The Great Airport Mystery Page 2

  “Employees?” queried Frank.

  “Yes,” his father answered. “Actually, you are going to be doing a factory investigation job.”

  CHAPTER III

  The Ghost Pilot

  THE next morning, after the doctor had assured Mr. Hardy that the boys were fit, the detective and his two sons proceeded to the Stanwide Mining Equipment Company for a meeting with Mr. Allen. Soon they were being ushered into a spacious, paneled office.

  A graying, distinguished-looking man arose from behind a desk and extended his hand in greeting. Mr. Hardy introduced Frank and Joe. After handshakes Mr. Allen gestured for all of them to take chairs.

  The tall executive studied the boys for a moment, then glanced at Mr. Hardy. “I’ve already made arrangements for your sons to be hired as summer employees of our firm.”

  “Good,” Mr. Hardy answered. “I’m convinced that this is the only way the case will be solved—by someone working on the inside.”

  “Our posing as employees,” Frank spoke up, “will allow Joe and me to investigate without anyone becoming suspicious.”

  “I hate to think that any of my employees may be mixed up in this,” Mr. Allen said with a sigh. “However, I’ll do anything to help clear up the mystery.”

  “Dad tells us that most of the shortages are of parts that contain platinum,” Joe remarked.

  “That’s correct,” replied Mr. Allen. “It’s understandable, too, for they would be the most valuable.”

  “Where do you obtain your platinum?” Frank queried.

  “We purchase it in large quantities from a firm in Canada.”

  As they discussed the case, Mr. Allen noticed the brothers glancing at a strange voodoo figurine mounted on the wall.

  “I see you boys are interested in my little curio,” he said.

  “Yes, we are,” Frank admitted.

  “The figurine is more to me than just an ornament,” Mr. Allen said sadly. “It is also a reminder of a tragedy that occurred several months ago.”

  The Hardys listened intently as he related the story. His firm owned a subsidiary company known as Stanwide Research and Development Laboratories. Its function was to conduct exploratory mining work in various parts of the world.

  Recently, an expedition had been sent in one of the firm’s aircraft to Ile de la Mer, a small uninhabited island far out in the Caribbean. During the return trip the plane had developed engine trouble and crashed into the sea. Only the copilot, Lance Peterson, had survived. The pilot, Clint Hill, and three mineralogists had gone down in the sinking aircraft. Lance Peterson was now chief pilot for the company.

  “I considered Clint Hill not only a loyal employee,” said Mr. Allen, “but also a close friend. It was Clint who sent me the figurine. I was shocked and grieved when he was lost.”

  Mr. Allen sat silent for a few seconds, then came back to the case at hand.

  “Now, about your employment,” he said to the boys. “Your father asked me to select jobs that would give you as much freedom to roam around the plant as possible. I think an assignment as plant messengers would fill the bill.”

  “That’s perfect,” Mr. Hardy agreed.

  Mr. Allen asked the boys when they would like to start.

  “How about tomorrow?” Frank suggested. “The sooner the better.”

  Mr. Hardy informed his sons that right now he and Mr. Allen were going .to examine the firm’s employee files for possible suspects. He suggested that in the meantime Frank and Joe become acquainted with the layout of the plant.

  Mr. Allen had one of his office clerks take the young detectives on a brief tour of Stanwide. Then they were introduced to Art Rodax, the man who was to be their boss. Rodax was heavy-set, with thinning hair and a sour-faced, belligerent expression. He seemed to develop an immediate dislike for the two new employees.

  “Factory messengers, eh?” he blurted. “I don’t need any more help.”

  “But we’ve already been hired,” said Joe. “We start tomorrow morning.”

  “Then I guess there’s nothing I can do about it,” Rodax growled. “But let me catch you lying down on the job just once and you won’t last a day.”

  He was still grumbling when the boys left to return to Mr. Allen’s office.

  “Boy!” Joe exploded. “I’m sure glad we aren’t really going to be working for that sourball.”

