Read The Short-Wave Mystery Online
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
The Short-Wave Mystery (3 page)
Chief Collig, a veteran of the Bayport police force, was a long-time friend of the Hardys. The two young sleuths stopped in to see him on their way back from the game preserve with Chet.
“Have you traced the auction thieves' license number yet?” Joe inquired eagerly.
The husky officer replied with a quizzical grin, “We tried to, but we got a surprise. No license plates with that number were ever issued. Sure you didn't read it wrong?”
“Positive! I was using binoculars.”
Collig rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “Then it sounds as if those hoods were no amateursânot if their car's equipped with fake plates.”
“What about the radio antenna?” Frank asked.
“No use. That turned out to be homemade too, as you suspected, so there's no way to trace it.”
Frank had an idea. “May we have it?”
“Sure, why not?” Collig pulled the antenna from one of his desk drawers and handed it over. “Want to use it on the rig in your convertible?”
“No, but it's an odd design,” Frank explained. “If Joe and I mount it on our car, it may attract attention. Someone might even recognize it and give us a lead on the owner.”
On Sunday, after church, Aunt Gertrude said good-by to her nephews and went off with a ladies' group to visit sick members of the congregation. The boys were alone in the house when the telephone rang. Frank answered and was delighted to hear his father's voice.
“Dad! What a swell surprise! Where are you?”
“At Bayport Airport, son. Just landed from Paris this morning and then hopped a plane from New York. Think you and Joe could pick me up?”
“You bet. We'll be there in a jiffy!”
Fifteen minutes later the tall, broad-shouldered investigator was embracing his two sons.
“Boy, you look great, Dad!” Joe said. “How'd you make out on your case in Europe?”
“Tell you about it later. Right now I could use some of Aunt Gertrude's home cooking.”
“You're out of luck,” Frank said. “She won't be home until three o'clock.”
Mr. Hardy chuckled wryly. “In that case I'll settle for ham and eggs at the nearest diner.”
After stowing their father's luggage in the trunk of the convertible, the boys took him to a roadside restaurant just outside Bayport. Soon the three were settled in a comfortable booth, enjoying their meal. “Okay, let's hear about your case, Dad,” Frank urged.
Mr. Hardy explained that he had been investigating the theft of secret data from a California aircraft company. Certain features of its latest commercial jet plane had been copied by two European firms. “A clear case of industrial espionage,” the detective went on. “And some of those features are usable on military aircraft.”
“Any clues?” Joe asked.
“Just one, so far. The gang that peddled the data uses 'aardvark' as a code word.”
“Aardvark?” Frank echoed. He glanced at Joe and both laughed. “There's a funny coincidence! Chet Morton bought a stuffed one yesterday.”
“What's Chet up to now?” Mr. Hardy inquired.
Before Frank could reply, Joe bolted from his seat with a startled gasp.
“Hey! What's wrong?” Frank asked.
“That bald auction thief!” Joe exclaimed, pointing out the window. “I just saw him out there on the parking lot!”
CHAPTER III
Ghost Light
FRANK sprang up at Joe's mention of the auction thief, and both boys dashed to the door. A stout couple were entering the restaurant. Joe tried to skid aside, but Frank barged into him and they collided heavily with the man and woman.
“Well, of all the fresh young ruffians!” The woman glared at the two boys as she tried to straighten her hat which had been knocked askew in the impact.
“We're terribly sorry, ma'am,” Frank apologized. “My brother just spotted a thief on the parking lotâwe were running out to catch him!”
“Er, better stand aside, dear!” the woman's husband said hastily as he saw tall, husky Fenton Hardy striding to join the two youths.
“Please excuse my sons,” the detective said.
As the woman gave a mollified smile, the Hardys squeezed past her. Outside, Joe gazed around, then exclaimed, “There he goes!”
A thin, baldheaded figure in a flapping tan raincoat was sprinting off the lot.
A green sedan was waiting at the edge of the highway, engine racing. The baldheaded man leaped into it. Joe, Frank, and Mr. Hardy were still weaving their way among the parked cars when the sedan roared off into the stream of traffic. There was no chance to note its license number.
