A Figure in Hiding Read online

“Elm Street to Fenton,” Joe responded over the microphone. “We read you. Come in, please.”

  “Hi, fellows!” said Mr. Hardy. “Just wanted to let you know that I arrived safely.”

  “You’re at the farm now?” Frank put in.

  “Right. I flew in on the eight-forty-five plane from Cleveland, got picked up by the chauffeur, and checked in under the name I gave you. This is the first chance I’ve had to get in touch. I’m calling from my room.”

  The boys quickly reported Chet’s story.

  “Good lead. I’ll follow it up.” Mr. Hardy’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I think someone’s coming. Over for now!”

  Late that night Frank awoke from a sound sleep. He lay drowsily for a few moments, wondering what had aroused him. Suddenly he became aware of a muffled clicking sound.

  “Where’s that coming from?” Frank wondered.

  He sat bolt upright in bed. The clicking sounds seemed to fade out. Puzzled, Frank lay back on his pillow. At once the clicks became louder!

  “Under my pillow!” Frank realized.

  He pulled it aside and the clicks became still louder and clearer. Something on the bed glittered in the moonlight streaming in. The glass eye! Frank snatched it up with a stifled cry and held it to his ear.

  The clicks were coming from the glass eye!

  “Joe! Wake up!” he exclaimed, switching on his table lamp.

  His brother raised up sleepily from his bed across the room. Joe blinked in the sudden glare. “Wh-what’s up?” he muttered.

  “Signals are coming over this glass eye!” Frank whispered. “There must be a miniature receiver inside! Sounds like Morse code!”

  As Joe came dashing across the room, Frank held out the eye so his brother could hear it. In a moment the signals ceased.

  “Did you get anything?” Joe asked.

  “Numbers and letters—but they didn’t make any sense to me, offhand,” Frank replied.

  “Maybe there’ll be more!” Joe hastily got pencil and paper from his desk.

  The signals began again. The transmission seemed slow and amateurish, and Joe copied down the message easily. It read:12PM 4112N 7059W 13K 080 1227

  As the glass eye fell silent, the Hardys stared at the numbers and letters in puzzlement.

  “Get anything out of it?” Joe asked.

  “Not much,” Frank admitted. “The ‘twelve PM’ must stand for a time—twelve o’clock midnight. The rest looks like some sort of secret code.”

  Abruptly the glass eye resumed its ticking. Joe again copied down the Morse signals and found that the same set of numbers and letters were being repeated. While the boys were excitedly discussing the mysterious message, another transmission began with the same contents.

  “Frank, that ‘N’ and ‘W’ could stand for ‘North’ and ‘West,’” Joe mused. “Maybe a position.”

  “Right! In latitude and longitude!” Frank exclaimed. “That would be forty-one degrees, twelve minutes north latitude and seventy degrees, fifty-nine minutes west longitude.”

  “Let’s see where that is.” Joe bounced up from his chair and strode to a map of the world which the boys had tacked to one wall. His finger traced out the nearest parallel and meridian. “Well, what do you know! It’s in the Atlantic Ocean—about halfway between Montauk on Long Island and Nantucket Island, Massachusetts.”

  “In that case, it must be a ship’s position,” Frank reasoned. “But what about the last part?”

  The Hardys stayed up for another hour, puzzling over the message, but could deduce nothing further. The radio signals being picked up by the glass-eye receiver had long since stopped when the two young sleuths finally went back to bed. It was two o’clock.

  Early the next morning Chief Collig telephoned the Hardy home. “I have a follow-up on Izmir that may interest you fellows,” he said when Joe answered. “Last night two more men tried to break into Izmir’s estate. His watchdogs trapped them and both were caught.”

  “Who are they?” Joe asked eagerly.

  “Their names are Kane and Yaddo. They’re both dangerous hoods with police records.”

  “What’s their story?”

  “They have none. Neither one will talk.”

  “Does Izmir know them?” Joe inquired.

  “The Ocean City police couldn’t tell me that,” Collig replied. “It was some servant on the estate who turned them in. Yesterday morning Izmir left for New York to go on a European vacation cruise.”

  “That’s right—I’d forgotten,” Joe replied. He frowned for a moment, then added, “Just for the record, are you sure he did leave?”