  “Me too,” said Frank. “He’d make a starving man lose his appetite!”

  Mr. Hardy told the boys that his examination of the employee files would take longer than expected. Since Mr. Allen had offered to drive him home later, he suggested that his sons take the car and go now.

  “When I get home I’ll let you know if I find out anything,” the detective promised.

  “Okay, Dad,” said Frank. “Joe and I want to stop at the airport on the way back to double-check with Lou at the tower on all of last night’s flights.”

  Light rain was falling, and a heavy prefrontal fog was beginning to move in as the Hardys arrived at the field. They walked to the tower and climbed the winding steps to the top.

  As they entered the control room, Lou Diamond, the tower chief, waved a greeting. A short, stocky, good-natured man, with crew-cut red hair, he nevertheless had an air of authority.

  “You boys picked a fine day to pay us a visit,” he said with a laugh. “In a little while that fog will be so thick you can walk on it.”

  The Hardys peered through the tinted panes of glass enclosing the control room. Already the ramp area immediately below was vanishing in a milky fog.

  “We’re not here just for a visit,” Frank announced. “We thought you might help us by giving out some information.”

  The young detectives then told the tower chief about their encounter with the low-flying aircraft the night before.

  “Were you able to identify the type of aircraft, or get its registration number?” Diamond asked.

  “It was too dark for positive identification,” Joe replied. “Anyway, we were both busy ducking!”

  Diamond looked thoughtful. “Funny. I know of no private landing fields in that area.” He paused. “There have been several strange things going on in the air around here lately,” he said.

  “What kind of strange things?” Frank asked.

  “At night we’ve picked up messages between planes that must be in code. They sure make no sense.”

  Suddenly a light flashed on the console and one of the radio speakers crackled to life. It was the unicom frequency used by flight students for practice and by pilots wishing to communicate with one another in the air.

  “Bayport tower! This is Highflite One-Four-Alfa!” the pilot identified his craft, using Alfa for A. “How do you read?”

  To the boys’ astonishment, the tower chief’s normally ruddy face turned pale. He picked up a microphone, then stood motionless, apparently unable to speak. Finally, in a quivering voice, he responded:

  “High ... Highflite One-Four-Alfa! This is Bayport tower. Reading you loud and clear.”

  “This is One-Four-Alfa. Not on an instrument flight plan. We are on top at thirteen thousand. Can you get us cleared for an ILS approach at Bayport?”

  “Negative, One-Four-Alfa,” replied the tower chief. “Bayport is now below ILS minimums. Advise you contact Air Traffic Control on the proper frequency.”

  There was no answer from the aircraft. Diamond seemed to be under a great strain. He placed the microphone on a table and mopped perspiration from his face.

  “What’s wrong?” Frank asked anxiously.

  “The aircraft that just called! That identification number!” the tower chief said in a shaky voice.

  “What about the identification?” Joe urged.

  “That’s the number of the plane once owned by Stanwide Mining! The one that crashed in the sea several months ago!”

  “M-m-m, that surely is strange,” Frank said, frowning.

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” replied the tower chief. “But I’m su
re of one thing. The pilot who called sounded exactly like Clint Hill!”

  Just then the radio speaker again crackled to life. A weird sound, like a disembodied chuckle, came eerily from it. Then a voice spoke. “The dead can tell no tales!”

  “That is Clint Hill!” Diamond murmured, looking like a ghost himself.

  “What do you make of it?” Frank asked.

  “Only one thing,” said Diamond in a frightened voice. “I never used to believe in ghosts. But now I do!”

  CHAPTER IV

  Police Orders

  FRANK and Joe, startled by the unearthly voice, were equally amazed by the tower chief’s admission that he believed in ghosts!

  “There must be some other explanation,” Frank said.

  “Well, maybe. I guess I lost my head for a moment. But there’s no way we can check on the aircraft,” Diamond declared. “Our field doesn’t have airport surveillance radar, and the pilot said he wasn’t on an instrument flight plan, so Air Traffic Control wouldn’t have any record on him.”

