The Firebird Rocket (8 page)

The boys and Ponsley thanked the sergeant and took another cab to the guesthouse on St. James Road. They were disappointed, however, when the owner informed them that Mike Moran had departed about three weeks before, saying only that he was leaving town.

“So Moran's trail ends right here,” Joe said glumly.

“And we haven't even picked up Jenson's yet,” Frank added.

“What'll we do now, go around with the photographs?” Ponsley asked.

“Right. Let's start here,” Joe said. He showed the owner Jenson's picture, but the man told them he had never seen the American before. Then the group walked out into the street. The boys returned to police headquarters while Ponsley took a taxi to their hotel.

After the Hardys had introduced themselves to Inspector Morell, he said, “I was just about to call Professor Young at the Aerospace Lab. We have traced Dr. Jenson to a shabby place on Sixteen Wallaby Drive. There was a fire there recently in the lobby that destroyed the hotel register and forced the owner to close for a while. That's why it took so long to track Jenson down.”

The boys noted the address and thanked Inspector Morell. Then they took a taxi to Wallaby Drive. It was in a rundown section of town and number 16 looked like a decrepit apartment building. Only a small faded sign over the door indicated that it was a hotel. The blackened woodwork around the doors and windows showed signs of a recent blaze.

“I wonder if that fire the inspector mentioned was an arson job,” Frank mused.

“That's an idea,” Joe said. “Maybe someone was trying to keep the police from finding out Jenson stayed there.”

The boys went inside. Two men stood behind the desk in the empty hallway that now served as a lobby. One was the manager, the other had “porter” stitched on the breast pocket of his threadbare jacket.

When Frank inquired about Jenson, the manager looked annoyed. “I've already told the police all I know,” he said curtly. “Dr. Jenson left with two Americans the day after he checked in and I never heard from him again.'”

“Did he pay his bill?” Joe inquired.

“The men did.”

“Why not Dr. Jenson himself?”

“How do I know?” the manager asked gruffly.

There was a brief silence before Frank said, “Were you afraid of trouble if you told the police too much about Jenson?”

The man's face turned sullen. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You had a fire here, for one thing. And maybe you received some threats.”

“I dunno what you're talking about.”

Frank flashed a twenty dollar bill. “Try to remember. Was there anything even the slightest bit unusual about Jenson's departure?”

The manager hesitated, obviously tempted. He glanced furtively around, then took the money and quickly put it in his wallet. “Well, Jenson seemed drunk,” he told the boys. “He was sort of slumped between these two blokes. They paid and led him outside, then pushed him into a car and drove off.”

“Do you think he was forced to go with them?”

“I dunno. I think he was drunk.”

“Can we look in his room for a clue?” Joe asked. “We must find him!”

“Go ahead. I haven't rented it since.” The manager gave him the key and the boys went into Jenson's room.

Joe looked into the closet while Frank went through the bureau drawers. They turned the wastebasket upside down, and lifted the mattress from the bed.

“Nothing here,” said Joe, standing in the middle of the room and gazing around. His eyes fell on the door, which was covered with scratches and graffiti. Joe went over and bent down, staring at the bottom panel.

“Hey Frank, come here a minute!”

Frank looked at the initials and sentences scribbled on the lower part of the door. “Graffiti,” he said. “Courtesy of the hotel's high-class clientele.”

“Look close,” Joe advised. “See this sign?”

“A bolt of lightning!” Frank exclaimed. “The same as we saw on Dr. Jenson's desk!”

“Correct. And after it are the letters A1 S. What do you think that means?”

“Maybe those are the initials of Dr. Jenson's kidnapper!” Frank said, excited. “Could be his name is Albert Smith.”

“Or Alfred Scott, or a million other combinations,” Joe commented.

Their enthusiasm diminished as they realized the number of possibilities. “There are too many names with those initials,” Frank concluded. “We'll have to find Jenson to find out whom he meant.”

“Let's think about it as we go back to our hotel,” Joe suggested. “What say we walk instead of taking a cab?”

“Suits me,” Frank agreed.

Before leaving, they wrote down their room number at the Australian Arms and asked the manager to call them if he remembered any other details. Then they walked toward the center of the city, which was not far, and found that Sydney was built on a number of hills. Rows of houses painted in bright colors lined the streets, and cars whizzed back and forth through narrow thoroughfares.

“Why do you think Jenson checked into that crummy hotel?” Joe asked his brother.

“Maybe he suspected he was being followed and wanted to hide,” Frank replied.

“Or, if he's not on the level, perhaps he wanted to disappear and obscure his tracks,” Joe concluded.

“I think he was kidnapped. I don't believe he was drunk when those guys took him out of the place,” Frank said.

“You're probably right. Boy, these streets are all uphill or downhill,” Joe said. “I'm getting tired!”

“Cheer up. We're coming close to level ground,” Frank told him. He referred to Macquarie Street, where they saw the law courts before cutting over to George Street, the site of the magnificent Town Hall and St. Andrew's Cathedral.

They stepped off the curb and began to cross over to the cathedral, when a car swished around the corner and barreled straight at them at top speed!

Instinctively Frank and Joe whirled to leap back onto the sidewalk. The car followed them, heading them off. Again they raced into the street, hoping to make it to the other side. The car careened after them. It was a wild chase until Frank slipped and fell. The car hurtled straight at him!

Joe barely had time to shove his brother out of the way. There was no chance to escape himself. He took a death-defying leap at the car, sprawling across the hood to avoid being run down!

