Mystery of the Whale Tattoo Page 3

  Joe heeded his brother’s warning and Frank sighed with relief.

  “Frank!” Solo called from the distance. “Is that you? Have you found Joe?”

  “We’re at the Ferris wheel, Mr. Solo,” Frank answered. “Come quick! We need you.”

  A few moments later Sid Solo burst upon the scene. “What’s wrong, Frank?” he queried anxiously.

  “Up there. Somebody bound and blindfolded Joe and put him on the wheel.”

  “Oh, no!” Solo said, horrified. He cupped his hands to his mouth and called up to Joe. “Sit tight, son. I’ll have you down safely in just a minute.”

  He opened the plate covering the engine controls at the base of the Ferris wheel and fired the gas engine. Then he grasped the upright stick that dictated the motion of the wheel and gently eased it forward. Moments later Joe’s car reached the ground. Frank pulled the blindfold from his brother’s eyes and cut the bonds on his wrists with a penknife.

  “Thanks,” Joe said gratefully. “That was a close one.”

  “What happened?” Frank asked. “How did you get up there?”

  Joe touched the back of his head and winced as his fingers made contact with the large bump. “I don’t know. I was looking for Boko. I passed by the Ferris wheel, called his name, then someone clobbered me. When I came to, I stood up and that’s when I heard your shout.”

  “Someone’s going to pay for this,” Frank vowed through clenched teeth.

  “I hate to think that it was one of my people,” Solo said, “but I did see someone slinking away as I came running.”

  “Who?” Frank demanded.

  “I’m not sure. It was too dark for a positive identification, but it might have been Rembrandt.”

  “I’d like to talk to him,” Frank said. “Along with Boko and Knocker Felsen.”

  “That goes double for me,” Joe added.

  A short time later the trio confronted Rembrandt, Felsen, and Boko in Solo’s office. All the suspects firmly denied guilt.

  “Let’s get this straight,” Frank said. “Boko, you say that you were out taking a walk alone. Is that right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, if it was just a harmless walk,” Frank continued, “then why did it come right on the heels of the lie you told us about your ‘wife’?”

  “That’s my business,” the clown snarled. “Money matters are personal. I don’t have to tell anybody about them.”

  “What about you, Felsen?” Joe asked.

  “I ain’t gonna account to no punks for my actions,” the big carny said.

  “You’d better!” Solo snapped.

  Felsen looked from his employer to the Hardys, then shrugged. “I was checkin’ the animals—all alone.”

  “That leaves you, Rembrandt,” Frank said.

  “I was sound asleep in my wagon.”

  Frank pointed out that there was not a single witness who could back up any of their stories. He added that it looked very odd, but he admitted that since he and Joe had no proof, they had no choice but to drop the matter, at least for the present.

  After a good night’s sleep Joe was in fine shape. The lump on his head had gone down and his headache disappeared. The boys reported to the carnival in the afternoon and found about as much happiness as a ball team on the short end of a 50-0 score.

  “We’ve had less than a hundred and fifty customers in the last day and a half,” Solo told them. “I’m unable to meet my pay roll in full.” Solo had arranged to close the carnival for an hour. He had called a meeting of all his employees, and invited Frank and Joe to attend.

  The carnival people gathered under the roof of the largest tent on the lot. Some of them sprawled on the floor, others took up casual positions in the seats normally used by patrons. Everyone was glum. Solo mounted a platform and outlined the situation to them. When he explained that he could not pay full salaries that week, a loud grumbling broke out.

  “Please,” he said, “bear with me. We’ve been through hard times together before. We’ve survived, and we’ll survive this time, too. As soon as business improves, I’ll not only make up the back pay I owe, but give a bonus to every person here.”

  This promise seemed to help, but it was obvious that the carnival people were still not happy about the situation. Rembrandt rose to his feet. His face was hard.

  “Boss, we got one big problem—the whale, right?”

  Solo nodded.

  “Well, I know a way to fix that,” Rembrandt said. “And I sure ain’t gonna waste no time doin’ it.”

