The Phantom Freighter Read online

  Instead, their thoughts turned to the strange happenings in connection with the ship. The threatening seaman, the swinging boom that had knocked Frank into the water, the unpleasant captain, and now a new route for the Hawk, evidently determined upon in a hurry.

  “—so do something. And do it quick!” Mr. McClintock was saying. “I thought you were boys who got things done in a hurry!”

  Frank gulped. “Sorry. Well, we’ll find another freighter.”

  “I’ll go and ask at Klack‘s,” Joe offered. He hastened to the agency’s office and told the man behind the counter about being on a waiting list for freighter passage for three. “What are the chances of getting passage?” Joe asked.

  “Practically none at all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Not many ships take passengers, and most of ‘em are booked up.”

  “When can I see Mr. Klack?”

  “I’m Mr. Klack.”

  “Oh,” said Joe. “Thanks for the information last night.”

  “Glad to help you.”

  “Well, you have our phone number,” Joe went on. “Please let us know when you get reservations. The sooner the better.”

  He returned to the hotel and reported the situation to Mr. McClintock and Frank. As usual, McClintock fussed like a baby without a pacifier until Joe motioned his brother aside.

  “Frank, I don’t like that man Klack. I have a feeling he wouldn’t give us reservations if he had any.”

  “But why?”

  Joe shrugged. “I’m going to make an investigation of my own. Stay here a few minutes to soothe our client. I’ll meet you at home.”

  Joe headed directly for the docks. A freighter which had come in at seven o‘clock, he learned, usually carried six passengers. Hurrying to the captain, he asked if the Hardy party might take the outgoing trip.

  “Sorry, son”—smiled the pleasant man—“but all space was reserved less than an hour ago.” As Joe groaned, the captain continued, “The Klack Agency sold it. They’re right on the ball.”

  Fire in his eyes, Joe hurried back to Klack’s. Only the girl clerk was there. The boy demanded to know why passage had not been given to him.

  “I get my orders from Mr. Klack, not you,” she replied sourly, and began to pound a typewriter.

  Angry and mystified, Joe returned home. When Frank heard the disturbing news, he said, “Something queer about it all. I’m beginning to think that somebody doesn’t want us to sail on a freighter.”

  “What’ll we do now?” Joe asked. “Mr. McClintock will be calling up here—”

  “And won’t find us.” Frank grinned. “We’re going out to Chet’s. He phoned that he needs our help badly. He’s pretty sore at us.”

  “We have neglected him,” Joe agreed. “Wonder how much of his forty-five dollars he’s earned?”

  “He hasn’t started his fly-tying business yet.”

  The Hardys found Chet sitting on the back porch of the Morton farmhouse, surrounded by a vast assortment of tools and equipment for tying flies. He looked important and busy.

  “Quite a layout, Chet,” Frank said as he sat down on the steps.

  “Looks as if you’re working real hard,” Joe commented with a dash of sarcasm as he sat down, But instantly he jumped up with a yelp and detached a small hook from the seat of his pants.

  “Not a bad catch,” Chet remarked. “Got a big mouth Hardy bass on the first cast!”

  “Okay, you win that time,” Joe said sheepishly.

  Frank chuckled. “Let us in on the project, Chet.”

  “Making a trout fly looks simple,” Chet said, “but it’s really pretty complicated.” He had a large book propped up against the leg of a chair which he consulted every few seconds.

  Then Chet picked up a size sixteen hook. “I’m trying a Quill Gordon just now. Let’s see—black hackle and yellow mallard wings.”

  “Is this your first fly?” asked Joe.

  “I’ve made two so far. Here’s one” Chet reached into a tin box and picked up a weird-looking thing.

  The Hardys examined the creation dubiously. It was like no fly they had ever seen before. One wing was bigger than the other, and the hook was completely engulfed in a tangle of furs and feathers.

  “Looks scary,” Frank remarked. “What is it?”