“Rats!” Joe panted. “We lost 'em again!”
“Did you notice that fat-necked thug at the wheel?” Frank said.
“I sure didâhe's the same man who was driving the station wagon yesterday!”
“Suppose you two fill me in,” said Mr. Hardy.
The boys related their adventure at the auction.
“Maybe we ought to check our convertible,” Frank added.
“Just what I was thinking,” Joe said. “I have a hunch Baldy may have been tampering with it.”
The Hardys hurried toward their car. Frank exclaimed as they reached it, “Look! The antenna's goneâthat's what he was after!”
The thieves' odd-shaped short-wave antenna, which the boys had mounted on their convertible, was now missing.
Mr. Hardy frowned. “Rather odd to encounter those two again the very next day. Did you tell anyone about coming to meet me?”
Frank shook his head. “Nobody. When you called, we jumped into the car and took off.”
“Maybe they were just driving along the highway and spotted the antenna on our car,” Joe suggested.
“What was the baldheaded guy doing when you noticed him?” Frank asked.
Joe gave a shrug. “I couldn't see well enough to tell. A car drove up and blocked my view.”
On a hunch, Frank walked around to the trunk. “Oh, oh! Look here!” He pointed to some bright metal scratches around the keyhole.
“Looks as if he tried to jimmy it!” Joe said.
“Better unlock the trunk, Frank, and see if anything else is missing,” Mr. Hardy advised.
Frank did so. Neither his father's suitcases nor the brief case had been disturbed.
“Guess the guy didn't have time to finish breaking in,” Frank said, closing the trunk lid.
“Carrying anything valuable, Dad?” Joe asked.
“Not especiallyâexcept for my case reports. They deal with the aircraft theft and several other recent industrial espionage cases. I've a theory they're all the work of the same gang.”
Frank and Joe exchanged excited glances.
“If Baldy was after those case reports,” Joe reasoned, “he may be one of the gang!”
“It's a possibility,” his father agreed.
That afternoon Chet Morton dropped over to work on his taxidermy project, and again the next day Frank and Joe saw the light burning in the garage crime lab when they arrived home from school.
“Boy, I guess Chet's really serious about this taxidermy kick,” Joe remarked.
After putting down their books and washing their hands, Frank and Joe went to the kitchen for a snack.
“I'm afraid Chester is missing meals and living on grapefruit out in your lab,” Aunt Gertrude fretted.
“Grapefruit?” Frank murmured, pouring milk.
“Yes, he borrowed a knife from me yesterday. It's not good for him, not getting a well-balanced diet. You'd better take him out a sandwich.”
“Good idea. We'll see how he's making out.”
The Hardys found their chum hunched over an array of chemical bottles, tools, a bag of salt, and a nearly finished stuffed squirrel which he was preparing for a high school exhibit.
“How's it going, Chet?” Frank asked, handing him the sandwich.
“Oh, swell! The deer's already at the tanner's, and I've ordered a head form from Roundtree's shop. Did the skin-fleshing myself.”
“So I see,” Joe said, picking up a soiled grapefruit knife. “Did you flesh it with this?”
“Yes, your aunt lent it to me.” Seeing the Hardys' expressions, Chet's eyes widened innocently. “Do you think she'll mind? Gee, it's for a scientific cause!”
Frank nudged his brother, then looked threateningly at Chet. “Morton, old boy, if we find deer meat in our grapefruit tomorrow morning, we'll personally stuff you.”
“With breakfast? You've got a deal!”
Joe threw up his arms. “We can't win!”
A shrill summons from Aunt Gertrude brought the Hardys hurrying back to the house. “A man wants to speak to you two on the phone,” she reported. “Says his name's CrowellâJ. Sylvester Crowell.”
Joe looked at his brother blankly as they strode toward the hall telephone and muttered, “Wonder who he is.”
