Mystery of the Whale Tattoo

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER I - Hey Rube!

  CHAPTER II - Whale of a Discovery

  CHAPTER III - A Staunch Refusal

  CHAPTER IV - Wheel of Danger

  CHAPTER V - How Was It Done?

  CHAPTER VI - A Well-Salted Guest

  CHAPTER VII - Night Attack

  CHAPTER VIII - A Fishy Cargo

  CHAPTER IX - A Decoy Report

  CHAPTER X - Tim Varney

  CHAPTER XI - The Eavesdroppers

  CHAPTER XII - An Odd Messenger

  CHAPTER XIII - A Great Surprise

  CHAPTER XIV - An Airport Snatch

  CHAPTER XV - Tattling Tattoos

  CHAPTER XVI - A Phony Exposed

  CHAPTER XVII - Rembrandt’s Confession

  CHAPTER XVIII - Bird Dogs

  CHAPTER XIX - A Bitter Loss

  CHAPTER XX - Settling a Score

  MYSTERY OF THE WHALE TATTOO

  ONE exciting event follows another when Frank and Joe Hardy are hired to apprehend the pickpockets who have been plaguing Solo’s Super Carnival. When their friends Tony Prito and Biff Hooper exhibit a stuffed whale dug up at a construction project, they all but put the carnival out of business.

  Other unforeseen problems ensue when the teen-age sleuths become involved in their father’s latest case. Fenton Hardy is tracking down a priceless ivory idol stolen from a Hong Kong art collector. A postcard clue found at the carnival leads Frank and Joe and their buddy Chet Morton to the historic seaport town of Mystic in Connecticut, to a seaman’s home in New York City, to a stunning discovery in Los Angeles.

  In this thrilling mystery the young detectives pit their wits against a gang of thieves whose bizarre identification, a three-part whale tattoo, proves to be a nearly insolvable riddle.

  “Frank!” Joe gasped. “We’ll never make it

  with the statue!”

  Copyright1996, 1968 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: 68-12750

  eISBN : 978-1-101-07660-6

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  CHAPTER I

  Hey Rube!

  JOE Hardy studied the photograph in his hand and frowned, then burst out laughing.

  “What a weirdo!” exclaimed the blond seventeen-year-old boy. “Take a look at him, Frank!”

  He gave the snapshot to his dark-haired brother, who was eighteen. Both boys, sons of Fenton Hardy, the famous private detective, had hurried into the living room at the call of their Aunt Gertrude. She had just opened an envelope which contained the snapshot and a letter.

  Frank gazed at the man in the picture. His head was topped with a shock of light-colored hair, and his cheeks and chin were hidden beneath a full, flowing beard.

  “Sure is a freak,” Frank commented.

  “That’s not the way to talk about a relative, especially when he’s coming to visit,” Aunt Gertrude said sternly, trying to hide a smile.

  She was a tall, sharp-featured woman who wore metal-rimmed spectacles. Her prim visage was deceptive, though, for beneath her forbidding appearance she was really one of the kindest persons one could ever hope to meet.

  “A relative?” Joe burst out. “You’re kidding!”

  “I am not! That’s Elmer Hardy, a second cousin to your father and me,” their aunt corrected. “Too bad Fenton’s not at home,” she added.

  Mr. Hardy was on a tricky undercover assignment in New York City, where as a young man he had achieved an enviable record on the police force. That was before he had come to Bayport to start his own detective agency. Now Frank and Joe were following in their father’s footsteps as astute young sleuths.

  The news about Elmer Hardy’s proposed visit stirred their curiosity.

  “How come we’ve never heard of him?” Joe asked.

  “Well, you see nobody in the family has set eyes on him for thirty years,” Aunt Gertrude explained, “ever since the day he ran away to sea. Elmer always was a bit of a wild one.”

  Frank shook his head. “Thirty years is a long time to go without hearing from someone.”

  “A relative?” Joe burst out. “You’re kidding!”

  “Oh, we’ve exchanged a few letters over the years. Right from the start he’s had a standing invitation to come and visit us, and that’s just what he’s going to do.”

