The Bombay Boomerang

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER I - A Cry for Help

  CHAPTER II - Mercury Mystery

  CHAPTER III - The Hotel Caper

  CHAPTER IV - The Battered Car

  CHAPTER V - The Missing Missile

  CHAPTER VI - X Marks L. Marks

  CHAPTER VII - Desperate Dive

  CHAPTER VIII - Hotel Hideout

  CHAPTER IX - A Bug on a Wire

  CHAPTER X - The Disk Jockey’s Dog

  CHAPTER XI - Patter in Code

  CHAPTER XII - Cemetery Search

  CHAPTER XIII - Aboard the Indian Freighter

  CHAPTER XIV - Down the Hatch

  CHAPTER XV - Sailor Suspect

  CHAPTER XVI - Boomerang or Batarang?

  CHAPTER XVII - Precious Wreck

  CHAPTER XVIII - Joe Leaves a Clue

  CHAPTER XIX - The Nerve-Gas Plot

  CHAPTER XX - Secret in the Air

  THE BOMBAY BOOMERANG

  FRANK and Joe Hardy become involved in a case affecting national security when Joe dials a wrong telephone number and gets the Pentagon. Two words—“Bombay Boomerang” —that the boys hear before the line goes dead plunge them into a whirlpool of danger and intrigue.

  At the same time, their father is investigating the baffling thefts of mercury shipments occurring along the Atlantic seaboard. The celebrated detective finds himself up against a murderous gang who nearly dispose of him in a cask at the bottom of Baltimore harbor. Frank and Joe’s astute sleuthing ability not only saves Mr. Hardy’s life, but also links the mercury thefts to the top-secret Super S missile mysteriously stolen from a government arsenal.

  In a race against time the three Hardys foil a diabolical scheme to create widespread havoc in the United States. Pulse-pounding excitement fills every page of this suspense thriller.

  Joe grabbed hold of a cable

  Copyright © 1970 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

  Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

  THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-07662-0

  2008 Printing

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  CHAPTER I

  A Cry for Help

  “THIS gang seems to be operating along the entire Atlantic seaboard,” Fenton Hardy said. The world-famous private detective sounded as casual as if he were reporting a routine burglary in Bayport. But his two sons sensed an undercurrent of tension in his voice.

  “You’re really worried about this one, Dad, aren’t you?” asked eighteen-year-old Frank, the dark-haired member of the Hardy clan.

  His father nodded. “A little.”

  “Since it’s quicksilver the gang is after,” Joe Hardy mused, “they’d naturally operate out of cities like Boston, Baltimore, and Bayport. After all, most of the stuff we import comes from Europe, doesn’t it?”

  “Right,” Mr. Hardy replied.

  Joe, who was a year younger than Frank, went on, “I boned up on the subject when we were doing our mercury ionization experiments in high school a few months ago. Spain produces more quicksilver than anyone. And we’re among her best customers.”

  Fenton Hardy stretched his long legs, leaned back in his chair, and looked out the window of his study. “You fellows appear to be way ahead of me,” he said with a laugh.

  “Just did our homework,” Joe quipped.

  “But seriously,” his father said, “you’re both right. Our industries need more quicksilver than we mine in the United States, so we import the stuff to the tune of millions of dollars every year. That kind of money attracts criminals, and the ones involved in the mercury thefts are canny operators, judging by the jobs they’ve pulled off.”

  The boys had worked on quite a few cases with their father, a former member of the New York Police Department. Starting with The Tower Treasure, they had helped solve many baffling mysteries, their most recent being The Arctic Patrol Mystery. The Bayport sleuth was proud of his sons’ ability and usually discussed his cases with them.

  “As you know,” he continued, “quicksilver is one metal that remains liquid at room temperature. Looks something like liquid silver.”

  “How is it being brought in, Dad?” Joe asked.

  “In iron flasks about fourteen inches tall, shaped like milk bottles. Each flask has a strong steel cap that screws down tight to prevent leakage. And a flask is heavy when it’s full. Weighs one hundred and thirty-five pounds.”

