The Great Airport Mystery Read online

  The pilot remarked, “Because of the direction of the wind, that runway is the only one I can use to head the plane into the wind.”

  He tuned his radio to the proper frequency and contacted Bayport tower. An immediate reply crackled from the plane’s receiver.

  “Ace Service Flight Two-Six is cleared to runway One-Niner. Wind’s from the southeast at fifteen knots. Altimeter setting, Two-Niner-Eight-Six.”

  Randy paused to check his instruments, controls, and engine magnetos. The tower then cleared him for immediate take-off. Turning into the runway, he eased the throttle ahead. Soon he and his passengers were airborne and taking a course to the northwest.

  The boys gazed down at the earth below. The terrain became more hilly with each passing mile. The expanses of wooded areas looked like rumpled deep-green carpet. Here and there, lakes and small streams reflected the sun in bright flashes almost blinding in their intensity.

  The pilot adjusted his course, checked his watch against the small clock mounted on the instrument panel, then said to Frank and Joe, “We should be coming up on the area you’re looking for in a few minutes.”

  The Hardys scanned the surface below more intently. Far to the left, Frank saw a narrow ribbon of paved road that he surmised to be the highway from which he and Joe had turned onto the secondary road. Frank requested the pilot to fly closer to the highway.

  “There it is!” declared Joe. “That must be the secondary road we drove along!”

  Frank peered directly downward. The road itself was not visible, but a telltale cleft that snaked among the trees told him it was there. Randy banked steeply to the right and paralleled the road.

  “Can we fly lower?” Frank asked.

  Randy examined the terrain. “It seems to be pretty desolate. I think we can drop to a lower altitude without breaking any air regulations.”

  The pilot eased back on the power and allowed the nose of the airplane to drop a few degrees below the horizon. The large hand of the altimeter slowly moved counterclockwise, indicating a descent.

  Randy leveled out at about five hundred feet, skillfully avoiding the hills. The cleft in the trees grew wider, bringing the road into view.

  “Look!” Joe yelled. “That’s where our car turned over. The saplings we used for leverage are still there!”

  “Start taking pictures,” Frank ordered. “I’ll keep an eye out for anything of special interest.”

  Joe gripped the camera and pointed it downward. Randy banked the plane so the young detective could take more direct aim. Joe made several exposures as the pilot circled the area, gradually widening his turns.

  “I just spotted something!” Frank shouted.

  “What is it?” Joe readied the camera.

  “It looks like the roof of a small cabin,” Frank replied. “If the sun weren’t directly overhead, it would be hidden in the shadows. It’s surrounded by trees and brush.”

  “I see it!” exclaimed Joe. He focused the camera and released the shutter.

  “The cabin is near the spot where we saw Bush Barney,” Frank declared.

  “Do you think he could be hiding out there?” Joe questioned.

  “It’s possible. And perhaps our friend with the shotgun too!5”

  The pilot rolled out of the turn. “We’ll fly straight and level for a few seconds,” he said. “If we continue those tight turns for too long, we might get vertigo.”

  Their straight course took them over an area on the opposite side of the road. Frank suddenly noticed a rectangular-shaped field that looked like a pasture.

  “Fly over that way,” he said to Randy, pointing almost directly ahead.

  The pilot eased the plane into a course around the narrow clearing. Frank and Joe saw that the grassy field was bordered by trees and dense brush. At one end loomed a high, steep hill.

  “What do you make of it?” Frank asked, glancing at the pilot. “Do you think a small plane could land there, and take off?”

  “I doubt it,” Randy said. “But let’s go down for a closer look-see.”

  He dropped the plane’s nose steeply, pulling out over the clearing below tree level. He carefully dragged the field, then applied full power and turned sharply away from the steep hill ahead.

  “That clearing is only about nine hundred feet long,” he told the boys. “The approaches are very bad. I doubt whether anyone could get a plane in there without rolling it up into a ball. And even if a landing were possible, he’d never be able to take off again.”

