The Flickering Torch Mystery (14 page)

The officer stared at him angrily. “Cut the baloney, kid,” he growled. “What are you trying to do, play FBI? I've got a good mind to arrest you. Get out of here while you're still in one piece!”

He turned and gave the lead cap to Mudd, who accepted it with a triumphant smirk.

“You Hardys stay out of my way from now on,” he threatened, “or you'll wind up under a slab in my junkyard!”

As the policeman left, Mudd and Seymour went off the stage together, talking in low tones.

“Well, how do you like that?” Biff exclaimed in disbelief.

“That cop didn't even listen to us!” Tony complained.

“That piece of lead must have been worth an awful lot to O. K. Mudd,” Joe mused. “Too bad we couldn't have a better look at it.”

Frank placed his guitar in its case. “Well, let's take the policeman's advice and get out of here. I think he
would
run us in if he had the chance.”

The five youths were walking toward Biff's station wagon when Frank suddenly handed his guitar to Joe.

“We haven't been paid!” he exclaimed. “I'm going back inside to see Bozar. I'll meet you at the car in a few minutes.”

At the front door Frank noticed Mudd and Seymour entering the manager's office behind the dance hall. “I'd better find out what those two are up to,” he thought. He sneaked through a clump of small trees and reached the rear of the restaurant. He ducked down and scrambled along the wall until he reached a lighted window in the far corner. Sounds of voices came from within.

Very slowly Frank raised his head and peered over the sill. A broad desk stood at one end, facing a sofa at the other end. Two easy chairs Banked the sofa.

Mudd was sitting in a swivel chair behind the desk. Seymour Schill stood on the opposite side, facing him. The junkyard proprietor opened a middle drawer and took out an envelope, which he handed to Seymour with the words, “Here's your dough.”

The guitarist removed a bundle of bills from the envelope and counted them.

“What's wrong?” Mudd snapped. “Don't you trust me any more?”

Seymour snickered as he put the money in his breast pocket. “Trust you? After that little episode with the band? You've got an idea I let you down with the Hardys. So I wanted to be sure you didn't short-change me.”

“The Hardys?” Mudd snarled. “Forget them. They won't be bothering us any more. From now on it's business as usual for you and me.”

“Okay, Mudd,” Seymour replied. “But don't get ratty with me again. I don't like it.”

The pair walked out of the office, Mudd turning off the lights at the door.

As Frank stood up to leave, a dry leaf crackled behind him. He whirled around in time to catch a glimpse of the policeman creeping up. The man's nightstick flashed out and a gigantic Roman candle exploded in Frank's head. Then he crumpled to the ground in blackness.

When Frank came to he was bound hand and foot with rope. He sat up and looked around.

Frank was in a small laboratory painted white. Fluorescent lighting threw a glare over the interior. Along one side, rows of shelves held bottles of various sizes. The opposite wall was lined with scientific instruments and small metal containers, many of lead. A table covered with test tubes and electronic equipment stood at the far end.

A low moan caused him to turn his head. Another prisoner lay near him. The man moved con vulsively, revealing his features.

He looked haggard. His eyes were tightly closed. His lips twitched.

“Lefty!” Frank gasped. “What's going on?”

“He can't hear you, I'm afraid,” said a smooth voice.

Frank twisted around and saw a man in a white coat. He was carefully filling a hypodermic needle with a whitish fluid. With a sinister smile he said, “Lefty couldn't care less about what's going on.”

“Well, I care!” Frank snapped. “Where are we?”

“Come, come, Hardy, you know enough science to recognize an experimental laboratory. Splendidly equipped, don't you think?”

“What kind of experiments are you carrying out?” Frank demanded.

“They concern the radioactivity of subatomic particles.”

“Uranium isotopes,” Frank guessed.

“Precisely.”

“Who are you?”

“Dr. John Weber. I'm quite distinguished in the field of physics, if I do say so myself.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Frank asked suspiciously.