  “Which means,” Frank put in, “that you can’t pick one up and slip it into your hip pocket when nobody’s watching. What on earth—!”

  His exclamation was caused by the sound of shattering glass as a large object came crashing through the window and landed in the middle of the floor.

  Quick as a flash, Joe leaped on it, ready to toss it out the window. The thing might be a bomb!

  Suddenly he relaxed with a rueful grin. The object in his hand was a stick about twenty inches long, curved in the middle at a ninety-degree angle.

  “A boomerang!” Joe announced. “That means Chet Morton is lurking on the premises!”

  “That’s our buddy Chet”—Frank chuckled—“introducing himself in his inimitable manner.”

  “Are boomerangs his latest craze?” Mr. Hardy asked.

  “Yes,” Frank replied. “Last we heard, he was holed up in his workshop at the farm trying to master the carving technique. Evidently he’s started throwing them, and not too accurately, as you can see!”

  Heavy feet pounded up the stairs. A plump, freckle-faced youth burst into the study, puffing from his climb.

  “Gee, Mr. Hardy, I’m sorry about the window,” he apologized with a stricken look on his usually placid countenance. “That was one that got away!”

  “The latest one that got away,” Fenton Hardy suggested dryly. “Chet, you’ll have to be more careful with your Australian artillery. However, there’s no harm done as long as the broken glass is cleaned up and the window repaired.”

  “Right-o,” Chet promised, relieved that his errant boomerang had not hit anyone. He headed for the kitchen to get the broom and dustpan.

  Chet Morton was the Hardy boys’ best friend, and they were resigned to his enthusiasm for one hobby after another, despite the often unexpected consequences. They knew that for all Chet’s amiable, easy-going nature, and professed dislike for danger, they could count on him to act with sturdy courage whenever he became involved in one of their adventures.

  When Chet left the study, Mr. Hardy told the boys he was leaving for Baltimore to follow a lead in the mercury case. His best bet, he thought, would be to go underground, adopting one of his many disguises, and try to make contact with the thieves.

  He would register at a waterfront hotel under the alias of L. Marks. “Here’s the telephone number where you can reach me,” he said. “Keep it under your hat, or my life may be in danger!”

  “What can we do, Dad?” Frank asked eagerly.

  “Here’s the first thing. On Monday around noon call the number on this slip of paper. It’s the Mersex Iberia Company in New York City, area code 212. Get the shipping department and ask if they have anything from Spain arriving within the next ten days.”

  “Mercury?” Frank asked.

  “See if they mention it. But don’t let on that that’s what you’re interested in. If they get nosy, say you’re making a survey on Spanish melons. And hang up before they trace the call.”

  Frank nodded. “Okay.”

  “
We don’t want any member of the gang getting wise to the fact that we’re on to them,” Mr. Hardy went on. “They just might have planted one of their agents in the front office, and also there is the possibility that they’re tapping the company’s wires.”

  Later the boys watched as their mother packed the detective’s bag. Laura Hardy was a trim, pleasant woman with blue eyes. She worried about her husband’s dangerous occupation, but always prepared him with whatever he might need on his assignments.

  Mr. Hardy put the records of the mercury case in a large envelope and slipped it into a secret compartment of his suitcase. Joe handed him a coil of fine wire with a small metal sphere attached to one end.

  “Don’t forget the insect,” he said.

  His father smiled and took the coil. It was a bugging device that picked up sounds and transmitted them to the receiver at the opposite end.

  “I’d never leave without my bug.” Fenton Hardy chuckled as he snapped the bag shut. Half an hour later he left for the airport where his pilot, Jack Wayne, was waiting to fly the Hardys’ private plane to Baltimore.