  “You are required to keep a record on tape of all two-way communications between the tower and aircraft, aren’t you?” asked Frank.

  “Yes,” Diamond replied.

  “Could it be arranged for us to borrow a copy of the tape with Hill’s voice on it?”

  “I’ll have to check with our regional office,” said the tower chief. “But in view of the circumstances, I’m sure it will be all right.”

  The boys, puzzled by this airport mystery, left the control tower and headed for the terminal building.

  “Let’s find a telephone and call Mr. Allen,” said Frank. “I want to tell him what happened, and also ask him where we can find Lance Peterson.”

  Mr. Allen was astounded at hearing the news about Clint Hill. He was certain that it was someone’s gruesome idea of a joke. Frank then asked him if he had heard anything about the strange coded messages that Lou Diamond had mentioned.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  Frank next inquired where he could find Lance Peterson, and was told that he should be in his office at the Stanwide hangar.

  The Hardys walked along the north side of the Bayport field until they came to the Stanwide hangar. It was a huge metal and stone structure with a high convex roof. On each side of the building were lean-tos which housed the shops and offices of the company’s flight operations. The door to one of these offices was marked CHIEF PILOT.

  The Hardys knocked, then opened the door and walked in. Standing near a window was a man of average height, with sandy-colored hair and a hard, weathered face. He turned and stared at the Hardys as they entered.

  “Mr. Peterson?” asked Frank.

  “That’s right,” the man replied. “What can I do for you?”

  The boys introduced themselves and announced that they would like to ask him a few questions. Peterson agreed, and appeared quite calm and pleasant until Frank asked him about the crash at sea in which Clint Hill had been lost. Peterson’s face paled. He nervously sat down behind his desk and clutched both sides of the chair.

  “We crashed, and that’s all there is to it!” he snapped. “Let’s drop the subject.”

  “What was the cause of the crash?” Joe asked.

  “The airplane’s at the bottom of the ocean,” said the pilot. “There’s no way I can check for the reasons.”

  “You were in the plane,” Frank countered. “Can’t you make a guess?”

  “Both engines quit,” Peterson said. “In those circumstances, fuel contamination is the most probable cause.”

  “Are you certain Clint Hill is dead?” Joe queried.

  “Of course he is!” Peterson answered impatiently. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Because his ghost contacted the tower just a little while ago,” Frank announced.

  “I’m not in the mood for bad jokes,” shouted the pilot, leaping to his feet. He glanced at his wrist watch. “Anyway, I’m scheduled to fly in a few minutes. I’ll have to go.”

  The boys left the office, with Peterson trailing close behind them. He pulled the door shut, locked it, then walked off without saying another word.

  “What do you make of him?” Joe asked his brother.

  “Our questions sure made him uneasy. If you ask me, he’s trying to cover up something.”

  The young detectives decided to look around the hangar for possible clues to the mystery. They entered by a side door and acted very casual, as if interested only in seeing the aircraft stored there. They had covered nearly half the premises when a young man came strolling out of the pilots’ lounge.

  “Hey, look!” said Joe. “There’s Jerry Madden!”

  The young pilot was a wiry, good-looking youth whose brother was a teammate of the Hardys on the school’s varsity football squad.

  “Hello, Jerry!” called Frank.

  Jerry turned. When he saw the boys, who ran to meet him, his face broke into a wide smile.

  “Hi! What are you fellows doing out here at our lil ole aerodrome?” he asked with a laugh. “Getting the yen to do some aviating?”

  “We’d like nothing better than a short hop in a sightseeing plane,” Frank said with a grin, in an effort to explain their presence without arousing Jerry’s curiosity. “But the weather has other ideas. So we decided just to roam around and look at the planes.”

  “What are you doing here?” Joe asked Jerry.

