The Secret Agent on Flight 101 (10 page)

“You're to meet him at the chief constable's office in Ianburgh,” he said. “A car has been sent to pick you up.”

The boys thanked him and lugged their suitcases to the front of the terminal, where the car was waiting. This time the driver produced a card to identify himself and the boys got in.

The trip to Ianburgh took little more than an hour. The visitors were intrigued by the pleasant rolling countryside, dotted with stone and thatch-roofed cottages.

At the chief constable's office they were greeted by a tall, distinguished-looking man who introduced himself as Inspector Clyde of Scotland Yard.

“My dear chaps,” he said crisply, “I am sorry you have had such a rough reception.” He turned to a stocky man with bristly gray hair and mustache. “This is my colleague, Chief Constable Burns.”

“I've had a report on your kidnapping, of course,” said the constable as he shook hands. “It was a daring trick. I think this gang has the wind up.”

“They're scared,” Frank agreed. “And that makes them more dangerous. But it doesn't matter. Through Hexton we might be able to identify the other members of UGLI and break the whole organization. But first we must get the goods on Hexton.”

“That we must,” Clyde said grimly. “UGLI has secret eyes and ears in every country of the world.”

Burns nodded. “The jewel robberies are big-and very cleverly done—but they are nothing compared to the international danger.”

“Will you be in charge of the investigation in Scotland?” Frank asked the inspector.

“Not officially,” Clyde replied. “I have been invited to cooperate with the Scottish authorities.”

The chief constable smiled at the boys. “Scotland Yard is tops, you know. Local authorities are often pleased to have them lend a hand.”

“There's something that has always puzzled me,” Chet interrupted. “How come Scotland Yard isn't in Scotland?”

“Many years ago—in 1829 to be exact,” the inspector explained, “a police station and office were set up in a private house at Number 4 Whitehall Place in London. The rear of the house opened onto a court named Scotland Yard because it was part of the palace grounds where the kings and queens of Scotland lodged when they visited the English Court in medieval times.”

Frank was eager to return to the case. “Inspector Clyde,” he said, “Joe and Chet and I would like to try to get into Hexton's castle.”

“Good boys,” said Clyde. “Dell told me you suggested it.”

“Where is the place?” Joe asked.

Chief Constable Burns unfolded a map on his desk and the boys leaned over to study it. “About one hundred miles north of Ianburgh.” He put his blunt finger down on a spot. “There it is. A huge stone fortress, set deep within a private park surrounded by miles of high iron fence.”

Joe grinned. “Sounds like fun, getting in.”

“Actually,” said Clyde, “since the gang have impersonated officers and attempted kidnapping, we have a right to go there and demand entrance. But it would be defeating our purpose.”

Frank nodded. “Yes. Vordo and Bleeker have sounded the alarm by now. Besides, by the time you got through the gates and up to the castle, every bit of evidence would be well hidden.”

“It'll have to be an undercover job,” Joe agreed.

“Maybe we could start by spying on it from the air,” Frank suggested.

“Capital idea!” the inspector said.

“I know exactly the man who can help you,” said Burns. “Aaron McHugh. He's an excellent pilot.”

The chief constable said McHugh flew in the vicinity of Hexton's castle on a charter to the Hebrides, so the sight of his plane in the area would not be likely to arouse the suspicion of the magician and his men.

After leaving the constable's office, the boys went to their hotel and registered, then had showers, food, and several hours of rest.

That afternoon they were introduced to Aaron McHugh, a middle-aged man with a jutting square jaw and a crop of wiry brown hair that sprang out from his head.

The pilot was unusual looking, but his plane, which he used to haul cargo, was even more so. The boys were surprised and amused to see a metal-covered, trimotored craft with unusually thick wings and a system of exposed control cables that stretched back to the tail. Although the craft appeared antiquated, McHugh assured them that it was as durable and reliable as the day it was built.

“My tin bird is no' ver' fast, lads,” he explained, “but it's a splendid workhorse.”