  “Wait a minute,” Solo said. “It’s true that the sooner we can do something about the whale, the faster we’ll climb out of the hole. But I want to make two things clear. One, there is to be no rough stuff, and two, I don’t want anything dishonest done.”

  Rembrandt said nothing, just smiled.

  After attending to a few more details, Solo ended the meeting.

  “Some of these people are in pretty ugly moods,” Frank said. “I think we’d better give Biff and Tony a call and tell them to keep a weather eye peeled for signs of trouble.”

  Before the young detectives had a chance to get to a phone, Boko the Clown came up behind them and placed a nervous hand on Joe’s shoulder. Even the grease paint could not conceal the lines of tension around his mouth.

  “Can I talk to you guys?” he asked, and glanced around furtively. “Some place where nobody can hear us.”

  “Sure,” Frank said. The three of them went to a spot near the water-boat ride. “What is it?” Frank asked.

  Boko’s eyes flitted about. He said nothing until he was sure he could not be overheard. Then, in a frightened voice, he whispered, “They’re out to get me. And if they do, I’m a dead man!”

  Frank and Joe exchanged significant glances. “Who’s out to get you?” Joe asked quickly.

  “I can’t tell you!” Boko said, trembling.

  In his fear, the clown made a tight fist of his right hand. Frank’s sharp eyes spotted a very curious tattoo. There were three blue marks on Boko’s hand, one at the base of the thumb, one at the tip of the index finger, and the third at the base of the index finger. When Boko clenched his fist, these three portions joined to make a complete tattoo of a small whale. Frank made a mental note of this oddity.

  The Hardys tried hard to persuade Boko to tell them more, but he refused. To their surprise, he took a thin, silver chain from around his neck and handed it to Frank. A small key was attached to the chain.

  “If anything happens to me,” Boko said, “I want you to go to my bunk wagon. Turn up the mattress and you’ll find a loose board. There’s a strongbox under the board. Open it up, and you’ll know what to do.”

  A small group of concessionaires walked toward the trio. Boko saw them coming and he scampered away.

  “We’re on to something all right,” Frank said. “Let’s give Boko the night to calm down, then maybe he’ll answer some questions for us tomorrow.”

  As the Hardys drove home, lightning pierced the night sky. They were scarcely in their bedroom when a fierce thunderstorm drenched the Bayport area.

  Next morning they were eating Aunt Gertrude’s hearty breakfast of eggs, sausages, wheat-cakes and blueberry muffins and watching the early-morning newscast on television when the announcer said:

  “Bayport police have a king-sized mystery to contend with this morning. Sometime during the night the Blue Whale belonging to Tony Prito and Biff Hooper was stolen. Tony Prito, who was standing guard, is missing and...”

  Frank and Joe did not wait to hear any more. They delayed only long enough to tell their mother and Aunt Gertrude what had happened, then dashed out to their car. Moments later they were speeding to Tony’s house. When the Hardys reached there, Police Chief Collig’s car was just pulling up to the curb. Tony was in Collig’s car, his clothes dirty and torn, his expression glazed.

  Mr. Prito, a sturdy-looking man, dashed down the front steps and ran to his son. When Tony was settled comfortably in
a chair in the living room, he told his story. Someone had slashed the tarpaulin with a knife and tried to get at the whale. Tony drove him off, but did not get much of a look at the intruder. Taking no chances, Tony decided to stand guard all night. The last thing he remembered was smelling something strange. Then he fell into unconsciousness.

  “Gas!” Joe said.

  Police Chief Collig nodded agreement. Tony had awakened less than an hour before, near the entrance to the carnival.

  “Those people are responsible!” Mr. Prito stormed. “They should be prosecuted!”

  Chief Collig pointed out that no matter what they suspected, they had no proof. Tony’s father reluctantly had to admit this was true. Mrs. Prito, still shaken by the night-long vigil waiting news of Tony, fussed like a mother hen over her son.

  “I’m okay,” Tony insisted. “Forget about me. There’s only one thing I want.” He turned to Chief Collig and the Hardys. “Find that whale!”

  CHAPTER V

  How Was It Done?

