Read The Flickering Torch Mystery Online
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
The Flickering Torch Mystery (12 page)
Nettleton looked startled. He was stammering a bit over his answer when the office door opened and Bill Zinn walked in.
“Oh, it's you, Hardy,” Zinn said. “What brings you here?”
Nettleton said, “This guy thinks there's something wrong with my engine. He'd better forget it!”
“Don't fly off the handle, Dale,” Zinn said quietly. “There's no reason why Hardy shouldn't look at your engine.”
He motioned Frank to the door, and the three walked across the concrete apron to the edge of the runway where Nettleton's plane was parked.
“Zinn seems awfully sure of himself,” Frank thought as the manager handed him tools to make the inspection.
The young detective checked the tailpost and found it in order. Then he scanned the engine and paused when he came to the vacuum pump. He went over it carefully.
“What's bothering you?” snarled Nettleton, who watched Frank's every move like a hawk.
“Is there something about that vacuum pump you don't like?” Zinn asked sarcastically.
“It's okay,” Frank replied. “But I know one pump housing that was as empty as Bayport beach in February.”
Frank's reference to Jack Scott's engine with its missing vacuum pump had the desired effect. Both men stiffened and became stony-faced. Frank knew he had scored. Zinn and Nettleton were connected with the airport fatalities in some way!
“Well thanks, fellows,” Frank concluded, handing the tools back to Zinn.
“Don't mention it,” the manager said icily. “Is there anything else you'd like to inspect around here?”
“That'll be all,” Frank replied.
Nettleton and Zinn exchanged glances as Frank walked off. He knew they were worried. He also realized that the airport should be kept under constant surveillance. Something fishy was going on. If enough eyes watched every movement at Marlin Crag, it might come to light.
Frank stepped into a phone booth and dialed Bayport. Joe answered.
“Hey, Frank, where are you?”
“Marlin Crag Airport.”
“How'd you get there?”
“Flew up from Morrisville in a rented plane. But listen, Joe, I'll tell you all about that later.”
“Have I got a hairy story for you!” Joe said. “But it'll have to wait. What's up?”
“I don't have any concrete evidence,” Frank stated, “but Nettleton and Zinn seem to be involved in those crashes.” He told what had happened and suggested that Joe help him stake out the airport.
“I've got an even better idea,” Joe replied. “Those fellows from the band are swell guys. I'm sure they'd come too if I'd ask them.”
“All right. Get in touch with them. What about the guys in Bayport?”
“They're all helping Mr. Prito on a construction job and Chet's too busy matching wings with the Red Baron.”
About two hours later Joe Hardy pulled into the airport with Bernie Marzi, Linc Caldwell, George Hansen, and Pete Guilfoyle.
Frank, who had kept an eye peeled for their convertible, hastened up and shook hands with everyone.
“I want you to know that I gave up a date with a real cute chick to come here,” Pete announced.
Frank grinned. “That's greatly appreciated.” He took the boys aside behind a row of parked cars, where he told his suspicions regarding Nettleton and the aircraft.
“I really didn't expect them to let me see the engine,” Frank said. “After all, why should they? But Zinn seemed almost eager for me to look at it. I think if we spy on them and the plane, we might find out what's cooking.”
Frank and Joe assigned lookout posts. Dusk had fallen and partially concealed the young men as they took a circuitous route through the airport grass toward the edge of the runway.
“Keep your heads low,” Joe advised as they went to their places.
When it was completely dark, the Hardys inched up close to the edge of the runway. Fortunately the grass had not been cut for a while and provided good cover.
Frank and Joe heard excited voices from the same shed where they had eavesdropped the other night. Then two men walked out with flashlights and approached the plane.
“Why didn't you tell me earlier that they were missing?” said one of them, whom the boys recognized as Nettleton.
“I didn't have a chance to check all afternoon,” replied the other man, who was Zinn. They hurried past the craft for several hundred yards along the runway, then stopped. Their flashlights bobbed about like fireflies in July.