  The police chief chuckled. “I thought you might ask me that, so I called the shipping line in New York and checked. Izmir definitely sailed on the Cristobal yesterday afternoon.”

  “Okay. Thanks a lot for letting us know.”

  Joe relayed the information to his brother as the two boys sat down to breakfast. The morning newscast was just coming on over the Hardys’ portable television set. The family grew silent at the announcer’s first words.

  “A late bulletin states that a prominent East Coast businessman has been lost at sea. The ocean liner on which he had embarked Monday on a Scandinavian cruise, the Cristobal, reported by radio that Mr. Malcolm Izmir of Ocean City was missing this morning. His cabin had not been slept in, and he is presumed to have fallen or jumped overboard sometime during the night.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  News of a Racket

  FRANK and Joe were stunned by the news flash on Izmir’s disappearance. As they looked at each other in amazement, Frank’s eyes suddenly kindled with suspicion.

  “Lost at sea!” he exclaimed to his brother. “Are you thinking the same thing I am?”

  “Probably. This could have something to do with that message we picked up on the glass eye last night!”

  “Message? Glass eye?” Aunt Gertrude darted an inquisitive glance at the boys. “What’s all this nonsense?”

  “The glass eye started talking last night, Aunty,” Frank explained with a wink at his mother.

  Miss Hardy’s voice was barbed with suspicion. “Are you trying to scare me, young man?”

  “No. It’s on the level. That glass eye must have a miniature radio receiver inside it. Last night Joe and I heard it picking up signals in Morse—”

  The telephone jangled in the hallway. Joe bounded up from the table to answer it.

  “Are you one of the Hardy boys?” someone asked in a croaking voice.

  “Yes, sir. Joe Hardy. Is this Mr. Mudge?”

  “Certainly, I’m Mudge! Zachary Mudge. Who do I sound like?”

  “Well, nobody, sir. That is, I mean—”

  “Never mind nattering at me!” Mudge rapped out. “I have news for you two. On Izmir.”

  “Malcolm Izmir?” Joe was startled.

  “Yes, Malcolm Izmir.” The elderly man added in a burst of exasperation, “Do you know of any other Izmir we’ve been talking about?”

  Joe grinned. “No, sir. It’s just that I—”

  “Then stop talking so much. You think I have nothing better to do than waste my time answering tomfool questions?” Mr. Mudge seemed to pause for breath and then rattled on, “Now, listen. If you and your brother want to hear what I have to say, you’d better get up here right away. Understand? ... Can’t talk over these phones at the vegetable farm. Probably ears flapping all over the line.”

  “Right, sir,” Joe said. “We’ll drive right over.”

  The Hardy boys hastily finished their bacon and eggs under a barrage of questions from their mother and Aunt Gertrude, then backed their convertible out of the garage and took off.

  “Wonder if Doc Bates’ office would be open yet,” Frank remarked as they sped down Elm Street.

  “Sure, I guess so—it’s after nine,” Joe said with a glance at his wristwatch. “He’d see us, even if it wasn’t. But why?”

  “I’ve been wondering if he might be able to tell us anything about th
at Dr. Vardar who Chet mentioned last night.”

  “Good idea,” Joe agreed. “Let’s stop off and ask him.”

  Dr. Bates, the Hardys’ family physician, had his office at home, a rambling stone house a few blocks from Elm Street. The boys found the office entrance open, and the secretary-nurse allowed them to see the doctor at once. Frank explained why they had come.

  “Hmm. Dr. Vardar.” The physician frowned thoughtfully. “Seems to me I’ve heard the name, and yet he’s not a member of our local medical society. I can look him up in the medical directory and inquire about him later on today.”

  “That’ll be fine, Doctor,” Frank said. “Thanks a lot.”

  The Hardys drove on to the health farm. After stopping at the gatehouse, they were told to walk on up to the main building. Zachary Mudge was pacing the terrace with his cane.

  “Half an hour it took you,” the elderly financier complained. “I’d still be grubbing for small change if I moved as slowly as you young whippersnappers move these days.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Frank said, deciding it would be better not to mention their stop at Dr. Bates’ office. “We’re eager to hear what you’ve learned about Malcolm Izmir.”