  The boys’ thoughts turned back to the airplane they had encountered on the road. If it had crashed, where was the wreckage? It must have pulled up and gone off. Did the roadblock and the red flare have something to do with the maneuver ?

  Frank took over with the camera. Quickly reloading it, he photographed the open area. Joe peered through his binoculars. Suddenly he snapped up in his seat.

  “Down in the clearing!” he shouted. “See those two men stalking along the edge!”

  The pilot banked the plane and lined up for another low pass. As they approached, Frank also spotted the two figures. Joe focused his binoculars more sharply.

  “I’m not sure,” he yelled excitedly, “but I think one of those men is Bush Barney!”

  As the plane roared closer, the two men whirled around. They glanced up, then turned and ran into the woods.

  “Quick!” Frank shouted to Randy. “Pull around and make another low pass!”

  The pilot again pulled up steeply to turn away from the hill ahead. But just as he pushed the throttle forward for more power, the engine suddenly sputtered, then quit completely. Randy immediately dropped the nose in an effort to keep flying speed and avoid a stall.

  The boys looked ahead. Through the windshield all they could see was a formidable array of trees, dense brush, and hills strewn with rocks and boulders. They tightened their seat belts and braced themselves for the worst. There was no place to land. They would have to crash!

  CHAPTER VII

  A Strange Request

  RANDY Watson, his face grim, desperately switched fuel tanks. He pumped the throttle but the engine failed to react.

  He put the plane into a gentle turn and headed down a narrow valley. The propeller slowly wind milled in the slipstream, as the anxious Hardys watched the ominous terrain rising steadily toward them.

  The pilot continued to manipulate the fuel valves, mixture control, and throttle. Frank nervously glanced at the altimeter. They were rapidly losing altitude.

  Finally Randy reached for a toggle switch marked “Booster Pump” and snapped it to the “On” position. He pumped the throttle vigorously. Suddenly the engine backfired—once, then twice. The boys held their breaths. There was a chugging sound for a few seconds! Then the engine roared to life.

  Randy pushed the throttle to full power. Already the tops of trees were whipping against the plane, leaving green-colored streaks along the leading edges of the wings. The pilot eased back on the control stick and managed to pull away from the treetops. Ahead, he saw that the valley bent sharply to the right.

  He banked the plane into a tight turn and followed the valley’s course. It seemed to grow narrower second by second; the steep hills flanking each side squeezed closer. Randy checked the airspeed indicator, then raised the nose to gain altitude. Soon the hilltops were flashing by below them.

  “Whew!” Joe exclaimed. “That was too close for comfort.”

  “What happened to the engine?” Frank asked the pilot.

  “Fuel-pump failure, I think,” Randy said. “Right now, we’re operating on the booster. It’s acting as a kind of auxiliary pump, and should keep the engine running long enough to get us back to Bayport.”

  During the return trip Frank removed the second roll of film from the camera, and placed it with the other one on the seat beside him. Eventually the airport came into view, and Randy radioed the control tower for a straight-in approach. The boys could see an emergency truck stationed near the runway as they
touched down.

  A small crowd had already collected on the parking ramp as they taxied in. One of the group was Jerry Madden.

  “What happened?” he queried anxiously.

  “The pilot thinks it was fuel-pump failure,” Frank answered.

  “I heard him declare an emergency on the radio in the hangar,” said Jerry. “When Lance Peterson heard you fellows were aboard, he asked to see you right away.”

  “Lance Peterson?” Frank said wonderingly. “He wants to see Joe and me?”

  The Hardys were so amazed at hearing Peterson’s request that they momentarily forgot about their photographing mission and near crash. They hurried immediately to the chief pilot’s office.

  When the brothers arrived, Peterson greeted them with a smile. His attitude had apparently undergone a complete change since they had met the first time.

  “I hear you boys had a pretty dose call,” he remarked.

  “Close enough!” Frank responded tersely. He was eager to find out why Peterson had asked to see them.

  The chief pilot looked haggard and worried. He sat down and nervously tapped the top of his desk with a pencil.

  “I learned only recently that you two are amateur detectives,” he said.

