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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

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BOOK: The Sting of the Scorpion
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“What for?” Frank asked.
“I wanted to find out exactly what evidence he had gathered against my brother. You see, Jemal wants to apply for re-entry into the United States on a student visa. So I thought if I could find out what your father has against him, it would help him prepare his case.”
“And what was the idea of trying to break into our boathouse?” Joe prodded.
“I learned you two had a boat while talking to some fan of yours on the plane flying into Bayport.” Gopal Raman said he had hoped to find something useful in the boathouse, perhaps even a spare set of keys to the Hardy home, which would enable him to slip in easily when everyone was out or during the night.
His spying and the chalk mark on the door were intended to unnerve the family. “That way, if I
were
spotted breaking in,” Gopal confessed glumly, “I hoped to scare the women into letting me go without a struggle.”
“Boy, you sure didn't count on our broom-toting aunt!” Joe chuckled.
The prisoner was so depressed and woebegone, the Hardy boys hardly had the heart to turn him over to the police. They both felt that Gopal Raman had proved himself a rather bumbling, inept villain.
“P-please don't hand me over to the authorities,” he quavered. “I shall be totally disgraced and disowned by my father if I am kicked out of this country and sent home without completing my education!”
Joe scratched his head and glanced at Frank. “What should we do with him?”
Frank turned to their aunt. “He's your prisoner, Aunt Gertrude. What do you think? Should we give him another chance?”
Gopal's large dark eyes fastened hopefully on Miss Hardy. He placed his palms together in the praying
namaste
gesture of India. “P-p-please, Madame!”
“Hmph!” Miss Hardy frowned and fussed uncomfortably. Despite her tart, forbidding manner, she was soft-hearted. “Use your own best judgment, Frank,” she decided.
“Okay. Joe, take his driver's license, his car registration, his passport, and any other LD. he's carrying.”
Joe nodded. “Right—I've got them.”
Frank turned to the prisoner. “Where are you staying here in Bayport?”
“At the Regent Hotel.”
“Our father should be home in a day or two. If you'll promise not to leave town, and to remain in your hotel room until he's able to interview you, we'll let you go for now.”
“Oh, I shall! I shall!” Gopal Raman promised fervently, sounding as if he were on the verge of tears.
“Okay, then beat it!”
As the Hindu disappeared into the darkness, Frank shut the door behind him and headed for the hall phone.
“What are you going to do?” Joe inquired as his brother consulted the telephone directory.
“Call his hotel and make sure he doesn't pull any fast ones.” Frank dialed the Regent Hotel's number and spoke to the manager. After explaining the situation, he asked the man if he would notify the Hardys at once if Gopal tried to check out.
“You can depend on it!” the manager promised.
Next morning the Hardy boys left home early to keep their appointment with Arthur Bixby, the second party who had tried repeatedly to buy Wild World. The animal-park magnate had opened a temporary office in Bayport while he conducted negotiations.
Bixby was a stout, jolly man, built along much the same lines as Chet Morton. Throughout most of the interview, a king-sized cigar tilted upward from one corner of his mouth, filling the office with wreaths of blue smoke.
“So you two are the Hardy boys, eh?” he said, rocking back in his desk chair. “Heard lots about you, but I never expected you to come calling on me!” He chuckled and slapped his thigh to emphasize his surprise. “What can I do for you, lads?”
“Not to beat around the bush,” said Frank, “we'd like to know why you're bidding so hard for Wild World.”
“Because it's a good investment. Why else?” Bixby boomed.
“If you're so eager to own an animal park around here,” Joe probed, “why didn't you open one yourself?”
“I intended to, but old man Carter beat me to it. I may still have to, if he won't sell out. That's why I've opened this office, so I can scout the area and pick out a good location.”
“You don't really think this area would support two separate animal parks?” Frank challenged.
Bixby chuckled, but his eyes remained cold. “You're a smart young feller, me lad! No, between the two of us, I don't think so. That's why I've been trying to buy Wild World.”