  The following morning after church services, Frank and Joe drove out to Chet’s farm on the outskirts of Bayport. On the way they picked up pretty blond Callie Shaw, Frank’s favorite date. The three talked about the next day’s cookout at the home of Phil Cohen, a regular member of the group. When Frank briefly mentioned his father’s new case, Callie said:

  “I hope it won’t keep you from the festivities.”

  “You never can tell when Dad’s on an undercover job,” Joe responded. “All we know is that he’ll follow the trail wherever it leads, and send us an SOS if he needs help in a hurry.”

  Frank turned the car off the highway, down the dirt road leading to the Morton farm, before giving his opinion. “Looks as if the picnic is safe enough. We don’t have anything to do except make a phone call on Monday.”

  The car jerked to a halt in a cloud of dust as Frank put on the brakes.

  “Hi, fellows,” Chet called out. He was waiting for them with a boomerang in his hand. His sister Iola, whom Joe considered his steady date, waved at the trio. “Have a throw!” she invited.

  They all began to inspect the boomerangs in the workshop under what Chet termed “my professional direction.” He explained that the boomerang is found in many lands, even among the Indians of our Southwest; but the most famous is the Australian boomerang.

  “The principle,” Chet intoned in a lordly manner, “is that the angle of the arms and the symmetrical planes, plus the torque that moves the ends off the center line, give the weapon an aerodynamic impetus that causes a reverse vector.”

  “Come again?” Callie giggled, making a face.

  Joe winked. They knew Chet liked to talk about his hobbies almost as much as he liked eating.

  “In other words,” Frank interpreted Chet’s explanation, “a boomerang returns to the spot from which it was thrown. And there also are non-return boomerangs, aren’t there?”

  Chet gave a superior smile. “Of course, but they’re the kind you use to bop an enemy or a kangaroo. But I’m more interested in the science of the return boomerang.”

  Frank and Joe, for all their joshing, were interested in Chet’s hobby. Who could tell? A boomerang might come in handy on a case!

  “Here, let me have one,” Joe said.

  They all tried a few throws. But it was not as easy as it seemed, and they began to get a bit discouraged.

  Then Joe seized a boomerang in his hand, whooped loudly, and hurled it in a straight line toward the front gate. The weapon whirled through the air at terrific speed, curved to the left, and came back—heading directly for an antique lamp on a post in front of the house!

  “Watch out!” yelled Callie.

  “Duck!” called Iola.

  Chet was terrified. “Do something!” he wailed.

  Joe was too far away to do anything. But Frank leaped up and caught the boomerang with one hand just as it was about to crash into the lamp!

  “Wow!” Chet said. “That was close. Thanks, Frank!”

  “Bad shot,” Joe admitted. “Next time I throw a stick like that, it’ll be down in the pasture!”

  After lunch at the Mortons’ Frank and Joe drove home. They were greeted by their Aunt Gertrude.

  “Boomerangs!” sniffed the peppery spinster sister of Mr. Hardy when the boys spoke of Chet’s latest hobby. “Boomerangs are for the Wild Man of Borneo!”

  “Oh, Aunty, they’re really a lot of fun,” Frank said.

  “Fun!” His aunt shook her head. “I would expect you to find a more genteel hobby. Mark my words, no good will come of it. Just think of how Mrs. Morton would have felt if you’d broken her antique lamp!“

  Frank leaped up and caught the boomerang

  “Fortunately, we didn’t,” Joe said contritely. “Anyhow, we’ll soon be experts!”

  “Humph!” was his aunt’s reply.

  Frank and Joe drove over to Phil Cohen’s on Monday morning to help him with the preparations for the cookout.

  Phil was a distinct contrast to Chet. A quiet boy, good with the books, he had an artistic nature. He was slender and agile, quick on the uptake, a useful fellow to have around in time of danger.

  The trio went to work at once, setting up the barbecue and hanging party decorations. About noontime, as they finished arranging tables and chairs, Frank asked, “Can I use your phone, Phil? Joe and I promised to make a call for Dad.”

  “Sure. Business before pleasure,” Phil replied with a grin. “Just put your dime in the little box next to it!”

