The Arctic Patrol Mystery
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER I - Icelandic Secret
CHAPTER II - Thug for Hire
CHAPTER III - An Ancient Custom
CHAPTER IV - Astronauts’Salute
CHAPTER V - The Boiling Pit
CHAPTER VI - Tricked in the Sky
CHAPTER VII - A Harrowing Blizzard
CHAPTER VIII - Something Fishy
CHAPTER IX - Man of the Sea
CHAPTER X - The Arctic Patrol
CHAPTER XI - Over the Waves
CHAPTER XII - A Mysterious Offer
CHAPTER XIII - Eavesdroppers
CHAPTER XIV - A Perfect Disguise
CHAPTER XV - A Bad Break
CHAPTER XVI - The Boxes
CHAPTER XVII - Shut In
CHAPTER XVIII - Divide and Conquer!
CHAPTER XIX - Hijackers!
CHAPTER XX - Cool Hand Chet
THE ARCTIC PATROL MYSTERY
PRIVATE investigator Fenton Hardy enlists the aid of his teen-age detective sons in a search for a missing man being sought by an insurance company. All leads to the sailor’s whereabouts have petered out and the boys fly to Iceland, the man’s native land, hoping to find a new clue.
From the moment Frank and Joe arrive in Reykjavik, the capital city of Iceland, they are in constant danger. They are shadowed by a mysterious blond man who is later responsible for the crash landing of their chartered plane on a vast glacier. Stranded in a fierce blizzard, the detective brothers narrowly escape death. Other perils confront them when their friends Chet Morton and Biff Hooper vanish under alarming circumstances.
In the spine-chilling pursuit that follows, Frank and Joe uncover a diabolical espionage plot that threatens the life of a U.S. astronaut and NASA’s moon project.
Copyright © 1997, 1969 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. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 69-12164
eISBN : 978-1-101-07661-3
2008 Printing
http://us.penguingroup.com
CHAPTER I
Icelandic Secret
“How would you boys like to fly to Iceland?” Mr. Hardy asked his sons.
Frank and Joe, seated in their father’s study on the second floor of the Hardy home in Bayport, looked stunned.
“Iceland? Up near the Arctic Circle?” asked blond-haired, seventeen-year-old Joe.
Frank, dark-haired and a year older, had the same incredulous look as his brother, but he realized that his famous detective father was not joking. “Of course, Dad! What’s the pitch? Another mystery?”
Fenton Hardy rocked slightly in his high-backed swivel chair. “I would call it a mild mystery compared with some others you’ve handled. But it could develop into the most dangerous one yet, provided...” Frowning, he paused for a moment.
Joe queried excitedly, “Provided what, Dad?”
“That depends on another assignment I’m not at liberty to reveal. It’s top secret—for the moment at least. Your job is to find a man named Rex Hallbjornsson. An insurance company wants to pay him fifty thousand dollars.”
Frank smiled. “That’s not hard to take. Who left him that tidy little fortune?”
“A person whose life he saved at sea.”
“Then this Hallb—what’s his name—is a sailor?” Joe asked.
“Right. Probably one reason why Hallbjornsson hasn’t been found. And I have a hunch his long Scandinavian name might have something to do with it, too.”
Mr. Hardy quickly outlined the important facts. The missing man’s last known address was a London steamship company. That was before his ship was sunk by a drifting mine off the coast of France. European detectives tracked him to a family on the coast of Brittany, but Hallbjornsson had long since gone from there. He did leave a clue—a scrap of paper which bore the word ‘Island.’
“Island is the Icelandic word for Iceland,” Mr. Hardy explained. “Hallbjornsson would be in his sixties by now. My guess is that he returned to his native land. Your mission—track him down. There’s a direct flight from New York to Reykjavik, the capital of Iceland.”
“What about Chet?” Joe asked. “Can he come With us?”
Chet Morton was the Hardys’ best friend. He was a stout boy, great as a lineman on the Bayport High football team, but less than enthusiastic as a sleuth. Chet would side-step danger, if possible. However, when the chips were down, he always proved to be a true pal. He was fond of food and hobbies, the latter changing as often as the weather.