  “Great!” Joe said. “I’ll bet he can tell some terrific sea tales.”

  Aunt Gertrude consulted Elmer Hardy’s letter. “He’ll be arriving in about two weeks, perhaps sooner if he can manage it.”

  “May I keep the picture a while, so I can show it to Chet?” Joe asked.

  “Yes,” Aunt Gertrude said. “But mind now, you boys get all that laughing out of your system before Elmer arrives.” She waggled a finger at them to emphasize her point.

  “Yes, ma’am!” Frank and Joe grinned.

  The telephone rang. Frank picked it up. “Hello?” His eyes widened. “Just a second, Dad.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Joe, Dad’s run into some problems. Get on the extension in his study.”

  Frank waited while his brother raced up the stairs to the second floor. It was highly unusual for Mr. Hardy to contact his family while working undercover and both boys were on the alert.

  Joe picked up the extension. “Okay, Dad, go ahead.”

  “I’ll try to make this brief,” Mr. Hardy told his sons. “I want you to find someone for me, if it’s at all possible. I’ll give you the background so listen carefully.”

  “All right. Shoot!” Joe said.

  Fenton Hardy explained that his quest was for a life-sized statue known as the “Ivory Idol,” carved in the shape of a six-armed deity during the Ming dynasty. Ten years ago a gang of merchant sailors had stolen the Ivory Idol from the internationally famous Dudley-Harris collection in Hong Kong.

  “There were reliable reports,” Mr. Hardy said, “that the statue arrived in the United States a few months after its theft, but the police failed to turn up the slightest trace of it.”

  Frank and Joe jotted down the pertinent bits of information in pocket-sized notebooks, as their father went on, “One month ago R. R. Dunn, the famous New York art collector, received a note saying he could purchase the Ivory Idol for his private collection.”

  “Wow! So it turned up!” Joe exclaimed.

  “Not quite yet. The price is fifty thousand dollars, and the thieves are asking a ten-thousand-dollar advance to cover their ‘expenses.’ ”

  “Who sent the note?” Frank asked.

  “It’s signed Blackright, nothing more,” Mr. Hardy answered.

  The detective went on to say that R. R. Dunn, as an honest collector, had notified Mr. Dudley-Harris immediately. The latter called the police and also engaged the services of Mr. Hardy.

  “Any clues so far?” Joe inquired impatiently.

  “Yes. An informer contacted the police last night and said that he knew something about Blackright. But the price he asked for his information was too high. Furthermore, he wanted a huge reward if Blackright was apprehended.”

  “Quite a wheeler-dealer!” said Frank.

  There was a slight pause, then Mr. Hardy continued earnestly. “Now here’s the crux of the matter. That phone call was traced to Bayport.”

  “What?” Joe exclaimed.

  “Yes. To be precise,
from a phone booth in the north quadrant of the fairgrounds. I want you boys to stake out the place.”

  “That’s going to be a little rough,” Frank said. “Solo’s Super Carnival came to town yesterday and set up at the fairgrounds. They’re opening tonight. No telling how many people have used that particular phone.”

  “Oh? I see,” Mr. Hardy said. “Perhaps the man we want is connected with the carnival.”

  Frank and Joe tingled with excitement. They had often helped their father on important cases and had gained some renown with their clever solutions.

  The Tower Treasure was their first successful case, and not long ago they had solved the mystery of The Secret Agent on Flight 101.

  “Dad, we’ll go to the fairgrounds right away,” Joe said.

  “But wait. I have a word of advice,” Mr. Hardy said seriously. “This may be a dangerous gang with a lot at stake. Take no unnecessary chances.”

  “We’ll watch ourselves,” Frank assured his father and they hung up.

  Joe came downstairs to join his brother in studying their notes. They were still discussing the mystery half an hour later, when the doorbell rang. Frank rose, but Mrs. Hardy passed the living-room entrance on the way to the front door and motioned for him to sit down.

  The boys heard the voice of a man and the name Solo and were out of their chairs in an instant and on the way into the foyer. Solo was a tall man with ruddy cheeks and good-humored eyes.

