Mystery of the Whale Tattoo Page 4

  “Well,” said Solo, “I think the situation justifies your opening it.”

  They left the Big Tent, found Joe, and went to Boko’s wagon. As they drew near it, a figure burst from inside and dashed away.

  “After him!” Joe shouted.

  Frank threw all his strength into the chase, moved ahead of Joe and Solo, and gained on the fugitive. The man rounded a corner, Frank close behind. Then suddenly a low-strung tent rope caught Frank by the ankle and sent him pitching headlong to the ground. Joe and Mr. Solo came pounding up as Frank was pushing himself to his feet.

  “What happened?” Joe asked.

  “I tripped,” Frank said disgustedly. “We’ll never find him in the crowd now.”

  The crowd roared at Chet’s antics

  “Are you all right?” Joe asked.

  “Fine. Let’s get back to Boko’s wagon and see what that guy was up to.”

  They walked back, mounted the wagon’s steps, and pushed through the half-open door. “I smell smoke,” Joe said.

  Frank sniffed the air. “You’re right.”

  The young detectives went directly to Boko’s bunk, pulled up the mattress, and after a moment’s search located the loose board. Frank raised it and stared into the empty hole. “The box is gone!”

  A quick check of the wagon turned up the missing container under a pile of rags in a corner.

  “I found it!” Joe exclaimed. Mournfully he added, “We’re too late!”

  He held the strongbox up for Frank and Solo to see. The lock had been broken open. The box was empty!

  CHAPTER VI

  A Well-Salted Guest

  “WE missed it by minutes,” Joe said. He set the strongbox down and shook his head. “Another blind alley.”

  “Let’s search the wagon,” Frank suggested. “The intruder might have left something behind that could prove valuable to us.”

  Frank, Joe, and Solo began a methodical investigation, opening storage lockers, tilting back the few pieces of furniture, running their fingers along cracks and crevices.

  “Here’s something!” Frank exclaimed suddenly. Solo and Joe gathered around him. On the floor near the entrance, mashed by a heel, was a small mound of dark, flaky ashes. “This accounts for the smoke you smelled, Joe. Whoever was in here must have burned the contents of the strongbox.”

  Frank sifted the ashes and snatched out a fragment of yellow paper that had not been consumed. “We’re in luck!”

  He held the brown-edged piece of paper up to the light. A few words were still legible: Whitey Meldrum knows a ...

  “Did you ever hear of a Whitey Meldrum?” Frank asked Solo.

  “No. The name doesn’t mean a thing to me.”

  Frank put the scrap of paper into his wallet. Further search revealed nothing. They left the wagon. As they were descending the three steps to the ground, Joe said, “Look!” He bent and retrieved a torn photograph. Its edge was charred and there was a smear of chewing gum on it.

  “This must have been in the strongbox,” Joe surmised. “The fire didn’t get it and it probably stuck to the thief’s foot when he ran out.”

  The picture was of a wiry man, hawk-faced, and dressed in circus tights. Solo identified him as an aerial artist named Kane who had been killed some years ago in a fall from a high wire.

  “Well,” Frank said, “we’re on to something, but I’m not sure what. I think our next move should be to get in touch with Dad.”

  Joe agreed. They thanked Solo for his help, left the carnival, and drove home. There they related the day’s events to their mother and aunt.

  Mrs. Hardy said, “Your father would want to be brought up to date.”

  “He certainly would,” Aunt Gertrude sputtered. “You should turn it all over to him. You boys have gone every bit as far as you should, maybe even farther. You’re out of your depth, and it’s too dangerous.”

  “Don’t worry, Aunty,” Joe said. “We’re being careful.”

  The boys attempted to call their father at the New York hotel in which he was staying. The desk clerk told them Mr. Hardy was out; in fact, he had not been seen for the last forty-eight hours.

  “That’s odd,” Frank said.

  “He’s probably tracking down a lead,” Joe commented.

  Frank suggested they try a radio message and the boys went up to their “ham” short-wave shack in the attic.

  Their radio equipment was separate from that in their father’s study. It included a receiver, a transceiver with VOX hookup, a signal generator, and a phone patch. Colorful QSL cards studded the wall over their gear, attesting to contacts with hams all over the world.

  Time and again the boys called for their father to come in. No luck. Finally Frank clicked off the radio with a sigh and stood up.

  “Dad must really have gone underground if he’s not answering our radio call,” Joe said as they trotted down the attic stairs.

  “He probably has a hot lead,” Frank said, “and doesn’t want to risk breaking his cover.”

  When they reached the first floor they found Aunt Gertrude all atwitter. “Elmer Hardy called,” she told them. “He’s arriving at eight o’clock tomorrow morning!”

  “That’s great!” Joe said with a wide grin.

  “But we didn’t expect him that soon, and we’ll have to prepare the guest room and .. : ”

  “Don’t worry, