Mystery of the Flying Express Read online

  “Yes, indeed. Here it is.” The trustee took a volume from a shelf and handed it over.

  Joe looked at the printing on the spine. “It’s called Basic Astrology.” He leafed through the pages. “What sign of the Zodiac did Chet say Zigurski was born under?”

  “Cancer,” Frank recalled.

  Joe found the chapter on Cancerians. Near the heading a note was inscribed in pencil.

  It read: ZIG, Milwaukee, July 20, 11 P.M.

  “That’s Zigurski’s handwriting,” the librarian remarked. He spoke tartly to indicate that he disapproved of borrowers writing in library books.

  “Zodiac Zig must have been describing himself,” Joe observed. “The place where he was born, the day of the month, and the hour.”

  Frank agreed. “Take a look through the chapter, Joe, and see what kind of advice he might have gotten from it.”

  Joe read from the book. “ ‘A Cancerian is not impulsive. He plans carefully for future action, no matter how long it may take. Being ruled by the moon, the sign of the Crab is favorable to enterprises involving water, especially bays and inlets where the moon governs the tides. He bides his time, and then acts vigorously.’ ”

  Joe closed the book. “That could explain why Zigurski never tried to break jail. He was biding time until his parole.”

  Frank nodded. “And his horoscope foretold success for his enterprises when he got out. He headed for the coast to set up another racket.”

  While the boys were talking, another trustee hovered near them on the other side of the row of bookshelves. Pretending to read a book, he listened intently to the remarks about Hooks Zigurski.

  Joe noticed him, and was about to say so when the warden spoke. “I’ll show you around the prison when you’re finished. You can tell your famous father that the criminals he catches are in good hands!”

  They left the library and went through the dining room, past the laundry, and into the recreation area. Glancing back, Joe noticed the trustee tagging along. Realizing he had been seen, the man slipped into another room.

  When the group moved on, the man reappeared, staying close behind them during the tour of the prison.

  Joe decided that the warden ought to know. “We’re being shadowed,” he said, jerking a thumb in the direction of the trustee.

  “Martin?” Ogburn said. “Pay no attention. He used to be Zigurski’s crony. Never gives us any trouble. He’s probably on some assignment that brings him to this part of the prison.”

  The warden pushed open a door. “Here’s something we’re very proud of—the workshop.”

  The huge area was abuzz with activity. Convicts were busy with power tools, heavy wrenches, and mechanical screwdrivers. Some were carving pieces of wood into shape for furniture and lawn decorations. Others were fitting parts together to form tables, chairs, bookcases and book ends.

  “This is good training for civilian life,” Ogburn explained. “Every man has an opportunity to go straight and make a good living when he gets out of here.”

  Frank was attracted to a shear that no one was using. The long blade hovered motionless above a sheet of metal on the plate beneath. He admired the beautiful clean lines of the machine and leaned over for a better view.

  The blade began to move!

  “Look out, Frank!” Joe yelled. He grabbed his brother by the arm and hurled him to the floor. Just missing Frank’s head, the blade plunged down in a wicked flash of steel biting into steel!

  As Frank rose shakily to his feet, Joe looked accusingly at the convicts nearest to the shear.

  The warden whirled around and faced them. “Who started that machine?” he demanded.

  “Look out, Frank!” Joe yelled

  No one answered. There was a scuffling of feet outside the door. Two guards appeared, dragging Martin between them.

  “We saw him trip the release and then run out of the room,” one guard explained.

  “Tell me why you did it!” Ogburn commanded.

  The trustee stood with a hangdog look. “I ain’t spilling nothing,” he spat out viciously.

  “Take him to my office,” the warden ordered the guards. “Sorry, boys,” he said to Frank and Joe. “I was wrong about Martin. Looks as if he’s still on Zigurski’s side. Anyway, that’s one more piece of information you can take back with you.”

  “I trust Martin isn’t due for parole very soon,” Frank commented.

  “No fear of that,” the warden stated emphatically. “He’ll be in residence here for a long time!”