“They're looking for something,” Joe whispered.
Frank recalled the hard landing of the plane. Had a piece of the undercarriage broken off? Was that what the men were looking for?
Now the searchers got down on their hands and knees.
“It must be something small,” Frank surmised.
“Oh, oh, look what's coming,” Joe said.
In the distance the landing lights of a plane blinked on, beaming down onto the runway. The men scrambled out of the way, running only a few feet past the place where the Hardys were concealed.
“Forget it,” Nettleton said. “We're not going to find them in the dark. We can look again in the morning.”
“All right,” Zinn agreed. “And next time, if you can't make a better landing, get somebody else to do the job!”
The plane touched down and taxied to the terminal. The men had disappeared and Frank rose, giving a small quiet whistle to attract the others. They crowded around him.
“Something was lost on that runway,” Frank said. “Come on. Let's go and look for it ourselves.”
Frank and Joe carried pocket flashlights. All six hastened to the spot recently vacated by Nettleton and Zinn. They hunkered down and examined the concrete surface.
After a while Pete said, “Nothing here that I could see.”
“What are we looking for, anyway?” asked Line.
“There's something!” Bernie exclaimed suddenly and picked up a gleaming object. “A piece of glass!”
“Here's another one,” Joe said. He cupped both glinting pieces in the palm of his hand and shone the light on them.
“I don't think they're glass,” Frank observed.
“Well, they couldn't be diamonds!” Bernie said emphatically.
“Why not?” asked Joe.
George Hansen chuckled. “In that case I'll take my share and buy a new guitar.”
Joining in the levity, the boys had not noticed two men running toward them.
“Look out!” Pete warned suddenly.
“Run!” Frank cried out.
George, Bernie, Line, and Pete took off through the high grass. Frank and Joe brought up the rear. As the men raced up, the Hardys stopped short, spun around, and sent their surprised pursuers crashing to the ground with a judo assault.
Then the boys put on a burst of speed and caught up with the others at the car. They all piled in and Frank took the wheel.
“We shook âem off all right,” Linc said. “What happened?”
“We discouraged them,” Joe remarked. “I think those stones we found must really be diamonds or they wouldn't have come at us like that!”
“We'll find out for sure and let you know,” Frank promised.
After thanking the young musicians, he dropped them off at their homes and the Hardys sped back to Bayport. They arrived to find their father waiting for them.
Everyone sat down at the kitchen table, and Joe described his adventures at the Guilfoyle barn. He concluded with the episode on the mobile X-ray van. “I must have rolled off while it was taking a curve,” Joe said. “I landed in a ditch and woke up with a horrible headache.”
“Did you ever find the car keys?” Frank asked.
“Yes. They were in the barn.”
Mr. Hardy said, “I doubt that it was really an X-ray van. Probably some sort of coverup for an illicit scheme.”
“What do you think the racket is?” Frank asked. “Do you have any theory about the van?”
“Not yet.”
Frank described what had happened at the airport. The boy took the two stones from his pocket and handed them to his father. The detective looked at them absently, still mulling over Frank's question about the mobile X-ray van.
“I've discovered something about rays,” Mr. Hardy revealed. “I contacted the Atomic Energy Commission after you told me about Scott's radioactive engine. They told me there's some radioactive contraband in this area!”
“What?” said Joe. “Contrabandâwhat kind, Dad?”
“Uranium isotopes!”
“The stuff that goes into the atomic bomb!” Frank gasped. “Is someone making an atomic device?”
“Not necessarily. Uranium isotopes have a lot of uses. But the smugglers are using them illegally, according to the AEC.”
“Where are these isotopes coming from?” Joe inquired.
“England is the suspected point of origin. Scotland Yard is working on the case in London. And I wish we could crack it at this end.”
“Is there a tie-in with the Marlin Crag plane crashes? Did Scott's vacuum pump housing become radioactive because of uranium isotopes?”
“Quite possibly,” his father replied.