The car zoomed past Frank, missing him by inches, and jolted over a patch of grass bordering the sidewalk. Joe was blocking the driver's view, but a sharp twist of the wheel sent the youth sliding off. He rolled over and over. Only the cushion of grass saved him from serious injury.

As Joe lay half-stunned, he caught a parting glimpse of the bearded driver, scowling at him through the open window as the car roared away. The man was wearing tinted glasses!

He continued up the street, rounded the corner, and vanished. Frank and Joe got to their feet, shaking their heads at their narrow escape. The few pedestrians ran to help, but nobody had caught the car's license number.

“Thanks for saving me, Joe,” Frank puffed. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, except that fall rattled my eyeteeth.” The younger Hardy waited till they were alone again before adding, “Did you get a look at the driver?”

“No. Who was he?”

“The guy who shadowed us in Princeton!”

Frank gave a long whistle. “He followed us to Australia! How did he know we'd be here?”

“He didn't follow us to Bayport,” Joe said. “And I watched on the way to the airport. No one was behind us.”

“Maybe he overheard our telephone conversation with Professor Young,” Frank said. ‘Or he could have overheard Young and Smoky talking when the professor told Smoky to catch us before we left for Australia.”

“Or Smoky could have told him!” Joe added.

“Right. Once he knew we were coming here, all he had to do was check with the airlines and take an earlier flight or even get on the same plane with us in disguise!”

“This is getting serious,” Joe said. “The guy's out to kill us. If we don't crack this case soon, he may succeed!”

Taking various detours, the boys returned to the Australian Arms Hotel. When they arrived in their room, Chet was still sleeping. Frank woke him up and told him what had happened. He was just about finished when the telephone rang. Joe picked it up.

He heard a muffled voice say, “If you want information on Dr. Jenson, be at the Botany Bay Coffeehouse in King's Cross in one hour!”

“WHO are you and how will we know you?” Joe asked.

“I'll know you, and that's all that matters.” The phone went dead. Joe relayed the message to Frank and Chet.

“Sounds like a trap,” he added. “Probably another one of our shadow's tricks.”

“I think we should chance it,” Frank said. “We don't have any other leads in the case.”

There was a knock on the door. Frank walked over to it and asked, “Who is it?”

“Ponsley.” It was their friend's familiar voice. Frank let him in and brought him up-to-date on the latest news.

“Suppose,” Ponsley said, “I go along and trail behind you. If the crooks gang up on you, I'll call for help.”

“Great idea!” Joe said. “How about you, Chet?”

Chet was awake by now, and felt better. “Of course, I'm coming, too,” he said.

“Wait a minute,” Frank objected. “I think it will be better if we split forces. You stay here, Chet, and if we're not back in an hour, alert the police. If you come along, they might get all of us and no one would know we're missing.”

“Okay,” Chet agreed readily. The thought of being caught did not appeal to him at all. Ponsley looked a bit doubtful, too, but did not retract his offer.

The three left, and just before the hour was up, the Hardys entered the Botany Bay Coffeehouse, a popular gathering place for Australians of all types from Sydney businessmen to shop girls, office workers, and people in the arts. Like most Aussies, they seemed to have a sun-tanned breezy look about them that the boys liked. Over coffee and tea, a babble of cheerful voices could be heard.

Frank and Joe sat down at a table in a corner and ordered coffee. They surveyed the room without spotting a familiar face until Ponsley walked in. He took a table on the opposite side of the room, winked to indicate that he was keeping them under surveillance, and told a waitress to bring him a pot of tea.

“You're right on time,” a voice said at Frank's elbow. “You must be interested.”

It was the porter from the hotel Dr. Jenson had stayed in!

The man sat down and accepted a cup of coffee. “Look, mates,” he said in a low tone, “I know about Dr. Jenson. I opened the door for him and the two blokes who were with him. I could tell from the look in his eyes that he was drugged. When they pushed him into the car, he began to struggle. I went out to see what was going on, and I heard him mutter something.”

“What was it?” Frank asked eagerly.

“He said ‘Alice Springs' just before they slammed the door and drove off!”

“Why didn't you mention this before?” Joe inquired.

“I told the manager. He said he didn't want any trouble, and that I might have made a mistake. That's why I couldn't tell you at the hotel that I recognized Jenson's photo. After thinking it over, I thought you should know that he wasn't drunk. He was drugged!”

The porter drained his coffee cup and, after accepting some money from Frank in payment for his information, he rose to his feet. He was due back at the hotel and strode off. The Hardys stared at each other in consternation.

Joe broke the silence. “Now we know what Al S stands for. Alice Springs! She must be the leader of the kidnap gang. Maybe she's holding Jenson a prisoner right now here in Sydney!”

“Joe, Alice Springs isn't a person. It's a place—a town way off in the Outback in the middle of the country. Jenson left a message saying that he was taken to Alice Springs!” Frank said.

Joe jumped up from his chair. “This is a hot clue, Frank! We'll have to go to Alice Springs!”

“That's the way I see it. We'd better get out there in a hurry.”

Ponsley left his table and joined them. “Who was that fellow and what did he say?”

Frank told him and repeated the conversation.

“Where is Alice Springs?” Ponsley asked.

“Let's find out,” Frank suggested and pulled a map of Sydney from his pocket that showed all of Australia on the reverse side. He spread it flat on the table, running a fingertip from Sydney west across New South Wales into South Australia, and then up into the Northern Territory. His finger stopped almost exactly in the center of the continent, where the words “Alice Springs” were printed in black letters.