“Because the information will die with you,” Dr. Weber said with a leer.

He advanced toward Frank, holding the hypodermic syringe in his left hand. The fingers of his right hand toyed with the plunger. The long needle gleamed wickedly!

Back, in the station wagon, Joe fidgeted nervously. “I wonder what's keeping Frank,” he said.

Phil shrugged. “Maybe Bozar's trying to weasel out of the deal.”

Joe flicked on the radio and they listened to music for a while. Fifteen minutes went by. Still no sign of Frank. Joe glanced at his watch.

“That's long enough!” he decided. “Something must have happened. I'm going back.”

“We'll come with you,” Biff offered.

All four left the car and strode into the Flickering Torch. They found the place vacant except for employees who were cleaning up after the evening's entertainment.

One man pushed a broom over the dance floor, while another stuffed scrap paper and soda bottles into a bag. Waiters were carrying plates and glasses into the kitchen.

Joe asked about Frank. None of the employees had seen the boy return!

Suddenly Biff grabbed Joe's arm. “Look! There's Seymour!” He pointed to the guitarist, who was just about to leave the building.

“Hey, Seymour!” Joe called out. “Wait! Have you seen Frank?”

Schill stopped and faced the boys. “Last time I saw your brother, he was up at the stage with the rest of you. Meanwhile I thought you all had gone home!”

“We came back to collect our fee,” Phil said pointedly.

“Didn't Bozar pay you?”

“No.”

“He's left already. But maybe the check's on his desk. I'll look.”

Seymour disappeared into the manager's office and returned shortly.

“Here it is,” he told Joe and handed him a check made out to the South Forty. Then, with a tired wave of his hand, he left.

“Let's search inside,” Joe said as he pocketed the check, “then we'll scout the grounds.”

Phil and he took the main floor. They looked behind the stage and in the kitchen, finally examining the rest rooms and the check room.

Biff and Tony found their way to the cellar, which was filled with cases of soda and cartons of restaurant supplies.

“Frank, where are you?” Tony called. No reply.

The four met again after a fruitless search.

“Let's try outside,” Joe said. He ran to the car and returned with two flashlights, then the boys circled the Flickering Torch. Their investigation of a garage behind the building revealed nothing, neither did the bushes, hedges, or the gully across the road from the restaurant.

Now the last of the lights were winking out. Joe played his flashlight against the window of Bozar's office. Directly beneath the sill, the beam picked up a small flower bed. Zinnias and marigolds lay crushed into the soil.

“Look here,” Joe said. “Footprints! Two sets of them!”

“Frank was probably trying to look inside,” Phil said, “when somebody jumped him.”

“And he was knocked down and carried off to a car waiting at the road!” Tony conjectured. “Now what'll we do?”

“Call the police,” Joe said without hesitation. “But first I want to get in touch with Dad.”

The boys returned to the car and drove along the road until they found a telephone booth. Joe put in a call to Bayport. He got his father and quickly told him that Frank was missing.

“A dangerous turn of events,” Mr. Hardy said. “Call the authorities. I'll meet you at the State Police Barracks in about an hour.”

As planned, they rendezvoused at the barracks, where Lieutenant James Cook, a tall wiry man, was told about Frank's disappearance.

“We'll have to question everybody connected with the Flickering Torch,” he said. “Can you give me any leads other than the footprints beneath the window?”

Joe spoke up. “There have been several mysterious things going on around here.” He told of the elusive van and added, “If Frank was kidnapped, that might be a good place to hide him.”

“We'll check it out,” Cook said, and ordered his men to set up a dragnet for the van.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Yes. I think Mudd's airplane junkyard should be searched, too,” Joe said. “He threatened that if we didn't lay off, we'd wind up under a slab in his junkyard! Frank might be held prisoner there!”

The lieutenant was intrigued and asked for full details of the Hardys' case. Joe and his father quickly related all the developments in the mystery from the time they had taken on the airport investigation up to the point where the policeman had snatched the lead cap which had fallen from the amplifier.