Joe said, “Do you believe it's fair to pressure Pop Carter into selling out after he's worked so hard to get the park started and invested all his life savings in it?”
“Business is business, son. Besides, I'm offering Pop a good price. I'd even be willing to let him stay on and run the park. After all, I'm a showman. So's he. A good one. We'd get along!”
“Wouldn't be quite the same for Pop, though, would it,” Frank pointed out, “working as a hired hand for someone else, compared to running his own show?”
Bixby undamped long enough to wave his cigar through the air. “Ah, what's the difference? I treat all my employees right. They
love
working for Arthur Bixby. Talk to them if you don't believe me.”
“May I ask you a blunt question?” Frank said.
“Shoot!”
“Do you want Wild World badly enough to resort to dirty tricks to crowd Pop into selling out?”
“Dirty tricks?” the stout impresario cocked a perplexed eyebrow at the Hardys.
“Like having someone toss a stink bomb in the park on a hot, busy day,” said Joe, “or spreading scare stories about the animals' being rabid.”
“I've never resorted to such tactics in my life, and I don't intend to begin now!” Bixby thundered, thumping his fist on the desk. A moment later, his little blue eyes twinkled and his doublechinned face burst into a sly smile. “On the other hand, I play to win!”
Frank glanced at Joe, who shrugged and smiled faintly.
“Thank you, sir,” Frank said, rising. “No need to take up any more of your time. I guess we've learned all we're likely to.”
“Oh, no, you haven't, son! If you're smart, you'll go on learning all your life, just as I try to do. And just to make sure you don't forget old Arthur Bixby, let me present you each with a little memento of this cherished meeting!”
Bouncing up from his chair, he extracted two small plastic animals from a box on his desk and handed them to the boys—a giraffe to Joe, and an elephant to Frank.
“What are these?” Frank asked, slightly mystified.
“Read what's on them, son!”
Both boys examined their presents carefully and discovered the words,
Souvenir of Arthur Bixby, Animal Parks, Inc.
stamped into the plastic base.
Bixby roared with laughter as he ushered them out the door.
“Quite a character!” Joe remarked drily as the Hardys drove off in their car.
“Don't let him fool you,” Frank said. “Under that jolly mask, he may be as hard-boiled and ruthless as they come.”
At home, Frank made another call to “Hector Maris” at the Quinn Air Terminal. Once again he was told that Maris had not reported for work.
“Where's he gone?” Frank pressed.
“Don't ask me,” the crew chief rasped over the phone, “but if I don't hear from him in the next twenty-four hours, he's going to be out of a job!”
Frank shook his head at Joe as he hung up. “Still missing.”
“What do you make of it?” Joe asked.
The older Hardy boy shrugged uneasily and plowed his fingers through his dark hair. “I don't know, but if Maris doesn't show up by tomorrow, maybe we should notify the police.” After an early lunch, the boys sped to the Bayport airfield for the blimp ride Eustace Jarman had promised them. Both were eager to try out one of his mini-aircraft.
Apparently the baby blimp had touched down shortly before they arrived. Jarman was proudly holding forth about the craft to a crowd of admiring onlookers. To the Hardys' amazement, its gas envelope had shrunk to less than half its normal size as compared to the gondola cabin, which rested on well-sprung landing gear.
“How come it's deflated?” Joe asked.
“Come aboard, boys, and I'll show you,” the industrialist replied.
Once they were seated inside the luxurious cabin, Jarman explained that the helium gas had been compressed and pumped into a storage cylinder. This decreased the lift and enabled the blimp to land.
“For takeoff, we do just the opposite, valve the gas back into the cigar-shaped envelope and let it expand again.”
Frank and Joe were excited at the spectacular view as the baby blimp rose into the air, then cruised over Bayport and along the coast. Below, on the blue-green waters of the Atlantic, they saw pleasure boats and commercial ships as well as a warship steaming out to sea.
