Mystery of the Flying Express Page 4

  “Amen to that!” Frank said anxiously. “But we’ve got to find them pretty soon or else sound a general alarm that they’ve been kidnapped!”

  While the policeman talked to Mrs. Lane, Joe took Frank aside.

  “It’s only an hour and a quarter until the Flying Express starts for Bayport. We’ve promised to be on board! What’ll we do?”

  Frank replied, “We can’t go without Callie and Iola. Wait a minute! Mrs. Lane doesn’t remember the girls. But maybe one of her employees does. Suppose we get on the phone and question all of them?”

  They told their plan to the policeman. “Good thinking,” he said. “You boys man the phones in the office while I make out my report.”

  Mrs. Lane supplied a list of her employees and the boys began dialing.

  “Zero!” Joe reported, breaking the connection after his first call.

  “Same here,” his brother said disconsolately. “Let’s hope we have better luck with the rest.”

  Thoroughly dejected, Joe reached the last name on his list. A part-time clerk answered.

  “Yes,” she replied to Joe’s query. “I remember those two girls.”

  Beckoning Frank to listen in by way of the extension, Joe begged the clerk to go on.

  “Not much to add,” the voice said. “All I saw was that they were having a conversation with a man. Then the three of them left together.”

  “Who was he? Do you know his name?”

  “Yes—Rance Nepo. He runs the photography store around the corner.”

  “Thank you,” Joe said, and hung up. “There’s our lead, Frank!” He grabbed the jackets, and together the boys ran to the photography store. It was a small place, with dust-covered cameras, rolls of film, and art books in the windows. As they entered, a warning bell jangled.

  From the back room emerged a red-haired man with a stubble beard. “Are you Rance Nepo?” Frank asked.

  The man cracked the knuckles of one hand in the palm of the other.

  “Why, yes,” he said. “Need some film?”

  “No,” Frank said and quickly introduced himself and Joe. Then he inquired about the girls. “We heard you talked with them and that they left with you,” he said.

  Nepo admitted that Callie and Iola had accompanied him out of the Decor Shop.

  “Nothing wrong with that, was there?”

  “Of course not, Mr. Nepo. But please try to remember. Perhaps the girls mentioned where they were going next?”

  Nepo went on. “The blonde was interested in miniature flash bulbs. She’d just bought some kind of figurine decorated with them. I heard her ask where she could get more. The clerk said she had no idea, so I introduced myself and said I had that sort of information at my place.”

  “So they came here with you?” Frank asked, surprised.

  “Yes. I let them look up the company in Photographer’s Guidebook. When they found what they were looking for, they left. Said they were going to the Pizza Palace to meet a couple of fellows who would probably be late.”

  “Thanks. That’s us!” Frank said.

  Nepo snickered. “Good luck with the girls! I think you may need it!”

  Frank and Joe thanked him and left. “Let’s try the Pizza Palace again,” Frank said tensely.

  They entered and scanned the restaurant anxiously.

  “There they are!” Joe said.

  They found Callie and Iola seated at a table for four.

  “Where have you two vagabonds been all this time?” Callie demanded irately.

  “Don’t you realize,” Iola added, “that the Flying Express is leaving in a little while?”

  “Wait a sec,” Joe retorted. “Frank and I were here on time. You were nowhere on the horizon, so we went looking.”

  “Must have just missed you,” Callie said, smiling.

  “What worrywarts!” said Iola. She beckoned to a waiter, who instantly brought the pizzas pies they had ordered. Frank’s and Joe’s were loaded with pepperoni.

  “Your reward,” Callie teased.

  Before they started to eat, Frank called the police and reported that the girls had turned up, then went back to the table.

  “This hasn’t been our day!” Iola said. “Our jackets were stolen while we were in the camera shop. I can’t imagine—”

  She broke off as Frank produced the two garments from behind his back. “How did you ever—?”

  “We’ll tell you later,” Frank interrupted. “Let’s get going or we’ll miss the boat!”

  Joe paid the check and they dashed through Providence to the dock.