  “That’s some comfort,” Joe remarked as he and Frank drove back to the cottage. “Martin’s got too much imagination to be loose. Who else would have used a shear as a weapon?”

  Frank nodded. “By the way, remind me to give you an assist if you’re ever in a hairy situation like that.”

  “Sure will, Frank. Now let’s go over to the marina and give Chet the low-down on Zodiac Zig!”

  Chet exploded with excitement when he heard the news. “Jumping Gemini! This changes everything. Now I know what Hooks is going to do!”

  Joe was skeptical. “How’s that again?”

  “Look. Zigurski’s birthday is coming up. No Cancerian in his right mind would go into action now. I’ll bet you ten to one that Zodiac Zig is lying low until the hour of his birth is over. Right after that would be a good time for him to act and—”

  “All right,” Joe interrupted, “let’s assume that everything stays quiet until his birthday. What happens then?”

  “Anything can happen!” Chet declared.

  Frank became serious. “This gives us a fix on the timing. Zigurski was born at eleven at night. He may strike around midnight, then. That’s when his sign of the Zodiac becomes favorable, and he’s not the type to wait any longer than he has to.”

  Frank went to the phone, dialed Spencer Given, and was informed that no trace of the Flying Express had yet been found. Then he put in a call to his father in Shark Harbor.

  “Zigurski has dropped out of sight down in Florida,” Fenton Hardy reported. “The police tailed him to the Miami airport and lost him. You and Joe get down there and see if you can pick up a clue.”

  “To Miami?”

  “Yes, and as fast as you can.”

  The Hardys roared away from the cottage in Callie’s car, parked it at the Starfish Marina where she could pick it up, caught a taxi to the Providence airport, and flew to Miami.

  “We’ll check with the reservation clerks first,” Joe suggested as the big plane taxied up to the terminal. “Suppose you take the domestic flights, and I’ll take the foreign.”

  They drew a series of blanks until Frank reached the desk of Coastal Airways, a company flying between Miami and Canada. The clerk shook his head at the name Zigurski, but Frank’s description of the criminal rang a bell.

  “That mechanical right hand!” the man exclaimed. “He took off from here under the name John Read.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “He bought a ticket to Boston.”

  Frank hustled over to Joe with the news.

  “Holy catfish, Frank! We’d better stay right on his heels!”

  “Then let’s go! We just have time to catch the next flight to Massachusetts!”

  The plane zoomed into the air and headed north. The boys unfastened their seat belts, yawned, and settled back for the flight.

  A moment later the voice of the pilot came through the loudspeaker. “I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but we’re returning to Miami. Please fasten your seat belts and observe the No Smoking sign.”

  There was no further explanation, but the buzz of excited chatter among the passengers continued until the pilot landed the jet. Everyone was asked to leave the plane. They were directed to the terminal building, where an airline representative spoke to the group. He apologized for the delay and said, “We had a report that there’s a bomb hidden aboard. The plane will be checked immediately.”

  The passengers gasped.

  Joe turned t
o Frank. “Do you suppose one of Zigurski’s men has been trailing us?”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  A Growing Suspicion

  “I’D say so,” Frank answered grimly. “Now we’re the pursued. Hooks has turned the tables on us.”

  “Well, his plan succeeded,” Joe said glumly. “Except for the bomb scare, we’d be heading into the Boston airport instead of cooling our heels in Miami.”

  “Better than being blown up in mid-air,” Frank observed. “Still, the scare may have been a hoax. Zigurski may want to delay us just long enough for him to pull off his caper.”

  “Right, Frank. Let’s see if the bomb squad found anything aboard the plane.”

  The baggage had been removed by now, and experts were giving the big jet a thorough going-over. Police and fire vehicles clogged the runway. An airport maintenance truck stood by with a tank full of chemical foam in case of an explosion.

  “Anything doing?” Frank asked the head of the bomb squad.

  “Nothing so far. But I won’t sign a bill of health for this plane until every square inch has been searched.”

  The Hardys walked back to the waiting room.

  “Let’s give Chet a call,” Frank suggested. “We can find out what’s happening at the Starfish Marina.”