  “Actually,” Chet confessed, “I started out to tie a Royal Coachman, but didn’t have any peacock feathers, so I decided to turn it into a Grizzly King, but it came out different from what I expected. So I call it a Morton Special.”

  Frank chuckled, “It’s original, at any rate.”

  “Maybe you could do better.” Chet thrust pliers and scissors toward his friend. “There’s the instruction book. Go ahead!”

  The Hardys recognized the maneuver. Whenever Chet began a project, some innocent bystander usually completed it for him. However, they were interested in the fly-tying, so they studied the instructions and settled down to the job.

  After Frank and Joe had assembled a large assortment of flies and had lunched at the farm, Joe was eager to go back and work on the freighter reservations.

  They said good-by to their chum and drove to Bayport. At the outskirts of town they noticed a familiar figure getting out of a police car.

  “Patrolman Con Riley,” Joe said with a grin.

  Frank brought the car to a stop. “You’re a long way from headquarters,” he called out to the officer. “What’s up?”

  “I’m on a case, Frank.”

  “What’s the trouble? Has somebody been helping himself to an empty house again?”

  “Exactly. A burglary.”

  “Mind if we come with you?”

  Joe jumped up with a yelp

  “Not at all. Maybe you masterminds can solve the case for me!”

  The boys joined the policeman as he walked up to a white-and-green frame house.

  The name UPDYKE was on the mailbox. Riley rang the doorbell.

  Mrs. Updyke, middle-aged and pleasant, invited them into the living room.

  “This case isn’t as serious as I thought when I telephoned headquarters,” she told them. “You see, I’ve been away from home for the past three weeks—”

  “And something was stolen!” Riley put in,

  “No. That’s just it. Nothing was stolen.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Riley said, astonished. “I’m here to investigate a burglary.”

  Frank ventured a question. “What actually happened? Did some stranger occupy the house while you were away?”

  “Yes. I found that one of the beds had been slept in, and some of the kitchen dishes had been used.”

  “Indicating,” suggested Frank, “that the person was here for several hours at least.” To himself he added, “Waiting for the express company to deliver a carton, probably.” Aloud he asked, “May I use your phone, Mrs. Updyke?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  Frank called the express office. He was not surprised to hear that a carton had been delivered to the Updyke house, but was amazed to learn that it had arrived there two weeks ago.

  “No telling how long this funny business has been going on,” he thought.

  As he was reporting his findings to the others, Mrs. Updyke suddenly gasped and pointed. “The documents—they’re gone!”

  On the wall the boys saw two rectangular places where the wallpaper was not faded like the rest around it. The missing articles must have hung there.

  “Do you think they were stolen?” Frank asked. Instantly he thought of the case his father was working on.

  “They were hanging there when I left home,” Mrs. Updyke replied.

  Riley got out his report book and began writing. The woman said that the rare documents were insured, but that she hated to lose them. One was a letter written by Abraham Lincoln, the other a military order issued during the American Revolution.

  As soon as the Hardys had heard of the papers, they left the house. Riley stayed on to look for clues.

/>   The boys drove home, eager to report this new development to their father. Fenton Hardy listened attentively.

  When they finished, he said, “From what you have told me, I think that the theft of the documents was committed by the person who received the carton. I’d like to talk to Mrs. Updyke.”

  Officer Riley was gone when the boys returned with their father. The policeman had found nothing of importance.

  Fenton Hardy wasted no time. He asked Mrs. Updyke a few questions, inspected the living room, then a kitchen closet where she kept paper and string. On the floor lay a short piece of heavy cord, tied in a knot at one end. Mr. Hardy picked it up.

  “I figured the thief wouldn’t walk out of here with the framed documents unwrapped,” the detective said. “They would be too conspicuous. This is the unused part of the cord he tied them with.” He turned to his sons. “What does it tell you?” he asked.

  “It isn’t the sort of knot people usually tie,” Joe observed.

  “It’s a stevedore’s knot!” Frank said.

  Joe thought they ought to look for the seaman with the scar. “He certainly acted suspiciously. I’ll bet if we could lay our hands on him, we’d be able to clear the whole thing up!”