Mr. Hardy pondered the question about Chet in silence for a few moments. “Yes,” he said finally, “Chet might be of assistance as well as good company. But you must warn him to be silent. Premature disclosure of our plans could prove disastrous.”
Frank and Joe made careful note of their father’s warning, because Fenton Hardy was an expert in detective work and security. He had been a crack member of the New York Police Department, and his superiors hated to lose him when he left to start his own agency. Now he was world-famous and his sons were following in his footsteps.
Their first case, known as The Tower Treasure, had whetted the boys’ appetite for mysteries, and they had solved one after another, their latest being Mystery of the Whale Tattoo.
“Great, Dad!” Frank said, jumping to his feet. “With spring vacation coming up we won’t miss any time at school!”
“Are your passports up to date?” his father asked.
“Sure, we always keep them that way.”
A telephone call brought Chet Morton and his old jalopy backfiring to a halt in front of the Hardy home on Elm Street. Chet lived on a farm several miles out of town. He had a sister, Iola, who was Joe’s girl friend.
Frank’s special date was Callie Shaw. But girls were far from the minds of the young detectives as they ran out to greet their friend.
Chet hopped out of the car, his round face beaming. “Hi, fellows. Another mystery? By the way, how’s your Aunt Gertrude fixed for pie?”
“Come in. We’ll find out.”
Laura Hardy, the boys’ mother, had gone marketing, leaving Aunt Gertrude in sole charge of the kitchen. Miss Hardy, their father’s sister, was tall, spare, and decisive.
She often looked askance at the mysteries in which her nephews became involved. Nonetheless, Frank and Joe were very special to her as was Chet Morton, chief connoisseur of her excellent culinary abilities.
“Well! You sound like a bunch of elephants tramping in here!” Aunt Gertrude said.
“Chet’s hungry again,” Frank declared with a wink.
“What else?” Joe joked. “That’s a permanent condition with him.”
“Aw, cut it out, fellows,” said Chet, pulling out a kitchen chair and sliding his ample frame into it. “What’s your latest in pies, Aunt Gertrude?”
Miss Hardy pursed her lips in a mock look of annoyance, yet she was secretly pleased with her reputation as a baker.
“Rhubarb pie, Chester. It’s chilling in the refrigerator.”
A sly smile spread over Chet Morton’s face. He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “My favorite! You must have known I was coming!”
“Cut out the baloney, Chet,” said Joe. “You’d eat anything.”
Chet’s hurt look vanished when a large wedge of pie was placed before him, along with a tall glass of milk.
“Thank you, thank you,” he said as Aunt Gertrude left to take care of other household
chores. Then he turned to his friends. “Now what’s this latest proposition?”
“We’re going to Iceland,” Frank said seriously, “and would like to take you with us.”
Chet grinned broadly. “Good thought!”
“But you must keep this absolutely mum,” Joe warned. “Not a word of it to anyone.”
“You can trust me to be quiet,” Chet stated between mouthfuls.
“And we mean quiet!” Frank added emphati cally.
“Okay, I’m with you.” Chet savored a long swig of milk. “And what are we going to do there?”
Briefly the Hardys told of their mission, and Chet seemed delighted with the idea. “Finding somebody doesn’t seem too dangerous,” he said. “Besides, I’d like to see some real Eskimos.”
As he finished speaking, Chet banged the side of his hand on the kitchen table, making the pie plate jump.
“What are you trying to do?” Joe demanded.
“Just practicing my karate chop.”
“Your latest hobby?” Frank asked.
“Sure. The art of self-defense. Got to get the old hands toughened up. Never can tell when you need it.”
“You’re a nut,” Joe said, grinning, as the boys stood up and walked to the front door.
“Thanks for the pie,” Chet said to Gertrude Hardy whom they met in the hall. “It’ll give me lots of strength for our next case.”