  “I have a job flying for the Stanwide company,” Jerry explained. “I was hired soon after I received my instruments and multiengine ratings last spring.”

  As they talked, the boys were not aware that a uniformed policeman was approaching from behind. The officer hailed them.

  “What are you fellows doing here?” he demanded.

  “I work here, Officer,” Jerry said.

  “And who are you two?” the policeman said, eying the Hardys carefully.

  “They’re Frank and—” Jerry began.

  “Let them speak for themselves,” interrupted the policeman.

  “I’m Frank Hardy. This is my brother, Joe. We’re going to work for Stanwide.”

  “I’ll have to see some identification.”

  The boys extracted cards from their wallets and handed them to the policeman. He examined the cards, then suddenly became apologetic.

  “I know of you and your father by reputation,” he said. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

  Suddenly Joe sensed that they were being watched. He glanced to his left, without turning his head, and out of the corner of his eye glimpsed a man’s face peering at them from behind an airplane near the entrance. But the face drew back out of sight before Joe could distinguish the features.

  “Are you boys here on a case?” the policeman asked.

  “We’re on vacation. This is a summer job,” Joe replied, speaking more loudly than usual for the benefit of the man behind the plane. “We were just looking at the company’s airplanes.” He nudged Frank to agree.

  “What seems to be the trouble, Officer?” Jerry questioned.

  “Our desk sergeant received a call saying that two prowlers had been seen in this hangar,” the policeman explained.

  “Do you know who made the call?” Frank asked.

  “No, it was anonymous.”

  Joe glanced in the direction where he had seen the face. It did not reappear. He motioned Frank to keep talking, then darted to where he had spotted the eavesdropper. No one was there.

  The young detective quietly moved in the direction he thought the stranger must have taken. Joe found it awkward trying to maneuver, unseen, around the closely packed aircraft. Suddenly he spotted a stocky man in mechanic’s clothes walking quickly toward Lance Peterson’s office. Joe hid behind the tail section of an aircraft and watched. Upon reaching Peterson’s door, the mechanic anxiously jiggled the knob. Finding it locked, he walked away and out of sight.

  Joe returned to Frank and the others. He apologized for going off so abruptly. “Thought I saw one of the real prowlers, but
I must have been mistaken.”

  “How many mechanics do you have working here, Jerry?” Frank asked.

  “Eight,” he answered. “But there’s only one on duty in the hangar today—Mike Zimm. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, I’m just curious,” Frank said nonchalantly. “Joe, it’s time we started for home.”

  The boys, accompanied by Jerry and the policeman, walked toward the door of the hangar. As they neared it, Frank and Joe noticed something that brought them to a stop. On the floor lay a splintered section of wooden board.

  The boys thought it strange that a piece of debris like that should be left on a floor so spotlessly clean.

  Apparently the policeman thought so too. He bent down and picked up the board. Under it was a set of footprints, embedded deeply in the concrete.

  “I wonder whose they are,” said Frank.

  Jerry Madden moved closer and gazed down at the floor.

  “I know whose footprints they are,” he said. “Clint Hill’s.”

  CHAPTER V

  Warehouse Crash

  “CLINT Hill’s footprints!” Joe exclaimed. “How do you know, Jerry?”

  “The head of our company, Mr. Allen, was very fond of Clint,” the pilot explained. “Shortly before he was lost in a crash at sea, the hangar floor was resurfaced with new concrete. Mr. Allen, perhaps partly in fun, asked Clint to make the prints. I wasn’t here at the time, but it’s a well-known story around the flight department.”

  The Hardys studied the footprints carefully. They noticed that the instep of the right foot was narrower than that of the left.

  The policeman, who had to get back to his regular duties, said good-by. Jerry watched his young detective friends as they continued their study of the prints.

  “I saw something just before I met you fellows that perhaps I should tell you,” he said.

  “What’s that?” Frank asked.

  “A man’s arm reached in through the door and placed that board over the prints,” Jerry explained.

  “That’s funny,” Frank commented.