  “And maybe find Aunt Gertrude’s papers,” Frank added. “Say, how about using that copy of Johnson’s signature we got from the expressman and see if anyone down at the waterfront recognizes it?”

  “Good idea. But drop me off at the house first,” Mr. Hardy said.

  After parking the car near the docks, they made a tour of employment offices and waterfront hotels, keeping their eyes open for the suspect. They showed the signature at each place. But no one recognized either the name or the handwriting.

  “If he’s a longshoreman he may be working around the freighter that came in about an hour ago,” one clerk suggested. “It’s the Annie J down at Pier Ten.”

  Frank and Joe hurried to the pier and looked closely at the stevedores working there. The scar-faced man was not among them.

  “I wonder if this freighter carries passengers,” Joe remarked. “Maybe we can arrange something for Mr. McClintock.”

  Frank turned to one of the men and asked if the Annie J had passenger accommodations.

  “Dunno,” grunted the fellow. “Ask one of the crew. Hey, you up there!” he called out.

  High above them, a man came out on the deck.

  “These boys want to talk to you!” the stevedore shouted.

  The moment the Hardys saw the crewman’s face, they recognized the scarred man. Johnson!

  He knew them instantly, too, wheeled around and disappeared.

  “Come on, Frank! The ladder!” Joe scrambled up and over the side of the ship’s rail, with Frank at his heels, just in time to see Johnson leap over a stack of hatch covers and race toward the fo‘c’sle.

  Rushing in pursuit, Frank tripped over a coil of rope and sprawled on the slippery deck. He cried out, and Joe looked around just in time to dodge out of the way of a huge steel hook that came swinging at the end of a boom cable.

  Frank scrambled to his feet. “Cut across the other side of the ship,” he shouted. “I’ll look for him in the fo‘c’sle.”

  Joe, meanwhile, had seen their quarry disappear through a doorway. He yanked it open and stepped inside, finding himself in a narrow passage opening into a galley. Halfway along the passage a flight of steel steps led down to the sleeping quarters.

  Joe listened. He thought he heard hurried footsteps below. As he started to descend, someone lunged at him from above and knocked him off balance. He fell forward, crashing heavily to the steel floor at the foot of the stairs.

  Joe saw a million bright stars. Then they went out.

  CHAPTER VII

  A Weird Tale

  THE shock of cold water splashing on Joe’s face brought him back to consciousness. He heard a voice saying, “That’s enough. He’s coming around now.”

  Joe opened his eyes. Two men crouched beside him. One, a sailor in dungarees and jersey, knelt by a bucket of water. The other, lean, sharp-eyed and gray-haired, was evidently the captain of the ship.

  “Feeling better?” the captain asked. “I was getting worried about you, young fellow.”

  Joe sat up and rubbed his head.

  “My brother came on board with me. Have you seen him?” he asked.

  “He went chasing some fellow down the ladder a little while ago. What’s it all about?”

  The men helped him to his feet. “I’m sorry, Captain—”

  “Dryden is the name.”

  “Sorry we made such a commotion, Captain Dryden, but we’ve been trying to catch that man. When we saw him on deck—”

  “Why were you after him?” asked the officer, puzzled. He dismissed the subject of the seaman and helped Joe us the companionway to the deck. At that moment Frank appeared.

  “Lost him again,” he grumbled. “That guy is as slippery as—Why, Joe, what’s the matter?” he asked, noticing how white and unsteady his brother was.

  “Somebody shoved me down a stairway.”

  “Come into my cabin,” suggested Captain Dryden. “And explain to me what’s going on.”

  He was cordial and solicitous as he ushered them into his own quarters and the three seated themselves.

  “First of all, what are your names?” he asked.

  “I’m Frank Hardy, sir, and this is my brother Joe.”

  The man’s friendly smile immediately disappeared. He looked stern and suspicious.

  “Hardy!” he cried. “What right do you have barging onto my ship like this?”