“Maybe Mudd figures in the racket, too,” Joe said.
“Sam Radley's checked him out,” Mr. Hardy stated. “He has broken the law a few times, but they were only minor infractions. If he's mixed up with contraband isotopes, he's going big time. Sam has no information to indicate that.”
The detective turned his attention to the stones in his hand, got a jeweler's loupe from his desk drawer, and examined them minutely.
“They're manufactured diamonds,” he said finally. “You can see they were made by the industrial method of subjecting carbon to high pressure and high temperature in a lab. Take a look.”
“But how do they come into the case?” Joe asked.
“Maybe that's what Lefty was going to say!” Frank exclaimed. “I thought âdie ...' meant somebody was going to be rubbed out. But it could have been diamonds.”
“Hey, Frank!” Joe said excitedly. “Remember the conversation between Seymour Schill and Mudd when Chet was at the junkyard?”
“Wow! You're right. Mudd said âNo more rocks. Hard cash from now on.' Maybe these are the rocks!”
The phone rang. Frank answered, then turned around. “It's for you, Dad.”
An unfamiliar voice on the other end of the line caused the detective to frown. A man asked, “You Hardy the fuzz?”
“I'm a private investigator, if that's what you mean,” the detective replied evenly.
“Well, you better take your investigatin' some place else.”
“Who is this speaking? Please identify yourself.”
“Never mind who I am,” the caller said. “All you got to know is that we've caught Lefty.”
“Where is he?”
“That's our secret.”
“Is he all right?”
“Yeah, but he won't be if you don't lay off!”
“What do you want?
“You been givin' us a lot of trouble, Hardy. Me and my pals don't like it. We'd be obliged if you'd stop leanin' on us.
“And if I refuse?”
“There goes your stool pigeon. It's a fast trip to the bottom of the bay for Lefty next time you give us any trouble. Think it over.”
The phone went dead. Mr. Hardy relayed the conversation to his sons. “I'll have to play it cool,” he said thoughtfully. “Lefty's life is at stake.”
“Joe and I can carry on,” Frank suggested.
“Okay, but you'll have to be very careful,” Mr. Hardy said, looking proudly at his sons.
The next day Frank and Joe were busy with various chores at home. Early Saturday morning the phone rang and Joe answered. After a brief conversation his face fell and he hung up.
“What's wrong?” Frank asked.
“That was Pete Guilfoyle,” Joe replied. “His combo has been fired by the Flickering Torch!”
CHAPTER XVI
False Alarm
“THAT'S a switch!” Frank exclaimed. “The Emergency Exit has had raving reviews in the papers. How come they got the boot so suddenly?”
“Pete doesn't know. They played last night, and when they were through Bozar told them not to come back. Joe Clark, the emcee, got sacked, too.”
“I'll bet the gang thinks the fellows know too much,” Frank said. “They were probably recognized at the airport Thursday night.”
“And Bozar's in with the gang,” Joe added. He looked glum. “My first job with a red-hot professional combo and it blows up in my face.”
“Maybe not, Joe. I have an idea.”
Frank put through a phone call to Bernie Marzi, who confirmed that the Emergency Exit had been fired.
“Tough luck, Bernie,” Frank sympathized. “But maybe it's good luck for us. I suppose the Torch will be looking for a replacement?”
“Sure.”
“Well, how does this sound to you? We've got a pretty good combo here in Bayport. Suppose we apply for the job?”
“Brilliant idea. If you're all as good as Joe, you'll be a big hit. Contact Arthur J. Mulholland in Beemerville. He's the agent.”
The Hardys summoned Phil Cohen to do the talking. He came over in ten minutes and telephoned the agent.
Mulholland seemed pleased. Yes, the Flickering Torch needed a band immediately, he said. What a coincidence. He was checking through his files at that very moment. “And I don't have a folk rock group on tap!” he concluded.
“Search no further, Mr. Mulholland,” Phil said confidently. “I have a great band that's available.”
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