The lieutenant nodded thoughtfully. “One thing is clear from your description of the policeman,” he said. “It doesn't fit any of our people in this area, be it state or local police. He probably was a phony.”

“I think you're right,” Tony added. “That fake cop must be a crony of O. K. Mudd.”

“I'll get a search warrant for Mudd's place,” Cook said. Then he instructed one of his assistants to broadcast a seven-state alarm for Frank Hardy, describing the young sleuth in detail.

The boys looked exhausted after their work at the Flickering Torch and the excitement that had followed.

“Why don't you all go back to Bayport?” Fenton Hardy suggested. “You won't be able to help at this point. Joe can stay here with me, and if we need the rest of you, we'll give you a call. Okay?”

Phil was about to protest, but then saw the logic in the detective's reasoning. After a quick good-by, the boys drove home in Biff's station wagon.

Joe and his father presently fell asleep in their chairs until Lieutenant Cook woke them up.

“It took some doing at this early hour, but I've got a warrant to search Mudd's premises. Want to come along?”

“Sure do,” Mr. Hardy replied, rubbing his eyes.

The lieutenant, two of his men, and the Hardys drove directly to Mudd's home. Joe and the detective waited as the junk dealer was routed from bed. He came to the door, bleary-eyed and angry. “What's this all about?” he grumbled.

Lieutenant Cook showed the warrant. “This is for the search of your property, Mr. Mudd. Frank Hardy is missing and we have reason to believe that you're holding him.”

Mudd gave a nasty laugh. “You're crazy. Go right ahead and look all you want. I've got nothing to hide.”

The troopers searched the house first. Then they took Mudd to his junkyard.

“This is ridiculous!” the man protested. “I don't know anything about that Hardy kid!”

He glared angrily as the two policemen searched his office. But again there was no sign of Frank.

As they were about to leave the building, Joe spied a pipe-like object standing in one corner of the office. It was an airplane tailpost. The boy pointed to it and said, “Lieutenant Cook, I suggest we examine this!”

“Keep your hands off it!” Mudd stormed.

Cook, however, picked it up. He turned the tailpost on end and a narrow container fell out. Joe grabbed it and hit it lightly against his palm. A tiny glassy splinter dropped out.

“Hey, give that to me!” Mudd cried. He made a lunge for Joe. Before Mr. Hardy or the police could restrain him, he hit the boy two heavy blows, knocking Joe down. Instinctively the young detective made a tight fist and held on to the splinter.

“You're under arrest!” Lieutenant Cook thundered as his men seized Mudd. They quickly subdued him and handcuffed him. Then they led Mudd to the patrol car.

Though groggy, Joe rose to his feet and said, “Lieutenant, I have a hunch that this splinter from the tailpost might give us a clue.”

“I'll have it tested in the lab,” Cook said.

After a thorough search of the junkyard proved futile, they all drove back to the barracks, where Mudd was booked on a charge of assault and led into the holdover cell.

Cook said, “I think we're on to something important. Mudd is really worried about what Joe found in that tailpost.”

In the laboratory Cook himself put the splinter under a high-powered microscope. He focused the lens, took a long look, and raised his head.

“Well?” Mr. Hardy inquired. “What did you find?”

“Looks like a diamond splinter to me,” the lieutenant replied, shaking his head in bafflement.

“I thought so,” Joe said. “The gang's been transporting diamonds in the tailposts of airplanes.” He told Cook about the stones they had found on the landing strip at Marlin Crag.

“And I'll bet this is the tailpost from Chet's fuselage,” Joe went on. “Mudd must have realized after the sale that it still had the empty container in it.”

“But why did they steal the whole fuselage?” Cook asked, puzzled. “Why not just the tailpost?”

“They had no time to take it off,” Joe reasoned. “So they loaded up the fuselage and were gone in a few minutes.”

“A good deduction,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “But we still don't know who sent the diamonds and who received them, or why the shipment went to Marlin Crag.”