  The Flying Express was still there. Two minutes later she moved out into deep water, gathered speed, and gradually raised her hull into the air for the run back to Bayport.

  Spencer Given approached Frank and Joe with a forlorn expression. “Notice anything different this trip?”

  Frank looked around. “Obviously we don’t have as many passengers.”

  “That’s the point. A lot of people think that the Flying Express isn’t safe. They’ve dropped us! They’re traveling home to Bayport by bus. You understand what I’m up against.”

  “We understand, Mr. Given,” said Joe. “We’ll do our best to restore confidence in your commuter service.”

  “So will we,” Callie said. “Iola and I would recommend the Flying Express to anybody!”

  Given permitted himself a thin smile. “Thank you. We’ll see how your boy friends do on the return trip.”

  The four settled down in the lounge and the Hardys told of their harrowing experience at the Decor Shop.

  “So! You thought we were dummies!” Callie said. “Iola, I don’t know how we should take that!”

  “It’s not funny,” Frank said. “We thought you were hurt.”

  “We know,” Iola said, and put her head on Joe’s shoulder.

  Frank asked, “Are you sure you didn’t lose the jackets?”

  “They were definitely stolen!” Callie declared. “We had them when we went into Rance Nepo’s shop. While we were getting the address of the flash-bulb company, they disappeared. We thought one of the customers had taken them.”

  “Or,” Iola conjectured doubtfully, “it could have been Mr. Nepo. We didn’t exactly keep him under surveillance while we were going through Photographer’s Guidebook.”

  “You’re right. We can’t count out anyone at this point.”

  “The whole thing seems so childish,” Iola said.

  Frank shook his head. “I doubt that it was merely a prank,” he said. “There’s more behind it.”

  “It could be a warning of some kind,” Joe said.

  “Or else someone wanted to keep us here. Delay us enough so we’d miss the boat. Maybe some dirty work has been planned for this trip!”

  The group fell silent, thinking it over, and Frank broke the spell.

  “All we can do right now,” he said, rising, “is circulate and keep a sharp eye on all the passengers.”

  “Let’s separate,” Callie suggested. “Iola and I’ll go forward; you boys go aft.”

  They strolled around, casually pausing to chat with people. Frank and Joe passed the girls twice, but neither had anything to report.

  Later Joe remarked to his brother, “We’re almost at Bayport. Nothing has happened so far.”

  “Keep your fingers crossed!” Frank replied.

  Dusk was beginning to fall as the Flying Express headed into Bayport Harbor. The lights of the city flickered in the distance and a rising moon cast silvery rays over the water. Small craft were converging on the docks from every point in Barmet Bay.

  The pilot of the Flying Express cut his engines and the hydrofoil slowed for the approach to her berth, a few hundred yards off the bow.

  People began to stir, collecting their belongings or simply waiting for the moment when the gangplank would be lowered.

  The Hardys stood on deck, near the pilot and Spencer Given, watching the activities in the harbor. Through the dim light two powerboats, one behi
nd the other, streaked in at right angles to the hydrofoil’s course.

  “I hope those guys have the common sense to change their course!” Joe muttered.

  A moment later Frank yelled the warning:

  “They’re not veering off! They must be a couple of lunatics! Hold on tight. There’s going to be a crack-up!”

  It was too late for the pilot to do anything but watch in horrified incredulity. Given winced, and ducked as if he could not bear to see what was about to happen.

  The first powerboat flashed across the bow of the Flying Express, missing the bigger craft by a hair‘s-breadth, and vanished into the darkness of the bay.

  The powerboat following behind never had a chance. As the hydrofoil plowed into it amidships there came the sickening sound of splintering wood!

  CHAPTER VII

  Diver’s Peril

  THE whistle aboard the Flying Express shrieked as the pilot threw the hydrofoil into reverse. Passengers screamed in fright and questions flew back and forth.

  “How did it happen?”

  “Was anybody killed?”

  Frank and Joe did not wait for answers. Instead they raced for the life preservers hanging from the cabin walls and flung them into the bay.