Frank decided that they should waste no time in getting their first look at Hexton's castle.

“Chet, Joe,” he said, “got your binoculars and cameras?”

“Righto,” Chet replied.

Joe grinned and slapped the leather case slung over his shoulder. It also contained the Hardys' high-power photographic equipment.

The trio climbed aboard the plane and sat down on the floor. McHugh fired up the three engines. The craft lumbered along during the initial take-off run, then began to bounce lightly across the rough turf runway.

Soon it lifted off the ground and started to climb slowly, like a tired bird. When McHugh felt he had sufficient altitude, he tapped the various instruments on the panel with his finger to make sure none of the dials were sticking and giving false indications.

“We have a wee bit of a headwind,” he announced, “so it will take about an hour to reach our destination.”

The boys enjoyed the flight as they gazed down at the craggy landscape of the Scottish coast. As McHugh had estimated, nearly an hour elapsed before he pointed ahead.

“There it is!”

He adjusted his course, then rolled the plane into a shallow bank to give the boys a better look. Far below was the large stone castle. Its sturdy gray battlements were sharply defined from an altitude of three thousand feet.

“It must be centuries old,” Joe observed.

“About the eleventh century,” McHugh said.

Chet exclaimed, “It has a moat, too, just like in the history books, but there's no water!”

“Nowadays, with planes,” said their pilot, “a moat of water isn't much protection.”

Frank asked McHugh to circle the castle without getting too close. Using binoculars, they peered down. Frank observed that the castle was on high ground, without trees or shrubbery, and noted that it would be impossible to approach it on foot without being seen.

Joe extracted a camera, attached a telephoto lens, and clicked off one frame after another. Presently his viewer picked up two men on the castle wall.

“Oh-oh!” he exclaimed. “We'd better get out of here. I think we've been spotted.”

McHugh turned the plane back toward Ianburgh. When the craft landed, the Hardys hurried to the police darkroom to develop their photographs. To their disappointment, the glare of the sun on the plane's window had obscured a clear view of the castle.

“Rotten luck!” Joe exclaimed.

“We'll take another crack at it,” Frank said.

He suggested that in order to avoid arousing suspicion, this should be done during one of McHugh's regular charter flights.

“Tomorrow morning I'm taking a load of feed to the sheep raisers near Stornaway in the Hebrides,” the pilot told them. “Come along.”

Shortly after dawn, McHugh and the boys again boarded the plane. Its fuselage was crammed with feed bags, and the three passengers had to worm their way to separate spots near the windows. The pilot started the engines and taxied out for take-off.

Without warning, a man appeared from behind a stack of feed bags and darted for the passenger door. Frank grabbed him and uttered a cry of surprise when he recognized the intruder's face. Timken, the Great Circle's steward! UGLI spying again!

“Let me out!” Timken shouted frantically. “I want to get off! You hear me?”

“I'm not deaf,” Frank said, pinioning the man against one of the sacks. “Why are you here?”

As he spoke, the plane lifted. “We're already airborne,” Frank continued. “I wouldn't suggest your taking a walk just now!”

With a snarl, Timken thrust his feet against the cabin wall and broke Frank's grip. He grabbed a feed bag and threw it at the boy, knocking him to the floor. But Frank sprang up and leaped at his attacker. Timken threw a punch, which Frank ducked. He got off a hard counterblow, catching the man squarely on the chin. The steward fell, unconscious.

“Joe, Chet!” Frank called out over the roar of the engine. “Lookee here! We have company!”

The boys climbed over the sacks.

“Timken!” Joe cried as he gazed in amazement at the man on the floor.

“Right.”

“What's he doing here?” Chet asked.

“I don't know,” Frank answered. “But we'll sure find out when he comes to!”

They tied up their unexpected passenger, then tried to revive him. Several minutes elapsed before Timken regained consciousness. When he realized he was still in the plane, he became panic-stricken. “How long have we been in the air?” he screamed.

