkness, illuminating the place where the powerboat had been hit. An officer directed the search from the pilot house of the
Flying Express.
He ordered his subordinates to scout the bay in a crisscross pattern.

The Hardys had worked with the Coast Guard on previous cases. They knew these professional sailors would find anything afloat. Their faith was soon rewarded.

“Debris here, sir,” came a voice from the darkness. “The stern and part of the sides of the powerboat. Shall we tow it ashore?”

“Roger! We'll be coming right behind you for an inspection of the wreckage.”

Spencer Given had been waiting, pacing up and down in despair. “Thank goodness for that order! My passengers are threatening to swim to shore if we keep sitting out here in the bay. I'm just thankful that the hydrofoil hasn't been ruined—only a dent in the bow that can be repaired. I wish my nerves could be repaired as easily!”

The Coast Guard officer nodded to the pilot, who started the motors again and brought the
Flying Express
slowly up to the dock. Ropes were cast onto the jetty and quickly secured around the metal bollards. The gangplank fell into place and the passengers streamed ashore, many of them grumbling that they were late for dinner.

Frank told the girls to drive home in the Hardys' car, while the boys went over to the Coast Guard office for the official examination of the debris.

The nose of the hydrofoil had caved in one side of the powerboat, and smashed through the opposite side. The stern had been twisted around and battered by the force of the collision.

“Any idea who she belonged to, Officer?” Joe inquired.

“No. And if this is all that's left, we may never find out. The impact of the hydrofoil ripped the license number off the powerboat!”

“What next?” Frank put in.

“The Bayport Police Department will have to send frogmen down to see what's on the bottom of the bay. If they find the motor, we may be able to fix the identity of the owner from the serial number.”

“We're experienced scuba divers,” Joe said quickly. “Perhaps we could help.”

“Good thought. Get your gear and be here at six A.M. sharp!”

“Yes sir!”

The police launch was already revved up when Frank and Joe arrived the next morning. Two divers were testing their equipment; a third read ied grappling hooks. Last-minute instructions were being given about the site and the mission. Then they pushed off into the bay.

“The water looks more friendly at sunrise than during the night,” Frank commented.

Joe yawned. “Maybe it does, but somehow I don't feel my best this morning.”

Frank laughed. “Come on, wake up. The bay is kind of deep at this spot, and we'll need all our energy to survey the bottom.”

The boys peeled off their clothing down to their swim trunks, edged their feet into flippers, tested their aqualungs before pulling them on, and eased over the side into the bay along with three frogmen. Down they swam through the sun-lit water to the murky depths.

As they drew within sight of the bottom, Joe dropped behind. He felt woozy. He was losing his ability to concentrate. A warm comfortable feeling swept over him.

Joe closed his eyes, stopped moving his hands and feet, and surrendered himself to the gentle movement of the current. Why was he down there? He couldn't remember and didn't care. All he wanted to do was to go off into a deep sleep.

Suddenly a hand jerked his arm violently. Frank was staring into his face.

“Good night!” Frank thought. “Rapture of the deep! Joe has nitrogen narcosis!”

He and Joe had read about nitrogen narcosis, one of the main hazards of skin divers going to great depths. This condition usually becomes evident below a hundred and thirty feet, but can also occur at lesser depths if a diver goes down at a time of low vitality.

Frank grabbed Joe's elbows from behind and gave a hard kick with his flippers. The two rose straight up through the water in a cloud of bubbles.

Joe's brain gradually cleared as they ascended. Realizing what had happened to him, a chill ran down his spine. When they cut the surface, Joe had command of himself again.

The boys clung to the side of the boat, breathing hard.

“Thanks for the assist,” Joe gasped.

“Get into the boat,” Frank ordered. “You've had enough.”

Despite Joe's protests, he helped him into the launch, then dived again. Near the floor of the bay Frank spotted it. Half concealed in the mud lay the motor from the powerboat.