When Frank answered, Crowell explained that he was the attorney for the wife of the late Elias Batter. “Mrs. Batter has asked me to thank you boys for your efforts to catch those thieves who stole the stuffed animals,” Crowell went on. “We understand you two are already following in your father's footstepsâas detectives, I mean.”
“We've solved a few cases,” Frank admitted.
“Well, even though you're amateurs, she thought you might like to undertake a little moreâshall we say, practice work at detecting?”
“Such as?” Frank inquired cautiously.
“She herself will tell you all about it. Could you come to my office in half an hour?”
Joe, who was listening in, nodded eagerly.
“We'll be there,” Frank told the lawyer.
Crowell proved to be a balding, long-nosed man in a pinstripe suit. He introduced the boys to a short, dowdily dressed woman. “Mrs. Batter, I'd like to present Frank and Joe Hardy.”
She nodded curtly without offering her hand and looked the boys over appraisingly.
“We didn't realize Mr. Batter was married,” Frank said. “We thought since his estate was being auctioned offâ”
“No sense living in that drafty old mausoleum!” she snapped. “Just a white elephant, that's all it is. How would I keep it up? Elias left me barely enough to live on as it is!”
“That's why Mrs. Batter is eager to recover those stolen animals,” Crowell put in smoothly. “Every penny counts, you see.”
“What he means,” the widow said bluntly, “is that I have no money to waste on fancy detective agency fees. Now, you two boys are smart young fellows, I hear. How would you like to take on the job of tracking down those thieves and getting back my property for me?”
“We never charge for our services, if that's what you mean,” Frank said. “Joe and I aren't professional detectives.”
“Good! Then you'll take the case. Maybe your father would even be willing to help.”
Frank smiled. “If he does, he'll charge.” Frank was amused at the woman's stingy eagerness to get as much work as possible free. “Besides, Dad's tied up on another case. But my brother and I will do what we can.”
“Have you any idea why the stuffed animals were taken?” Joe asked.
Mrs. Batter's beady green eyes glared suspiciously at the younger Hardy boy. “To sell for whatever they'd bring, I suppose. Why else?”
“But the auctioneer said the thieves first offered to buy them,” Joe reminded her. “And for a higher price than was bid.”
There was brief silence. Then Crowell cleared his throat. “Well, perhaps the thieves were collectorsâor thought the animals were more valuable than they really are. At any rate, Mrs. Batter wants her property back, no matter how little it's worth. As I said, every penny counts.” He flashed the boys a toothy smile.
“Did Mr. Batter have any friends who might know more about those animals?” Frank asked.
Mrs. Batter sniffed. “I had nothing to do with Elias's friendsâor his business affairs.”
“What
was
his business?” Joe inquired.
was
his business?” Joe inquired.
“Investments. That's all he ever told
me.
They didn't amount to much, I can tell you that!”
me.
They didn't amount to much, I can tell you that!”
Driving home, Frank mused aloud, “If you ask me, Mrs. Batter knows more than she's telling.”
Joe nodded. “I got the same impression. But where do we start on this case?”
“Remember how the thieves' station wagon sideswiped our car and then struck a tree when they were making their getaway?”
“Sure. What about it?”
“There might be some paint flecks in the tree bark,” Frank reasoned. “And if the wagon ever had a repaint job, those particles might help us trace the garage where it was done.”
“Swell idea!” Joe said. “That brown color didn't look as if it were the original shade.”
Not until after supper were the Hardys able to drive out to the Batter estate. The high, gabled mansion loomed starkly against the sky, silvered by moonlight. A broken porch rail and dark, blank windows gave it a sinister look.
“Spooky-looking layout,” Joe muttered. “It's a cinch no one's taking care of the place.”
Beaming flashlights, the boys carefully examined the tree which had been hit by the thieves' car. To their disappointment, the only mark was low on the trunk, about two feet from the ground.
Frank sighed. “I guess we're out of luck.”
“Looks that way,” Joe agreed. “They must have just grazed it with their front bumper. And their tire tracks don'tâ” He broke off as Frank suddenly clutched his arm. “What's the matter?”
“Take a look!” Frank pointed to the house.
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