  Mudge shot a glance over his shoulder at Rip Sinder, who appeared to be watering some potted plants on the terrace. “There’s ape man over there, dying for an earful. Got so he follows me around like a confounded lap dog. Probably hoping for a tip on the stock market.” Mr. Mudge broke into a pleased cackle. “I gave him a bum steer on Consolidated Steel yesterday, just for kicks. Anyhow, let’s move on.”

  They strolled off across the lawn toward the tennis courts, where several guests were lobbing balls back and forth.

  “Had a call from New York this morning, just before I phoned you,” Zachary Mudge began. “My man there gave me the whole picture on Izmir.”

  “He has quite a financial empire, doesn’t he?” Frank asked.

  “He did have,” Mudge said. “Got his finger in a dozen or more pies. His different companies and enterprises are all linked together under a setup called the Izmir Syndicate. But here’s the rub—the whole structure’s about to tumble down around his ears.”

  “You mean he’s gone broke?” Joe asked in surprise.

  “I don’t know if he’s gone broke, but the Izmir Syndicate certainly has,” Mudge replied. “My agent says it’s near bankruptcy. Apparently Izmir’s been defrauding his investors and rigging the books for the past year or so. Now the government’s on his trail and he’s likely to wind up behind bars.”

  The elderly financier rubbed his hands gleefully. “If Izmir was interested in the Sea Spook, more than likely he was hoping to float a new company and raise a packet of money on the strength of Braxton’s hydrofoil design. But just let him try it now! I’ll soon cut him down to size!”

  “You won’t have to, sir,” Frank said. “Izmir was lost at sea last night from an ocean liner.”

  Mudge stopped short and stared at the boys as Frank told him about the news flash. “Well, well, well. Can’t say I’m surprised. Man gets in his position, I dare say jumping overboard seems like the best solution.”

  The Hardys considered this gruesome thought as they walked back toward the terrace with Zachary Mudge. The boys noted a tall man in swim trunks with a towel draped around his neck, striding across the lawn. Apparently he was returning from a swim in the outdoor pooL He was gray-haired, wore glasses, and had rather prominent teeth.

  Joe looked at him casually and caught a wink. Then he did a quick double-take and exchanged a startled glance with Frank.

  “Did you see who that swimmer was?” Joe asked his brother later, as they started down the drive.

  Frank nodded. “Dad—or rather, Foster Harlow. Pretty neat disguise! Those phony teeth and the dyed hair changed his appearance completely.”

  Joe suggested that they stop off at the Bayport General Hospital and check on Zatta. Sam Radley opened the door of the peddler’s room in answer to their knock.

  “You two got here at just the right time,” Sam muttered as they entered. “I’ve been working on Zatta. I think he’s about ready to talk.”

  The one-eyed man regarded the Hardys fearfully as they advanced toward his bed.

  “How about it, Mr. Zatta?” Frank said. “Don’t you think it would make sense to tell us what you know? I promise you the police will give you complete protection from the men who tried to kill you. The sooner you cooperate, the sooner those thugs can be put behind bars.”

  The peddler gulped and ran his tongue nervously over his lips. “All right,” he rasped. “I sure can’t stay holed up here for the rest of my life.” His eyes darted over his three listeners. “You guys ever heard o’ the Goggler gang?”

  The Hardys and Sam Radley nodded.

  “The Goggler gang is what the newspapers call ‘em,” Zatta went on. “Guys in the rackets call ’em the Evil Eyes or the Bad Eyes.”

  “How come?” Joe asked.

  Zatta shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe on account o’ them eyeballs and glasses they wear when they pull a job. Anyhow, that name ain’t no joke —they’re bad medicine. Every other mob on the East Coast is scared to death of ’em.”

  “What about that horned hand you stuck up on the door?” Frank put in.

  Zatta flushed. “That’s a ‘lay off’ sign they use. They’re in the protection racket, too, see? Every merchant who buys protection from ’em has a sign like that showin’ somewhere in his shop. And there ain’t a hood dumb enough to touch a place when he sees that hand ‘cause he knows the Bad Eyes would carve him up in a hurry if he tried muscling in. I figured if I stuck one of ’em signs up on my door, they’d think I was keepin’ my mouth shut and leave me alone.”