  After kicking off their shoes, they dived into the cold water.

  The boys scanned the gloomy waters for the sight of a bobbing head. Nothing. Not even a piece of flotsam could be seen in the semidarkness.

  “This job is too big for us!” Frank called to Joe. “They’ll have to bring in the Coast Guard!”

  By the time the Hardys had climbed back aboard, a message for help had been sent. Within half an hour two Coast Guard cutters converged on Barmet Bay. Their searchlights probed the misty darkness, illuminating the place where the powerboat had been hit. An officer directed the search from the pilot house of the Flying Express. He ordered his subordinates to scout the bay in a crisscross pattern.

  The Hardys had worked with the Coast Guard on previous cases. They knew these professional sailors would find anything afloat. Their faith was soon rewarded.

  “Debris here, sir,” came a voice from the darkness. “The stern and part of the sides of the powerboat. Shall we tow it ashore?”

  “Roger! We’ll be coming right behind you for an inspection of the wreckage.”

  Spencer Given had been waiting, pacing up and down in despair. “Thank goodness for that order! My passengers are threatening to swim to shore if we keep sitting out here in the bay. I’m just thankful that the hydrofoil hasn’t been ruined—only a dent in the bow that can be repaired. I wish my nerves could be repaired as easily!”

  The Coast Guard officer nodded to the pilot, who started the motors again and brought the Flying Express slowly up to the dock. Ropes were cast onto the jetty and quickly secured around the metal bollards. The gangplank fell into place and the passengers streamed ashore, many of them grumbling that they were late for dinner.

  Frank told the girls to drive home in the Hardys’ car, while the boys went over to the Coast Guard office for the official examination of the debris.

  The nose of the hydrofoil had caved in one side of the powerboat, and smashed through the opposite side. The stern had been twisted around and battered by the force of the collision.

  “Any idea who she belonged to, Officer?” Joe inquired.

  “No. And if this is all that’s left, we may never find out. The impact of the hydrofoil ripped the license number off the powerboat!”

  “What next?” Frank put in.

  “The Bayport Police Department will have to send frogmen down to see what’s on the bottom of the bay. If they find the motor, we may be able to fix the identity of the owner from the serial number.”

  “We’re experienced scuba divers,” Joe said quickly. “Perhaps we could help.”

  “Good thought. Get your gear and be here at six A.M. sharp!”

  “Yes sir!”

  The police launch was already revved up when Frank and Joe arrived the next morning. Two divers were testing their equipment; a third read ied grappling hooks. Last-minute instructions were being given about the site and the mission. Then they pushed off into the bay.

  “The water looks more friendly at sunrise than during the night,” Frank commented.

  Joe yawned. “Maybe it does, but somehow I don’t feel my best this morning.”

  Frank laughed. “Come on, wake up. The bay is kind of deep at this spot, and we’ll need all our energy to survey the bottom.”

  The boys peeled off their clothing down to their swim trunks, edged their feet into flippers, tested their aqualungs before pulling them on, and eased over the side into the bay along with three frogmen. Down they swam through the sun-lit water to the murky depths.

  As they drew within sight of the bottom, Joe dropped behind. He felt woozy. He was losing his ability to concentrate. A warm comfortable feeling swept over him.

  Joe closed his eyes, stopped moving his hands and feet, and surrendered himself to the gentle movement of the current. Why was he down there? He couldn’t remember and didn’t care. All he wanted to do was to go off into a deep sleep.

  Suddenly a hand jerked his arm violently. Frank was staring into his face.

  “Good night!” Frank thought. “Rapture of the deep! Joe has nitrogen narcosis!”

  He and Joe had read about nitrogen narcosis, one of the main hazards of skin divers going to great depths. This condition usually becomes evident below a hundred and thirty feet, but can also occur at lesser depths if a diver goes down at a time of low vitality.

  Frank grabbed Joe’s elbows from behind and gave a hard kick with his flippers. The two rose straight up through the water in a cloud of bubbles.

  Joe’s brain gradually cleared as they ascended. Realizing what had happened to him, a chill ran down his spine. When they cut the surface, Joe had command of himself again.