“Why do you want to know?” Frank retorted.

“Quick! Tell me!” The steward's face turned pale with fear.

Frank glanced at his watch. “Ten ... maybe fifteen minutes.”

“Let me out of here!” Timken screeched. “You've got to land this plane, or we'll all be killed! There's a bomb aboard!”

“A BOMB!” Frank shouted frantically.

“That's right!” the steward cried.

“Where is it?” Frank demanded, shaking Timken violently.

“In the nacelle of the left engine! You can't reach it!”

Frank dashed to the pilot's compartment to tell McHugh, who looked out his window at the stretch of rocky coastline below. “I no' can land in this area, lad!” he said grimly.

“But we have only minutes!” Frank looked out at the cowled engine, located beneath the left wing. “There's just one thing to do!”

“What's that?” the pilot asked.

“Climb out on the strut and try to reach that engine nacelle. I'll do it.”

“But I no' have any parachutes aboard,” McHugh told him. “The slipstream might pull ye off the strut!”

“I must take that chance,” Frank declared, “or we're goners!”

He went back to Timken. Seizing the steward by his collar, Frank pulled him to his feet. “Exactly where in the engine nacelle did you place the bomb?” he demanded.

“I ... I put it just inside the access door to the oil-filler cap!” Timken stammered. “But it's too late! There's nothing you can do!”

Frank grabbed a screwdriver from the pilot's tool kit and slipped it in a pocket. He asked Joe and Chet to help him kick out the window located directly above the strut leading to the left engine.

As the boys kicked with all their might, the window cracked in several places, then shattered and disappeared below. The thunderous roar of the slipstream echoed through the interior of the fuselage.

Frank squeezed his body out the window. Hooking his legs around the strut, he pushed himself away. The force of the slipstream felt like the hand of some vengeful giant trying to hurl him off into space.

Frank, crouching low, locked his arms about the strut. He then proceeded to shimmy, at a painfully slow rate, toward the engine nacelle. Drawing closer, he moved into the area of the propeller blast and the engine exhausts. The sound was deafening, and the fumes and heat stifled him. However, they made him insensitive to the fact that he was hanging thousands of feet above the ground. Once Frank almost lost his grip.

McHugh reduced power on the right engine in an effort to ease Frank's ordeal. Joe and Chet watched anxiously, their nerves stretched almost to the breaking point.

Frank tightened his grip on the strut with one hand. With the other he took out the screwdriver and reached for the Dzus fasteners which secured the small aluminum access door on the nacelle.

The wind lashed against his outstretched arm, but he continued to probe for the fasteners. Finally the door loosened. It popped open and flapped violently.

Frank reached in through the opening and desperately felt for the bomb. Nothing! He stretched his arm in farther, his efforts becoming more frantic as his strength began to ebb. Then his hand felt something cylindrical in shape and about the size of a flashlight. Frank locked his fingers around the object and slowly drew it out. There was a small timing device at one end, revealing that the bomb had only seconds to run!

Looking down, Frank saw that they were still flying over a desolate stretch of coast. He flung the bomb from him and watched it hurtle down and behind the plane. It was almost out of sight when a white-and-black puff of smoke appeared. Seconds later the faint, thudding sound of an explosion could be heard.

Frank slowly worked his way back to the window and with the help of Joe and Chet dragged himself inside. Exhausted, he slumped to the floor.

“Whew!” Joe exclaimed. “That was close!”

“You can say that again,” Frank said shakily. “Another ten or twenty seconds and it would have taken searchers a year to pick up the pieces.”

“That was a brave deed, lad!” McHugh shouted from the cockpit. “And I'm grateful to ye for saving my ship! Do you want to go back to Ianburgh with your prisoner?”

“No,” Frank replied. “Let's continue with the flight as planned. Timken isn't going to give us any trouble.”

The boys returned to Timken. Joe asked, “Who put you up to this?”