  The Hardys were dumbfounded at his change in attitude.

  “Now get out of here!” he ordered.

  “May I ask you a question first, sir?” Frank spoke up.

  “Depends on the question.”

  “Until you heard our names you were very cordial. Now there’s a difference. Why?”

  The officer had not expected anything so flat and direct. He cleared his throat and grunted. Finally he said:

  “Your name does make a difference. I’ve already been warned against you.”

  “What?”

  “A detective came on board as soon as we docked. Sent by a friend of mine. Told me you boys probably would show up here trying to book passage, but not to let you aboard because you’d only make trouble.”

  “How did you know he was a detective?” Frank asked, suspicious.

  “He showed me his badge. Said he dressed like a seaman because of his work on ships.” Captain Dryden studied the boys for a moment. When he continued, some of the coldness was gone from his voice. “Now that I’ve met you, I wonder if all he told me is true.”

  “What did he ten you?”

  “Before I answer, I’d like to know if you’ve ever heard of me before.”

  “No, sir,” answered the boys in unison.

  The captain started to speak, stopped, then said, “I think you’re telling the truth. Well, last year I got into a little mix-up in a foreign port. It wasn’t my fault and I thought the whole thing had blown over. This detective told me you had been hired to dig up new evidence and that, if I was wise, I’d keep you off my ship.”

  “Every word’s a lie!” Frank declared angrily. “What did this so-called detective look like?”

  Captain Dryden’s description fitted the man with the scar.

  “He’s the fellow we’re trying to find,” the boy exclaimed. “The one I was chasing! I’m sure he’s not a detective!”

  “More likely a crook,” added Joe. “And I’ll bet he’s the one who knocked me down the stairs!”

  Frank asked, “Do you still feel that you wouldn’t want us on board?”

  The captain laughed. “Not at all. I’d be glad to have you as passengers, but I doubt that this voyage would interest you. It’s just a short run down the coast and back.”

  “Will you consider us for a longer trip later?”

  “If you like. But I won’t be taking one for
the next three months.”

  The boys’ faces showed their disappointment. They thanked the skipper and rose to leave. As Captain Dryden escorted them to the ship’s ladder, he promised to keep a lookout for the bogus detective and said he would let the Hardys know at once if he showed up again.

  When they returned home Mrs. Hardy reported that Mr. McClintock had telephoned several times. “I think he’s getting impatient,” she remarked.

  Frank called him immediately. Mr. McClintock was more than impatient. He was angry and querulous.

  “How long have I got to wait before you find a ship?” he demanded. “I want action, not promises. If you can’t locate one by tomorrow, I’ll call the whole thing off!”

  Aunt Gertrude, who had been hovering near the telephone, gave Frank a nudge.

  “Ask him to dinner,” she whispered. “That’ll cool him off.”

  Frank took the cue. The invitation did have a surprisingly soothing effect. After grumbling that he would not come unless they got him back to the hotel by nine o‘clock, Mr. McClintock accepted.

  All smiles, Aunt Gertrude hurried to the kitchen. She was an excellent cook and this time did herself proud. When their guest showed up at six o‘clock, he sniffed appreciatively at the tantalizing culinary aroma.

  “Nothing like a well-cooked meal,” he said.

  “I quite agree with you, sir,” said a voice from the doorway, and Chet Morton walked in.

  He introduced himself, saying that he had heard Mr. McClintock was there and wanted to meet him. Frank and Joe were fearful that Chet might bring up the subject of the bamboo fishing rod and annoy their guest. So Frank said quickly, “How about joining us for dinner, Chet? Aunt Gertrude has something special. I’ll show you.”

  He escorted his buddy to the kitchen and warned him that Mr. McClintock was jittery and should not be disturbed by being asked to purchase anything. Chet nodded. A few minutes later the family, except Mr. Hardy, who was away, sat down to dinner with their guests.

  The irrepressible Chet chattered first about food, then fly fishing. He was so amusing that he won Mr. McClintock’s admiration in short order.