  The boys clung to the side of the boat, breathing hard.

  “Thanks for the assist,” Joe gasped.

  “Get into the boat,” Frank ordered. “You’ve had enough.”

  Despite Joe’s protests, he helped him into the launch, then dived again. Near the floor of the bay Frank spotted it. Half concealed in the mud lay the motor from the powerboat.

  At Frank’s signal the frogmen came swimming in. They put a cradle of rope around the motor, tugged on the line, and watched it move toward the surface. Then all the divers came up and boarded the launch.

  “No serial number,” Frank said in disgust after examining the engine. “It’s been filed off!”

  “Undoubtedly the powerboat was stolen,” said the officer in charge. “Anyway, we’ve got the one piece of equipment we were looking for. Since we haven’t spotted any bodies, we might as well return to port. The case belongs to the police chief from here on.”

  In his office at headquarters Chief Collig toyed with a pencil while Frank and Joe related all that had happened. He frowned.

  “It’s a real mystery,” he said. “Have any ideas, boys?”

  Frank spoke up. “I have a hunch that the powerboat was empty when the hydrofoil hit it.”

  “Empty, you say? Why do you think that?” Collig asked.

  “Well, I think it was being towed by the other boat.”

  “Hum!” The chief nodded. “You mean the accident was planned?”

  “It’s entirely possible. That would explain why we didn’t find any survivors of the crash. Nobody was in the water because nobody was in the boat.”

  Collig nodded soberly. “It’s possible. Maybe you boys can bring in the proof. You’ve been involved in this case from the beginning.”

  “We’d be glad to help,” Frank said.

  “Good,” Collig replied. “For starters, I’d like you to talk to the men who are opposed to Given’s hydrofoil ferry. Pick up the Bayport Times at the street corner and you’ll see what I mean!”

  “Okay, Chief,” Frank said as they left to buy the newspaper.

  It carried a s
creaming headline: HYDROFOIL SINKS POWERBOAT ON BARMET BAY. The subtitle read: NO SURVIVORS. The story said nothing about the smaller craft cutting across the bow of the Flying Express, which, the reporter hinted, had come barging into the harbor expecting every other vessel to get out of the way.

  Enemies of the hydrofoil were quoted as calling it “a menace to the citizens of Bayport” and “a reckless venture that ought to be stopped.” One man said bitterly, “We’ve already lost a powerboat. How many lives must be lost before we get rid of the hydrofoil?”

  “Wow!” Joe commented. “They’re really after Given’s scalp. I feel sorry for him. This incident certainly wasn’t his fault. Let’s go talk to the group of small boat owners mentioned here. They’re meeting at the yacht club right now.”

  The Hardys arrived at the club just in time to hear a speaker angrily denouncing the hydrofoil. “Here’s the evidence!” he stormed, waving a newspaper. “The Flying Express must go!”

  “To Cape Cutlass tomorrow morning!” Frank heckled from the rear of the hall.

  “And back to Bayport!” Joe needled.

  Heads turned and necks craned for a view of the individuals interrupting the proceedings.

  “I don’t know who these gentlemen are,” the speaker snorted contemptuously, “but I imagine they’re part owners of the Flying Express!”

  “I wish we were!” Joe parried the accusation. “We’d be pretty sure of a good return on our investment. The commuter service to Providence is going to be a success!”

  “I hope they believe you!” Frank remarked under his breath. Aloud he said: “We’re just a couple of passengers who happen to have been on board last night. We saw the accident. How many of you did?”

  “He’s right,” a voice called out. “Charlie, were you there?” The speaker flushed and refused to answer.

  Seizing the opportunity, Frank mounted the rostrum and explained the events of the previous night. “We suspect an arranged accident,” he declared. “Somebody tried to put the Flying Express out of commission by towing that powerboat across its bow.”

  A murmur went through the audience.

  “Certain groups fear the hydrofoil’s competition and want it out of the way,” Frank went on. “They’re spreading rumors about its danger. Any idea who could be behind it?”