  WHEN the Pritos’ family doctor assured them that Tony would be all right after a day’s rest, Frank and Joe drove to the site of the whale heist. But after a careful search, they had turned up no clues to the thieves.

  “We can’t even locate any truck tracks,” Joe said ruefully. “The rain washed out everything.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t carried off by a truck,” Frank said thoughtfully.

  “How else, then?” Joe retorted impatiently. “They sure didn’t carry it off on their shoulders.”

  “I don’t know, Joe. It just doesn’t make any sense to me. We’ll have to dope this out later.”

  Deciding that a further examination of the site would be fruitless, the Hardys returned to Tony’s house. Now that Tony was over the initial shock of his experience he might be able to tell them something he hadn’t remembered before.

  “I’m sorry, fellows,” Tony said apologetically, “but everything’s a blank from the moment I got a whiff of that gas until the moment I woke up.”

  Biff Hooper, who had rushed to the Prito house as soon as he had learned the news, was stalking up and down the living room.

  “Boy!” he said angrily. “Would I like to get my hands on Knocker Felsen. I’ll bet anything he’s the one who did this. I shouldn’t have let him off so easy the first time!”

  “Hold it,” Frank said. “We can’t leap to conclusions, Biff.”

  “Wait a sec!” Joe cried suddenly. “I know how they could have stolen the whale. A helicopter! A big cargo helicopter, powerful enough to hoist the whale up on cables and fly away with it!”

  “Hey! That just might be it!” Frank agreed excitedly. “Let’s phone Jack Wayne and see what he can tell us about helicopters in the area.”

  Jack was Fenton Hardy’s personal pilot and a close friend of many years’ standing. He told Frank and Joe he would get a rundown on all helicopters, including those for hire, within a fifty-mile radius of Bayport and call back. It did not take him long to gather the information.

  “Frank, I hate to disappoint you,” Jack reported, “but the storm last night was pretty widespread and there wasn’t a single helicopter flying.”

  “I guess we can knock out that possibility,” Frank said. “I still think Joe’s idea is a good one, though. Somehow, I’m sure it was done by air. After all, even if you could find a truck big enough, you couldn’t just drive through the middle of town with a whale!”

  “Not without being noticed by an awful lot of people,” Jack agreed.

  “I think it would be worth our while to do some scouting by air. Would you get our plane ready right away, Jack?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Forty-five minutes later the Hardys were at Bayport Airport. Both boys were licensed pilots. Frank slid behind the control wheel, obtained clearance from the tower, then taxied the single-engine, blue-and-white plane to the active runway and took off.

  Frank flew around Bayport in ever-widening circles, drifting farther and farther from the city, while Joe scanned the ground through high-power binoculars. Four hours of searching were in vain.

  “We’re below the halfway mark,” Frank said, indicating the gas gauge. “I think we should go down and refuel.”

  “Right,” his brother answered. “Harrington Field is ten miles to the east. That’s where they have the Strato Balloon Club. So keep an eye peeled.”

  Harrington Airport had a single paved runway pretty much off the mainstream of air traffic. It had only a rickety office building and one gas pit. Frank guided the plane down to a gentle landing, then taxied to the pit. Grizzled old Mr. Harrington came out to meet them.

  “Hi, Frank. Hi, Joe. Top her off?”

  “Okay,” said Frank. While the man pumped gas into the plane, he added, “What’s new, Mr. Harrington?”

  “Only thing new around here,” the man replied with a snort, “is that someone stole a couple of balloons belonging to the club. What do you think of that?”

  “Pretty mean,” Joe said. “We’ll keep a lookout for the balloons.”

  The boys paid him for the gas and took off. Half an hour later Joe pointed to a stand of oak trees and cried, “Look there!”

  Frank took the plane as low as he safely could and Joe got an excellent look through the binoculars. He relayed what he saw to Frank. “Those are the balloons all right. They’re torn apart-all deflated. And, Frank, there are ropes attached to them, ropes with frayed ends!”