  “Who’s the head of the mob?” Radley demanded.

  “Nobody knows. I don’t even think the Bad Eyes themselves know who their boss is. All I heard is they work for some really hush-hush setup called the Eye Syndicate.”

  “Okay. Now how about that card you gave us for Dad?” Frank inquired.

  “It’s like this,” the peddler explained. “I been hearin’ rumors that something big was about to pop with the Bad Eyes. I don’t know whether it’s a job they’re plannin’ to pull or trouble in the gang or what. Anyhow, I spotted one o’ the Bad Eyes right here in Bayport.”

  Joe tried a random shot. “Spotty Lemuel?”

  “That’s right.” Zatta looked at the two boys in astonishment. “I didn’t know you kids were wise. When I saw Spotty, I figured the tip might be worth something to your old man. I tried to phone him and got no answer. Then I heard some kids talkin’ about you two bein’ in that high school game, so I went lookin’ for you at the ball field.”

  Later, Zatta went on, he had heard a remark passed in a dive frequented by gangsters and hoodlums that the Bad Eyes were mixed up in a job involving Fontana’s art shop. So he had decided to keep watch on the place in the hope of picking up a further lead.

  “But someone must have spotted you two talkin’ to me,” the peddler ended, “because that night two hoods cornered me and took me for a ride. You know what happened after that.”

  Leaving Sam Radley on guard, Frank and Joe went down to the hospital lobby and telephoned Collig. The chief promised to send a squad car to the hospital at once and to keep the peddler in protective custody until the case was cleared up.

  As the brothers walked out to their car, Frank remarked, “I’ll bet the man who spotted us talking to Zatta was Fontana himself.”

  Joe nodded. “And try this for size. What if the Eye Syndicate is the same as the Izmir Syndicate? The word ‘eye’ standing for the letter ‘I’ in Izmir -get it?”

  “I get it,” Frank said excitedly. “Joe, I believe you’ve hit the nail right on the head. What say we take the Sleuth out on the bay and talk this over? Maybe we can come up with a few more answers if we think it all out!”

  “Swell idea!”

  The two boys drove to the harbor. As they walked toward
the boat dock, Bill Braxton hailed them excitedly.

  “Just the guys I’m looking for!” he exclaimed.

  “What’s up?” Joe inquired.

  “I have a new mystery for you two to solve!”

  CHAPTER XIX

  The Figure at the Window

  “A NEW mystery?” Frank said wryly. “We have our hands full now! But let’s hear it!”

  “Someone took the Sea Spook out of her shed last night,” Braxton informed the boys.

  “You mean she was stolen?” Joe asked, wide-eyed.

  “Well, let’s say borrowed. That’s the funny part of it. She’s back in her berth right now. But I’m sure she was taken out during the night.”

  “How come?” Frank said.

  “For one thing, the lock on the waterside door was busted. For another, the bilge is full of sea water—and she was dry as a bone when I left here yesterday.”

  Intrigued, the two boys eagerly accompanied Bill Braxton to his boathouse. Here they boarded the hydrofoil. Its afterdeck was still wet. Bill also showed them a tin dish from the locker.

  “This was on the chart bench,” he explained. “Someone used it as an ash tray. You can still see the stain. The person probably emptied it over the side and gave it a quick wipe-off, but I found a stray butt that fell on the deck.”

  “If the bilge is full,” Frank said thoughtfully, “your boat must have shipped a lot of water. Would she do that on the bay?”

  Braxton shook his head. “Not a chance. It was calm as a millpond last night. The only way that could happen would be in a fairly heavy swell-maybe along the coast somewhere.”

  “Did you check with the Coast Guard?” Joe suggested.

  Braxton snapped his fingers. “That’s a thought.” He climbed out onto the catwalk, strode to his desk, and picked up the telephone. After calling the Barmet Bay Coast Guard Station, he hung up and turned back to the Hardys. “Well, that cinches it. Their lookout saw the Spook sail out of the bay around ten o’clock last night. The watch that came on at midnight is off duty now, so they’re not sure when my boat returned.”