  After Mrs. Hardy introduced her sons, Sid Solo said, “I sure am sorry Mr. Hardy’s out of town. We’ve been plagued with pickpockets in the last six towns we’ve played. Bad for business, keeps the customers away. I thought if I hired Mr. Hardy—well, what with his reputation and all—those pickpockets would skedaddle pretty quick.”

  Frank winked at Joe, then said, “Mr. Solo, perhaps my brother and I can help you.”

  The carnival man beamed. “Why, I’d consider that a personal favor. I’ve heard of some of your exploits and I’ll lay two-to-one odds that those cheap crooks won’t be any happier with Fenton Hardy’s sons on the job than they would be with your dad.”

  Solo hired the boys on the spot, told them he opened daily at three in the afternoon, and then left.

  As soon as they had finished supper, Frank and Joe hurried out to their convertible and were on their way to Solo’s Super Carnival. Frank was at the wheel.

  “It’s perfect,” he said as they sped down the highway. “We can kill two birds with one stone—get rid of Mr. Solo’s pickpockets and search for our mystery informer at the same time.”

  At the fairgrounds they parked in one of the spacious lots, with scores of other cars. As they walked toward the carnival, the voices of pitch-men could be heard shouting above the noise of a merry-go-round calliope. Delighted shrieks from riders on the roller coaster added to the buoyant feeling of the carnival. Frank and Joe strode briskly to one of the side gates, where there were not many patrons.

  The ticket taker was a large, burly youth only a few years older than the Hardys.

  Frank smiled. “We’re the Hardys. Mr. Solo is expecting us.”

  Joe took a step toward the entrance, but the sullen-faced attendant blocked the way. “You’re the Hardys! So what? You gotta buy a ticket!”

  Frank explained their mission as sleuths, but the fellow kept shaking his head. “Get lost!”

  Frank grew impatient. “I’ll leave my brother here,” he said. “But I’m going to find Mr. Solo, bring him back, and get things straightened out.” He started past the booth.

  The big ticket taker grabbed Frank roughly around the neck and threw him to the ground. Then he poised for a kick.

  “Watch it, Frank!” Joe yelled and tackled the bully, bringing him to the ground with a thud.

  With a curse, the ticket taker lunged to his feet and rained hammerlike blows upon Joe. At the same time, he threw back his head and bellowed, “Hey Rube!”

  The traditional carnival trouble call sounded over the fairgrounds.

  “Hey Rube!” he shouted again.

  CHAPTER II

  Whale of a Discovery

  JOE’s assailant paused only a split second, but it was time enough for the Hardy boy to land a roundhouse blow to the solar plexus of his opponent. The burly youth dropped face first, just at the moment when angry shouts filled the air. Joe glanced around to see a group of tough-looking roustabouts bearing down on them.

  “Oh, oh, Frank. Here comes trouble.”

  “We’ll try to talk our way out,” his brother replied.

  “There they are!” cried the leader of the carnival laborers. “They kayoed Knocker Felsen. Let’s get’em, boys!”

  Frank and Joe stood shoulder to shoulder, braced to meet the charge. “Wait a minute!” Frank yelled.

  “They’re not going to listen,” Joe said. “We’re in for it now.”

  The carnival men had almost reached the boys, fists poised and eyes flashing, when an authoritative voice shouted, “Hold it! I’m Police Chief Collig, and I’ll arrest the first one who throws a punch!”

  The carnies hesitated and looked at one another uncertainly. Then, realizing that the chief’s threat was not an idle one, they unclenched their fists and began to mill about. The men muttered angrily among themselves and cast sour glances at Frank and Joe.

  “Wow!” said Joe when the police chief appeared at their side. “Are we glad to see you!”

  “I can understand that,” Chief Collig said. “It’s a rough bunch. I’d like to know what’s going on here.”

  Frank and Joe told him. By the time they finished their story, Knocker Felsen had regained his feet. Chief Collig vouched for the Hardys, but the carny leader was hard to convince. He looked dubiously at Frank and Joe.