“Quiet!” Joe said. “You’re spilling the beans already.”
Aunt Gertrude sniffed, as if scenting a danger, and her eyebrows raised above the rim of her glasses. “Another case?” she asked, looking from Frank to Joe. “What is it?”
“Something simple,” Frank assured her. “An easy investigation. Don’t worry.”
“Just practicing my karate chop,” Chet said
“Humph! I worry all the time about you.”
“We’re only going to Iceland,” said Joe.
“Iceland?” Aunt Gertrude made a face as if the entire country were run by wild, long-haired Vikings. “You’ll freeze to death up there, if you’re not eaten by a polar bear!”
“Or lost on the stormy seas,” Joe added.
“Don’t get smart, young man,” his aunt replied, and marched into the kitchen, where she put the remaining pie and the milk back into the refrigerator.
Frank remembered studying about Iceland in school and knew that the weather should be mild in April, although there were occasional storms in the area at that time of year. “Bring some heavy clothes just in case,” he told his friend.
“How about skis and snowshoes?”
“Forget it, Chet. I didn’t say the North Pole!”
“What about the rest of the gang? Shall I tell them?” asked Chet.
Frank hesitated. “Dad cautioned us not to say anything to anybody.”
“Well, Tony and Biff will know the next day that we’re gone,” Joe put in. “Suppose we tell them we’re going away on a secret mission without saying where.”
“Okay,” Frank agreed. “Maybe we can have a get-together before we leave.”
“Good idea.” Chet said good-by and chugged off. He made a stop at the Bayport Hardware Store for some farm supplies before heading back home.
As Chet hefted a bale of peat moss to his shoulder and carried it to his jalopy, he nearly bumped into Fred Marney, who broadcast the news on the Bayport TV channel. Marney was well acquainted with the exploits of the Hardys and their friends.
“Hi, Chet. Getting the garden ready?” he greeted the boy.
“Not me. This is for my mother’s roses. No time for gardening.”
“What? With spring vacation coming up?”
“Oh, I’ll be busy,” said Chet and moved toward the car.
“Busy with what?” Marney persisted. “Another Hardy boys’ case?”
Chet tossed the bale to the back of the car and turned to frown at the broadcaster.
“So I hit the nail on the head, eh?” the news-man persisted.
“I didn’t say anything!” Chet said, sliding behind the wheel. “The trip to Iceland is nobody’s business except—”
Chet could have bitten off his tongue as Marney smirked and turned away. He had broken his promise! What would the Hardys say now? Well, maybe it was of so little importance that Fred Marney would forget it.
That evening, just before the TV newscast, Chet got a phone call from Tony Prito. “Listen, Chet, big doings at our place tonight. My mother’s giving a pizza feast. The whole bunch will be here. I told Iola already. Come with your appetite.”
“Then you know about the trip?” Chet asked.
“Biff and I do, but that’s all. Frank and Joe want to keep it a secret.”
“Yeah, I know about that,” Chet said limply. “I’ll be there, but I don’t know about my appetite.”
Tony Prito laughed as he hung up, and Chet tuned in the evening report. His eyes were glued to the TV screen. National news came first, then other reports of statewide importance, and finally an item about the Bayport city council. Chet breathed a sigh of relief. His secret had not been violated!
In the Hardy home Frank, Joe, and Mr. Hardy were watching the same program while the boys’ mother and Aunt Gertrude were preparing supper. After the council report Fred Marney smiled at his viewers and said, “And now a little juicy tidbit for fans of the famous Hardy boys.” Frank and Joe froze and Mr. Hardy frowned deeply.
The reporter went on, “This time it’s a trip to Iceland for Frank and Joe and, of course, their pal Chet Morton, too. Since this is not a junket for fun in the sun, we wonder what the detectives are up to now.”
“Holy crow!” Joe exclaimed and flicked off the set. “How did he find out about that?”
“I’m afraid this means trouble,” Mr. Hardy said, thumping a fist into the palm of his hand. “Well, what’s done is done!”