At Frank's signal the frogmen came swimming in. They put a cradle of rope around the motor, tugged on the line, and watched it move toward the surface. Then all the divers came up and boarded the launch.

“No serial number,” Frank said in disgust after examining the engine. “It's been filed off!”

“Undoubtedly the powerboat was stolen,” said the officer in charge. “Anyway, we've got the one piece of equipment we were looking for. Since we haven't spotted any bodies, we might as well return to port. The case belongs to the police chief from here on.”

In his office at headquarters Chief Collig toyed with a pencil while Frank and Joe related all that had happened. He frowned.

“It's a real mystery,” he said. “Have any ideas, boys?”

Frank spoke up. “I have a hunch that the powerboat was empty when the hydrofoil hit it.”

“Empty, you say? Why do you think that?” Collig asked.

“Well, I think it was being towed by the other boat.”

“Hum!” The chief nodded. “You mean the accident was planned?”

“It's entirely possible. That would explain why we didn't find any survivors of the crash. Nobody was in the water because nobody was in the boat.”

Collig nodded soberly. “It's possible. Maybe you boys can bring in the proof. You've been involved in this case from the beginning.”

“We'd be glad to help,” Frank said.

“Good,” Collig replied. “For starters, I'd like you to talk to the men who are opposed to Given's hydrofoil ferry. Pick up the
Bayport Times
at the street corner and you'll see what I mean!”

“Okay, Chief,” Frank said as they left to buy the newspaper.

It carried a screaming headline: HYDROFOIL SINKS POWERBOAT ON BARMET BAY. The subtitle read: NO SURVIVORS. The story said nothing about the smaller craft cutting across the bow of the
Flying Express,
which, the reporter hinted, had come barging into the harbor expecting every other vessel to get out of the way.

Enemies of the hydrofoil were quoted as calling it “a menace to the citizens of Bayport” and “a reckless venture that ought to be stopped.” One man said bitterly, “We've already lost a powerboat. How many lives must be lost before we get rid of the hydrofoil?”

“Wow!” Joe commented. “They're really after Given's scalp. I feel sorry for him. This incident certainly wasn't his fault. Let's go talk to the group of small boat owners mentioned here. They're meeting at the yacht club right now.”

The Hardys arrived at the club just in time to hear a speaker angrily denouncing the hydrofoil. “Here's the evidence!” he stormed, waving a newspaper. “The
Flying Express
must go!”

“To Cape Cutlass tomorrow morning!” Frank heckled from the rear of the hall.

“And back to Bayport!” Joe needled.

Heads turned and necks craned for a view of the individuals interrupting the proceedings.

“I don't know who these gentlemen are,” the speaker snorted contemptuously, “but I imagine they're part owners of the
Flying Express!”

“I wish we were!” Joe parried the accusation. “We'd be pretty sure of a good return on our investment. The commuter service to Providence is going to be a success!”

“I hope they believe you!” Frank remarked under his breath. Aloud he said: “We're just a couple of passengers who happen to have been on board last night. We saw the accident. How many of you did?”

“He's right,” a voice called out. “Charlie, were you there?” The speaker flushed and refused to answer.

Seizing the opportunity, Frank mounted the rostrum and explained the events of the previous night. “We suspect an arranged accident,” he declared. “Somebody tried to put the
Flying Express
out of commission by towing that powerboat across its bow.”

A murmur went through the audience.

“Certain groups fear the hydrofoil's competition and want it out of the way,” Frank went on. “They're spreading rumors about its danger. Any idea who could be behind it?”

“Sounds as if you're accusing us!” one man said. “Sure, we don't like the hydrofoil but we're not criminals! No one here would sabotage her!”

A chorus of assent came from the rest of the audience.

“I'm sure of it,” Frank told them. “But you sound as if you'd been sold a bill of goods concerning the hydrofoil. Why not give her proprietor a chance to prove that he won't interfere with any other boat on Barmet Bay?”