  “And we can brief him on what’s going on here,” Joe added.

  They crowded into a pay phone booth. Joe dialed the number. After a moment Chet’s voice came on at the other end of the line. Their stocky pal was surprised to hear from them.

  “I thought you were in the wild blue yonder. All’s quiet here. Whatever excitement there is must be at your end.”

  “Excitement is right,” Joe said, and went on to describe the bombscare on the plane.

  Chet whistled. “Say, that means you’re getting hot! You’ve singed Zodiac Zig’s tail feathers, and he’s trying to shake you off!”

  “That’s the way we read it,” Frank declared. “But we intend to keep after him.”

  “How about letting me give you a hand? I’ve got a few days’ leave coming for overtime. Suppose I fly up to Boston as a one-man reinforcement!”

  The Hardys willingly agreed. As Joe put it, “We may have a hot potato on our hands when we corner Zigurski.”

  Chet chuckled. “Don’t forget I’m an expert at dealing with hot potatoes, preferably French fries. Maybe we’d better mash this one!”

  Joe laughed. “Mashed Zigurski is a dish I’d like to see. Still, this is no joke, Chet. You’d better come prepared for some rough stuff.”

  Chet became serious. “Roger. Where shall I meet you?”

  Frank and Joe conferred in the booth, and suggested the Boston Airport Motel at 7 A.M. the next morning. Chet promised to be there.

  By now the plane had been cleared and reloaded. The passengers went aboard, and the flight north resumed.

  “We need Chet,” Frank said as he and Joe settled into their seats once again. “If Zig is in Boston, chances are that the Flying Express is headed in that direction with Sam Radley. And we don’t know how many of Hooks’ hoods are with him.”

  “They’ve probably arranged a rendezvous along the coast,” Joe remarked. “We could run into a gang of toughs. That’s the kind of situation when it’s nice to see Chet Morton throwing his weight around.”

  The jet roared on. After a while Frank gestured out the window. “We’re having beautiful flying weather, Joe. Just look at Cape Cutlass down there.”

  Below them, the cape spread out in bright sunlight. Not a cloud blocked their view. They could see every turn and twist of the coast, every cove and inlet, for miles in either direction. The landscape zipped past beneath the wing tips as the plane streaked north.

  Joe settled back for a snooze. “Wake me when we get to Boston,” he said.

  When the plane landed, the Hardys went to the airport motel and turned in early. Next morning there came a knock at the door.

  Frank glanced at his watch. “Chet is early. It’s only six o‘clock.”

  Joe stepped to the door and flung it open.

  “Henry Chassen!” Frank and Joe exclaimed together.

  The artist smiled apologetically as he entered. “Sorry to disappoint you. I know you’re expecting Chet Morton. I’m substituting for him.”

  “Anything wrong with Chet?” Joe inquired.

  “Nothing at all. He got in touch with me and said he was on to the boat thieves. Felt he should stick with them.”

  Frank rubbed his chin. “That’s the best thing to do in a case like this. When you’ve got the criminals in sight, keep them in sight.”

  “How about yourself?” Joe queried.

  Chassen spread his hands as if to say the explanation was all quite simple.

  “I’ve just finished my commission for the Decor Shop. So when Chet asked me to fly up here in his place, I had no reason to say no. Incidentally, he gave me a message for you.”

  The Hardys leaned forward eagerly.

  “Here it is. The trail leads to a town on the Maine coast. Place called High Rock. A deputy police chief is waiting there with a vital clue!”

  Frank was excited. “Sounds as if Chet’s picked up a lead to the Flying Express!”

  Joe looked doubtful. Even though Chassen had dispelled their earlier suspicions, he suddenly felt that something might be wrong. Saying he had to make a call, he went to the lobby and dialed the Starfish Marina. Not a sound came through from the other end. Even the operator failed to get a response. Giving up, Joe returned to the motel room.

  “Something bothering you?” Henry asked, studying his glum face.

  “Well, I tried to call Chet to see if he had any new dope, but couldn’t get through to him.”