“Do you suppose it was Chet?” asked Frank.
The answer came with the ringing of the telephone. Joe grabbed it. The voice on the other end was so low that he could hardly hear it. “What? ... Oh, it’s you, Chet.... Yes, we heard.” There was a long silence while Chet explained.
Then Joe went on, “No, I don’t think it’ll wash out the trip, but Dad’s very much upset. See you later.”
Joe told the others what had happened, which was not of much comfort to his father. After supper Mr. Hardy announced that he was leaving for an important secret meeting.
Frank and Joe showered and dressed for the party in the Pritos’ rumpus room. Chet was bringing his sister Iola, and Frank was to pick up Callie Shaw at her home. Just as the boys started out to their car, they heard the phone ring.
Aunt Gertrude answered. After listening for a few moments, she said, “You shouldn’t play pranks like this, Callie Shawl What is it you—?” Then she turned to the boys with an astonished expression on her face. “Goodness, she hung up on me!”
“That couldn’t have been Callie,” Frank said. “She wouldn’t do a thing like that!”
“What did the caller say?” Joe asked.
“She claimed it was the White House calling Fenton Hardy.”
The boys climbed into their convertible, uneasy about the strange call. Had it been a joke?
“We’d better not mention this to anyone,” Frank said. Joe agreed.
A few minutes later they pulled up at the Shaws’ house, and Frank hurried to pick up his pretty blond date.
When they arrived at Tony Prito’s place, Frank parked in front of the house, and the three entered. Chet and his vivacious, dark-haired sister were already there. They all trooped down to the basement, where brawny Biff Hooper and good-looking Tony were playing a game of Ping-Pong.
Their dates were shouting encouragement to the two, when Tony sent a sizzling backhand shot which nicked the end of the table.
“You win!” Biff said and put down his paddle. “Hi, Frank, Joe! The news is all over town!”
When Frank remained silent, Tony said, “Hey, you guys, where’s your bounce to
night?”
“The news shouldn’t have gotten out,” Joe explained. “Well, let’s forget about the whole thing and have some fun.”
The boys grabbed billiard cues and went to the large table which occupied one end of the basement. Callie, meanwhile, put on some dance records, and as the evening progressed, the fun increased until Mrs. Prito appeared carrying a large tray of red-hot pizza.
Frank touched Callie’s arm. “I’d like to get out for a little fresh air before we tackle the goodies.”
“Me, too,” Callie replied. “It’s stuffy in here.”
The couple stepped out into the star-studded evening. As they walked toward the front of the house, Frank noticed a car parked five feet from the curb, almost directly behind his convertible. All its doors were open.
Three men approached Frank as he walked forward. Callie lingered behind. When the man in the lead had almost reached Frank, he suddenly commanded, “Come with us!”
Callie stifled a scream and ran back into the house!
CHAPTER II
Thug for Hire
FRANK sized up the situation in a split second. The doors of the car stood open, and its motor was running. All prepared, Frank thought, to receive the kidnap victim.
The young detective dodged the man in front of him, raced through the clutching hands of the other two, and dived into the car. In a twinkling he had it in gear and floored the accelerator.
Whoosh! Tires screeched as the car bolted ahead. It zigzagged wildly, its doors flying, until Frank gained control and spun around the corner. Now to get back to the thugs as quickly as possible !
Frank circled the block and returned to the Prito house, where everyone was standing on the front lawn.
Only one thug was in evidence, flat on his back, with Tony kneeling on his chest. Moments later two police cars, blinkers flashing, raced up. Bayport’s Chief Collig jumped out, followed by his driver. Patrolman Riley leaped from the other car.
“What’s going on?” Collig asked crisply. He was a portly, middle-aged man, a close confidant of the Hardys.
“A kidnap attempt,” Frank said.
“Here’s the one we caught!” Tony said. “The other two got away.” He pulled the man to his feet. He was thin and of medium height with sunken cheeks and bulging eyes. Tony’s hand twisted the thug’s shirt front, until the man winced.