There were cries of “Fair enough!” and the meeting broke up.

Frank mopped his brow and joined his brother. “Think I convinced them?”

Joe nodded. “For the moment, anyway. But these guys could forget everything you said if any more incidents occur. Solve the case—that's the way to make them stay convinced.”

The boys had scarcely reached home when the phone rang. Joe picked it up. “Chet's calling from Cape Cutlass,” he said. “What's the matter, fellow? You sound as if some ill-starred disaster had struck.”

“That's just it! Disaster beyond belief! I've lost my job! Somebody stole a cruiser from the Starfish Marina, so Mr. Hinkley fired me for negligence. What'll I do?”

“Hold on a minute,” Joe said and briefed Frank. “You know,” he told his brother, “it could have been stolen by the gang Dad's after. Maybe they're working their way north!”

“It's worth investigating,” Frank agreed. “Tell Chet to stay put until we get there!”

Not long after the conversation, the Hardys were whizzing down the bay in their motorboat, the
Sleuth.
The trip to Providence was smooth, and Chet was waiting for them at the public dock.

The three held a council of war. If Frank and Joe could find the missing cruiser, perhaps Chet would get his job back.

“We'll go see Mr. Hinkley,” Frank said. “Want to come along?”

“Uh—no. I'll wait here. Pick me up later,” Chet replied.

The Hardys guided the
Sleuth
to the Starfish Marina. Al Hinkley greeted them at the landing.

“Back again, eh?” he said. “Well, you won't find your pal here. He fell down on the job.”

“We know,” Frank said. Going straight to the point, he asked, “Mr. Hinkley, if we find your cruiser, will you rehire him?”

“Maybe,” Hinkley hedged. “How do you expect to get my boat back?”

“We'll do some sleuthing around here,” Joe explained. “No time left today, but we'll stay overnight.”

“Hm!” Hinkley looked at them closely. “Go right ahead. That cruiser was very valuable. Tell you what. There's a cabin about a quarter of a mile from here. Look, you can see it.”

He pointed and the Hardys took note of the place, which was little more than a fisherman's shack. “It belongs to a friend of mine who's out of town,” Hinkley went on. “You can sleep there.”

“Thanks,” Frank said. “We'll make the cabin our headquarters.”

They berthed the
Sleuth
and walked back to the jetty, where they briefed Chet.

“Gee. Thanks, fellows,” he said.

“Want to stay with us in the cabin?” Frank asked.

“Sure,” Chet replied.

On their way to the shack, a youth walked up to them. He was thin, lanky, and had sandy hair.

“Hi,” he said. “My name's Skee. Say, are you interested in buying some marine equipment—secondhand and cheap?”

Frank and Joe exchanged glances.

“Why not?' Joe replied. ”We could use a foghorn for our cabin cruiser.”

“Okay. What's your name?”

“Joe Hardy. When will you deliver the goods?”

“Soon.”

“Well, how do we get in touch with you?” Chet inquired.

“Don't bother. I'll find you.”

Skee ambled off in the gathering darkness and the boys proceeded to the cabin.

When Chet saw it he said, “This isn't the Cutlass Hilton.”

“Forget it,” Joe chided. “Didn't you think that Skee is a suspicious character?”

“No. Why?” Chet replied.

Before Joe had a chance to reply, Frank spoke up. “You think he's involved with the marina thieves Dad's after?”

“It's possible. That's why I ordered the foghorn. Maybe we can find out more about this stranger.”

As Chet had said, the cabin was far from luxurious. It was small and dingy, but they were too tired from the day's events to care much. Flopping down on rickety cots, they were soon fast asleep.

When Frank awakened, the sun was already up. He stretched and was about to tumble out of bed when he heard a loud, grinding noise. It came from just outside the cabin. He roused Joe and Chet.

“Good grief, what's that?” Frank sprang up just as the side of the shack caved in with an ominous
whack.