  Satisfied, they headed back to Bayport. The method of the theft was now clear to them. The whale had been lifted silently and efficiently from its resting place by the balloons. The thieves evidently had depended upon air currents to carry it to whatever site they had selected. But the storm had wrecked their plans and the balloons as well. Somewhere along the line the whale had been torn loose and lost.

  As soon as they landed at Bayport Airport, Frank reported their find to Harrington. Then he called Jack Wayne and asked him to check on the wind velocity and direction over Bayport the previous night.

  “Give us all the meteorological info you can get your hands on,” Frank urged.

  The boys had something to eat and then drove out to the carnival.

  Now that the carnival had no competition, business was booming. Sid Solo was happy about this, but he was wringing his hands over a new problem.

  “Boko’s act is due to start in ten minutes,” he said. “But he’s disappeared. What am I going to do? The tent is packed and the customers are going to raise a big ruckus if I can’t give them a clown.”

  “Boko’s gone?” Frank exclaimed with alarm.

  “Yes. He hasn’t been seen since late last night.”

  Frank said to Joe, “I think we’d better call Chief Collig and tell him to be on the lookout. Boko’s either in danger, as he told us last night, or else he’s tied in with the stolen whale.”

  As Joe went to call Chief Collig, Solo moaned. “There’s no way out of this one. Those people are going to want their money back, and I don’t blame them.”

  “Cheer up, Mr. Solo,” Frank said. “I think we can find a clown for you.”

  Solo’s head snapped up. “Who? Where?”

  “Chet’s been on pickpocket duty until we got here, right?”

  Solo nodded.

  “Well, we’re back,” Frank said.

  Afraid of being disappointed, Solo was almost unwilling to let himself hope. “Do you think Chet will ... ?”

  “We won’t know until we ask him.”

  They found Chet and put the question to him. The chubby boy grinned and said, “Well, sounds like fun. Sure, I’d be happy to.”

  Solo pumped his hand. “Thank you. Thank you. If you pull this one off, you have my permission to eat free at every food concession in the carnival.”

  “Let’s go!” Chet said eagerly.

  The trio rushed to the costume and makeup trailer, hastily fitted Chet out in a clown suit, and daubed his face with grease paint. Solo grabbed a handful of props and stuffed th
em into Chet’s pockets.

  “It’s time,” Solo cried. He took Chet’s hand and pulled the tubby youth toward the big tent. “Wait here until I call you.”

  A bareback riding troupe had just completed its act and the ringmaster was standing in the center of the arena looking unsure of himself. Apparently he did not know what announcement to make since the next slot was Boko’s. Solo rushed forward, waved to the crowd, then took the microphone from the ringmaster.

  “Ladies and gentlemen and children of all ages,” he announced. “Due to circumstances beyond our control, Boko will not appear.” The audience made loud sounds of disappointment. “But,” Solo hurried on, “we have been very fortunate in securing for you the services of-of Chesterton the Great!” He turned away from the microphone and whispered to the bandleader, “Give ’em Number Three.”

  The band struck up a very serious and pompous march.

  “Oh, oh,” Chet said nervously. “That’s for me.”

  “Good luck,” Frank said.

  Chet moved into the arena. He walked with great and exaggerated dignity, then suddenly he tripped and fell, shot quickly to his feet, and whirled around as if to see who had tripped him. The crowd roared at Chet’s antics.

  Chet shook his fist at them and stalked over to the nearest seats in mock anger. He selected a man and pointed a plastic flower at him, then showed the rest of the audience a squeeze bulb that would send water squirting into the man’s face. He pressed the bulb—and the water squirted out the back of the flower into Chet’s face! Chet feigned surprise and the audience howled with delight.

  Next, the newly born clown drew a long chalk line on the floor. He opened a tiny umbrella, then stepped gingerly onto the chalk line, as if it were a wire stretched high above the ground, and began a balancing routine. The audience was laughing heartily by the time Solo rejoined Frank, who was howling in glee. Solo chuckled.

  “It’s really great!”

  “I’d love to stay and watch,” Frank said. “But I think there’s something we should do.” He told the carnival owner of Boko’s instructions concerning the strongbox.