  The artist smiled sympathetically. “Don’t be alarmed. There was a big storm yesterday in the Cape Cutlass area. Thunder and lightning, and gale-force winds. Knocked out electric and phone services.”

  “Oh?” Frank asked. “The weather was perfectly clear when we flew over the cape en route to Boston!”

  “The storm started later,” Chassen explained.

  “Well, let’s head for High Rock,” Frank suggested. “No use wasting time.”

  The three left the motel and started to walk to a rent-a-car garage on the comer. Frank stopped abruptly.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “I’ve forgotten something. I’ll be right back.”

  Entering the building, he raced up the steps two at a time and went to their room. Seizing a laundry slip, he wrote on the back: Chet—High Rock, Maine. He left the piece of paper on the table, weighted with an ashtray. Then he phoned the manager and asked him to let Chet Morton in when he arrived.

  “Just in case Chassen’s story is phony,” Frank thought. Then he rejoined the others and they strode quickly to the rental agency.

  Frank took the wheel of the hired car. Joe sat on the opposite side and Chassen in the middle. They made good time heading north from Massachusetts to Maine.

  “This is a new experience for me, trailing criminals to their hideout,” Chassen remarked cheerfully after a short stop for lunch. “But it must be routine in the Hardy family.”

  “We’ve worked on a few cases,” Joe admitted.

  “We give Dad a hand from time to time,” Frank added.

  “How’s he doing this time?”

  Frank spun the wheel, stepped on the gas, and whizzed around a tractor-trailer in the right lane of the highway. “We’ve lost touch with him in the past couple of days.”

  “He’s still at Shark Harbor, isn’t he?”

  Frank frowned. “Maybe yes, maybe no. We just don’t know.”

  “Could be he’s figured out the Maine angle,” Chassen persisted.

  “Could be.”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Joe put in. “Remember Chet’s warning! The stars aren’t right for hasty judgments!”

  A sign with the name High Rock loomed before them.

  “Turn here,” Chassen advised. “That dirt road will take us to a
lane leading to the barn where we’re to meet the deputy police chief after dark.”

  Frank drove about five miles before cutting to the left down the lane. Following Chassen’s instructions, he parked under a clump of trees. He turned off the ignition and pocketed the car key.

  “Joe and I will take a look around,” Frank said. “Get the lay of the land while it’s still light.”

  “Okay,” the artist answered. “I’ll wait in the car.”

  A hundred yards into the woods Frank pulled Joe to a halt and muttered, “We’re not going back to the car. We can learn more by ourselves. Besides, I don’t quite trust our buddy any more.”

  “Neither do I,” Joe replied.

  They waited for darkness to fall, and then slipped cautiously through the undergrowth to the barn, a derelict building surrounded by weeds, pitted with woodchuck holes along the foundations.

  A sudden glow inside the barn told them that someone had lighted a kerosene lamp. Signaling Joe to follow, Frank crept stealthily up to a window. With bated breath the boys peered over the sill.

  Two men faced each other in the dim light. One had a hook instead of a hand—Zigurski!

  The other was Henry Chassen!

  “All right, brother,” Zigurski said harshly, “where’s the merchandise?”

  Chassen spoke defensively. “They gave me the slip. I don’t know where they are, except that they can’t be far away.”

  The reply came like a clap of thunder.

  “You stupid Capricorn!”

  CHAPTER XIX

  Key to a Capture

  FRANK and Joe stared at each other. Chassen was in league with Zigurski! But what did the word brother mean? Were the two men related?

  Chassen was speaking loudly. “Don’t call me stupid! I cut the phone line at the Starfish Marina! I got the two punks up here where we could grab them, didn’t I?”

  “What d‘ya mean grab them?” Zigurski stormed. “You let them get away! I shouldn’t have let you handle the job.”

  “Well, what do we do now?”

  “The Hardys will probably tip off the local gumshoes if we don’t work fast. We gotta clear out of here. Got the car key?”

  Chassen nodded. “I pocketed the duplicate we got from the rental agency.”