  “Yes, we are,” Frank admitted. “But what has that to do with your asking to see us?”

  “I want you to take a case for me,” said Peterson. “Please don’t refuse.”

  Frank and Joe were startled at the request. There was silence for a moment, then Frank spoke up. “What kind of case?”

  Peterson spoke in a hushed voice. He repeated the story about the crash at sea in which Clint Hill had been lost.

  “I was copilot on that trip, and the only survivor,” he said.

  “We know all that,” Joe said impatiently.

  Peterson’s voice dropped almost to a whisper. The boys had difficulty hearing him.

  “As pilot in command,” he said—almost plead ingly, the boys thought—“Hill was responsible for the accident.”

  Peterson grew even more tense. Perspiration began to show on his face.

  “But for some reason”—he went on in a quavering voice, then paused as he got up and came to stand directly in front of the boys—“Clint Hill has started to haunt me!”

  “Haunt you?” Frank exclaimed. “In what way could a dead man haunt you?”

  “Clint used to whistle a lot,” said Peterson. “His favorite tune was ‘High Journey.’ Now I keep hearing him whistle it—here, at home, over my plane radio. Sometimes he breaks off and laughs!”

  “Are you sure somebody isn’t just playing a joke on you?” Joe suggested.

  “No!” the pilot answered. “A few days ago I heard him radio the tower for landing instructions. Then he flew off, saying, ‘The dead can tell no tales.’ It all came in clearly on my office radio receiver over there,” he said, pointing to a box-shaped unit which stood on a table across the room. “I realize now you boys weren’t joking.”

  “This is very unusual,” said Frank. “But what can Joe and I do for you?”

  “I know I’m not hearing things,” Peterson stated. “Somebody is trying to drive me out of my mind, probably to get my job. I want you boys to find out who it is!”

  “Chasing ghosts is a bit out of our line,” Frank said. “We’ll have to think it over.”

  Peterson appeared desperate. “I wish you would start on the case now,” he said. “But if you must think it over, let me know as soon as you decide.”

  The Hardys left Peterson’s office and started back to the Ace Air Service parking ramp. As they walked, the brothers discussed this new and puzzling development.

  “I’d say he was off his rocker,” commented Joe, “if it weren’t for the fact that we too heard the voice of Clint Hill’s ghost.”

  “Could be,” said Frank. “But I don’t go along with Peterson’s idea that someone is trying to drive him out of his mind in order to get his job.”

  Joe agreed and asked Frank if he thought they should take the case. Frank replied that it would be best to discuss the matter with their father before making any decision.

  As they arrived at the parking ramp, the young sleuths saw Randy Watson standing near the airplane with a mechanic.

  “Find the trouble?” Frank called.

  “It was the fuel pump that caused the engine to fail!” Randy replied.

  “Thanks to your skill,” Frank said with a smile, “we avoided becoming a permanent part of the landscape!”

  Randy said he hoped the trip had not been a waste of time.

  “Oh, no. We managed to get plenty of pictures before the engine quit,” Frank answered. “Incidentally, we’d better get the films developed just as soon as possible,” he said to Joe.

  The young detectives climbed into the cabin of the plane. They were puzzled not to find the camera and containers of film where they had left them.

  Frank shouted to Randy, who was standing on the ramp, “Did you take the camera and films into the operations building?”

  “No,” the pilot responded with a startled air. “Are you certain they’re not in the cabin?”

  The boys searched again, becoming more frantic with each second.

  “Were you away from the plane at any time?” Frank asked Randy.

  “Only for a few minutes when I went to get a mechanic.”

  The Hardys stared into the empty cabin.

  “Those valuable pictures!” Frank burst out. “Our films! They’ve been stolen!”

  CHAPTER VIII

  Masked Attacker

  THERE was a moment of thunderstruck silence. Who had stolen the Hardys’ camera and films and why?

  Randy was apologetic, saying he felt responsible for leaving the plane unattended. “I’ll pay for the loss,” he declared.

  “We wouldn’t consider it,” Frank said, shaking his head. “Besides, it’s not so much the camera we’re worried about.”