The Hardys were even more thrilled when Jarman let them try their hands at the simple controls. At the magnate's suggestion, Frank steered the craft inland again. When they approached Wild World, he cruised lower, so they could glimpse the spectators and the herds of animals.
“Hey! What's that?” Joe exclaimed suddenly.
“What's what?” his brother inquired.
“That sign!” Joe said, pointing downward. “It's painted on the ground, right outside the fence!”
Frank gasped as he saw the odd, bright-orange marking. “That's the astrological symbol for Scorpio!”
CHAPTER XVI
The
Scorpio Symbol
 
 
 
 
“WHAT? Let me see!” blurted Eustace Jarman, craning.
Frank gestured toward the spot below. The symbol had been splashed so boldly and brightly that it was clearly visible from the air. It looked like a lower-case
m
with the tail of the letter curved sharply to the right and capped with an arrowhead.
“You say that's the symbol of Scorpio?” Jarman demanded, turning back to Frank with a frown.
“Yes, sir. It's one of the signs of the zodiac.”
“And you think this may have something to do with the Scorpio gang of terrorists?” The tycoon's glance flicked sharply back and forth between the Hardy boys.
Frank nodded. “There's no doubt about it.”
“That's the Wild World animal park down there, Mr. Jarman,” Joe added. “We've already had half a dozen other clues connecting the gang with the park. That symbol's got to be more than a coincidence!”
“Then let's descend and take a closer look!” Jarman said with an air of tense excitement. “Perhaps you'd better let me handle the landing, son.”
The remark was directed to Frank, who promptly surrendered the controls. Jarman took over and deftly brought the baby blimp to a gentle, well-cushioned landing just outside the park fence.
He and the Hardys leaped out of the cabin, one by one, and hurried to inspect the strange mark. The symbol was made up of lines almost a foot wide, in brilliant orange phosphorescent paint that looked as if it had been slapped on with a whitewash brush over the grass, stones, and bare earth.
“Wow! I'll bet this could be seen from the air even at night!” Joe exclaimed.
“You're right,” Frank agreed, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. “The question is, what does it mean?”
“Any ideas?” said Jarman, watching the boys hopefully.
“Not really.” Frank frowned. “Unless that arrowhead on the tail of the symbol is supposed to be pointing at something.”
“Hmm, let's see.” Jarman turned in the direction indicated by the arrowhead, then emitted an excited whoop. “By George, you're right! Look over there—under that tree!”
The boys hurried after the tycoon as he strode toward the tree. Screened from aerial view by the overhanging tree branches was another mark on a bare patch of ground. This one, a wiggly, jagged line that was only about the width of a man's finger, was in white paint and was much smaller than the Scorpio symbol.
“This one is surely no zodiac symbol,” Eustace Jarman mused as he studied the white line.
“Definitely not,” Frank agreed. “But don't ask me what it is.”
“Beats me, too,” Joe admitted, after copying it on a piece of paper. “It doesn't look like writing, and it's not a picture of anything, either, at least not that
I
can recognize.”
His brother was equally baffled. Jarman glanced at his watch—once again the hard-driving, tightly scheduled businessman. “Maybe an idea will occur to you later. Meantime, I'm afraid I have to get back to New York, but I'll drop you at the airport first.”
The Hardys were silent and thoughtful on the way back to the Bayport airfield, each racking his brain for a solution to the odd mystery of the painted markings. Nevertheless, both enjoyed the brief flight.
“These baby blimps are really nice!” Joe said effusively. “They're a lot more fun to ride than a regular airplane.”
“And safer,” Jarman boasted.
“What do you call this model, sir?” Frank inquired. “Got a name for it?”
The industrialist smiled proudly. “I have, indeed, the Jarman
Hopscotch.
It's delightful for short hops, and very tight on fuel costs.”
Both boys nodded politely.
“Eventually,” Jarman went on, “I plan to develop this into a road car, so that it can be driven as well as flown, and even have an amphibian hull. It'll then be a true all-purpose vehicle.”
BOOK: The Sting of the Scorpion
4.47Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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