  The Hardys went into the house and Joe dialed the number his father had given them. Frank listened in with an ear close to the receiver.

  The phone rang on the other end. There was the familiar clicking sound as someone picked it up. “Hello?” said a man’s voice.

  “Is this Mersex Iberia in New York?” Joe asked.

  “No, it’s a Washington, D. C. number,” the voice answered. “This is area code 202. You want 212.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t mention it. Happens all the time.”

  Joe was about to hang up and re-dial when he and Frank heard the party on the other end give a hoarse shout. The words that followed were clearly audible.

  “Help! They’re after the Super S data! Help! Help!”

  CHAPTER II

  Mercury Mystery

  STARTLED by the shout, Frank and Joe froze. Their experience in crime detection told them to wait for some clue to the mysterious voice, which cut off suddenly.

  There was silence for a moment at the other end of the connection.

  “Must be a joke of some kind,” Joe muttered impatiently. He pulled the phone away from his ear, intending to hang up.

  Frank grabbed his wrist with the whispered warning, “Hold on! If thugs have jumped that guy in Washington, we don’t want to lose our communications. We might miss the one piece of evidence we need to get on their track!”

  Muffled sounds came through the receiver. Drawers banged, locks snapped, and papers rustled as if an office were being ransacked. Men’s voices could be heard in hurried conversation. The boys could not make out what they were saying until the very end when two words came through clearly: Bombay Boomerang. Then the line went dead.

  Joe turned to Frank with a mystified expression. “Did you hear what I heard?”

  Frank nodded emphatically. “Bombay Boomerang. But what on earth does it mean?”

  Joe shrugged. “You don’t think we may have imagined it?” he inquired doubtfully. “Maybe we’ve got boomerangs on the brain. If so, we can chalk off one illusion to old Chet and his identified flying objects.”

  “Well, what about Bombay? I don’t recall Chet ever mentioning the Indian city, although he’s spouted about ten thousand words concerning Australia.”

  “It’s a puzzle, all right.”

  Phil came into the house. “Finished?” he asked.

  Joe shook his head. �
��Got the wrong area code.”

  Phil chuckled. “Try again. Better get it right this time, though, or your father will begin having second thoughts about the reliabilty of his seconds-in-command.”

  Joe picked up the phone again as Phil walked out to the porch.

  “Two—one—two,” he counted aloud before dialing the number. A secretary in the Mersex shipping department confirmed without hesitation that cargo was due in from a Spanish port aboard a freighter. Of her own accord she provided the information that it was mercury.

  “Okay,” Frank said after Joe had hung up. “Now to get through to the Baltimore hotel and let Dad know what we’ve learned. Perhaps he’ll have a theory.”

  Fenton Hardy was interested to hear about the Mersex cargo. But he became disturbed when Frank related the tale of the wrong-number phone call to Washington.

  “This could be of vital importance to our national security,” he declared.

  “Are you going to call Washington?” Frank asked.

  “Yes. An old friend, Admiral Rodgers is one of the top men in missile research, and he’s got an office in the Pentagon. I’ll talk to him and get back to you later on.”

  Frank and Joe joined Phil on the porch. “I’m expecting all of you this evening,” their friend announced. “My strategy is elementary. The girls can make the hamburgers, the boys will eat them.”

  “Chet Morton will like that,” Joe said, grinning. “Just include a few wedges of chocolate layer cake, some slices of pie, lots of ice cream and soda—”

  “Say, I’m getting hungry,” Frank interrupted. “We’re about due home for lunch. Aunt Gertrude will lecture us if we’re late!”

  “See you tonight,” Phil called as they pulled out of the driveway.

  Later that afternoon the Hardys’ front doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” Frank said to his mother and aunt, who were in the living room sewing.

  Two men stood outside. They had a tough look about them, in spite of their fashionably-cut clothes. Frank sized them up. “Plenty of money,” he thought to himself, “but a couple of slippery characters all the same.”