  “The films?”

  “Right,” Joe added quickly. He cast a glance at his brother. “You probably have the same suspicion I do, Frank. The thief might have wanted to prevent us from developing those pictures.”

  “Then why did he take the camera too?” was Randy’s next query.

  “Because he figured there was more exposed film in it,” Frank explained.

  “Good reasoning,” Randy agreed.

  The boys recalled the small crowd that had collected on the ramp when their plane taxied in. Jerry Madden had been among them. Perhaps, Frank thought, he might know who some of the other onlookers were. The young detectives returned to the Stanwide hangar to question Jerry.

  “I recognized only two faces in the crowd,” said Jerry, after the boys told him about the theft. “Mike Zimm, the mechanic, and Aaron Lieber, a copilot mechanic, who seems to be a special pal of Lance Peterson’s.”

  “Zimm again.” Frank’s eyes narrowed. “Odd, the way he keeps popping up in our case.”

  “Sure is,” said Joe. “I’ll bet that snoopy mechanic is somehow mixed up in the platinum business, but why would he want our films?”

  The Hardys finally decided to trail Zimm and Lieber when the two men quit work for the day. Frank asked Jerry for a description of Lieber, then requested the pilot to check the men’s lockers for the stolen camera.

  “They keep them locked,” Jerry said. “Everyone around here does. But the doors have slats a little wider than is usual. Maybe I can peer in through the openings. I’ll try after Zimm and Lieber leave.”

  The Hardys hurried from the hangar. Frank hid behind some engine crates a short distance away. Joe, at his brother’s direction, went to the airport terminal building to telephone Chet Morton and another friend, Biff Hooper. Their pals’ help might come in handy if the Hardys ran into trouble while tailing Zimm and Lieber.

  It was not long before Joe returned. “We’re in luck,” he said. “Chet can use his father’s produce delivery truck, which will be a good cover-up. He’s starting for the airport imme
diately, and will pick up Biff on the way. I told Chet to wait for us near our car in the visitors’ parking lot.”

  Nearly half an hour passed before Zimm and a thin, bony-faced man with beady eyes emerged from the Stanwide hangar. “Aaron Lieber,” muttered Frank. The young sleuths watched the men carefully. Neither of them carried anything, and the aerial camera was too bulky to be hidden beneath their coats. The pair stopped for a few minutes and talked in low tones, then got into separate cars and drove off.

  Frank and Joe dashed to the visitors’ parking lot. There they recognized the Mortons’ farm truck and ran to it. Behind the wheel was the Hardys’ stout chum, and seated next to him, was tall, lanky Biff Hooper. Biff was an energetic boy, who prided himself on his boxing ability.

  “There’s no time to lose!” Frank declared. “Joe, you go with Chet in the truck and follow Lieber. I’ll take Biff with me in our car and tail Zimm!”

  The two vehicles drove off and headed toward the airport exit, through which the two suspects would have had to pass. The boys’ timing was perfect. They neared the exit just as the cars driven by Zimm and Lieber pulled out onto the main road.

  After driving a short distance, the two men took different routes. Frank followed Zimm, dropping behind as far as possible so as not to be conspicuous. Joe and Chet went in pursuit of Lieber.

  As Frank and Biff rode along, Frank briefly outlined the situation to his friend, who nodded enthusiastically. “You can count on me if there’s any trouble.” He set his jaw and skillfully executed several left jabs in the air.

  “Save your energy,” Frank told him with a grin. “You might need it.”

  The young sleuth kept his eyes fixed on the car ahead. As they entered town a short while later, he saw it slow down and stop. Zimm got out and went into a photographic shop. “Freeman’s Camera House,” Frank observed. He wondered if this was just a coincidence, or was Zimm planning to have the stolen films developed?

  “When Zimm comes out,” he told Biff, “you take the car and follow him. I want to question the shop owner.”

  “But when will we join up?” his friend asked.

  Frank reached into his pocket and took out an emergency detective kit. From it he extracted a packet containing small pieces of vivid red paper, and handed it to Biff.