  “Well, if Mr. Solo hired them,” he said finally, “and if you say they really are detectives, then I guess it’s all right.” He looked embarrassed. “Sorry about the trouble, fellows.”

  Frank and Joe accepted his apology. Knocker Felsen, however, with one hand pressed to the pit of his stomach, sulked away a few steps, grumbling.

  “Let’s shake and forget it,” Frank said, but Knocker refused the offer and marched back to his ticket booth.

  “He’s a real sorehead,” Joe observed.

  Chief Collig nodded. “I’d be a little careful of him.”

  The Hardys thanked the officer and wandered into the already crowded avenues of the carnival to begin their double duties. Near the merry-go-round Joe spotted a familiar figure.

  “Hey, Chet!” he called.

  Their best friend swiveled his ample frame around and trotted over to their side. His round, freckled face was attentive as Frank and Joe told him about the call from their father and about Sid Solo.

  “How would you like to give us a hand, Chet?” Frank asked.

  Chet Morton considered the offer silently. The husky boy was fond of fun and strongly opposed to hard work. He had no great taste for danger and usually backed away from it. But when Frank and Joe were in a tight spot, Chet always pitched in to help.

  Finally he replied with a big smile, “Sure. This is the kind of detective work I like—observation and investigation. Everything from a distance.”

  The three laughed and sauntered down the carnival’s midway, their eyes searching for suspicious characters. As they walked, Chet told them of his latest hobby—scrimshaw. He was constantly discovering new hobbies and sports, plunging enthusiastically into each one. But after a few weeks, his interest would wane.

  Now it was scrimshaw—the art of polishing whale teeth and walrus tusks, then carving a picture or a design into the ivory. Frank and Joe were somewhat familiar with this art. They owned a walrus-tusk cribbage board, decorated by an Alaskan Eskimo.

  “Scrimshaw really is the greatest,” Chet bubbled. “Why, did you know that old-time sailors would spend as long as six months carving one single sperm whale tooth? And it’s no wonder! Those fellows spent an average of three years on each whaling trip.”

 
; Chet explained how the ivory was softened by a soaking in brine, how its roughness was removed with a rasp, and later how it was polished with pumice and finally rubbed to a gloss with the palm of the hand.

  “But, Chet,” said Frank, “are you sure you have the patience?”

  His friend was not listening. “The carving itself,” he went on, “was done with sail needles or jackknives. Once the design had been etched on, they used India ink to stain the lines. Of course today some people use power tools, but that’s not for me. No sir! I’ll do it by hand.”

  “We’ve got a new hobby, too,” Joe said. “Collecting lost relatives.”

  “What do you mean?” Chet asked, stopping beneath the platform on which Boko the Clown was doing a unicycle routine.

  “Look at this!” Joe showed him the picture of Elmer Hardy and told of the impending visit. Chet chuckled over Elmer’s picture and expressed the hope that the old seaman could teach him a few more things about scrimshaw.

  Suddenly a hoarse cough sounded above the boys’ heads. They looked up to Boko peering down at the photograph of Elmer Hardy.

  “Excuse me, fellows,” Boko said. “I just finished my act and I’m on my way off the platform.”

  The boys stepped aside. Boko leaped to the ground and disappeared around the comer of the canvas facade.

  “I think,” Frank said, “that this would be as good a time as any to start asking some questions.”

  Joe and Chet agreed, and Frank led the way around the corner in the direction Boko had taken. They found the clown drinking coffee in a small private resting place for the performers. He had taken off his dunce cap, but was still wearing his baggy polka-dot suit, his floppy shoes, and his red-and-white grease paint.

  With him was Rembrandt the Tattooed Man. Rembrandt, wearing only bathing trunks, was covered from head to foot with multicolored tattoos of every imaginable kind. Included was a scene depicting whalers closing in on a huge sperm whale whose giant, blunt head rose far above the waves. This artistic gem covered Rembrandt’s entire chest.

  The boys introduced themselves. Rembrandt and Boko were friendly enough until Frank deftly turned the conversation to a criminal named Blackright and an unknown man who wanted to sell information about Blackright. Then Boko and Rembrandt grew distant. Their answers became curt.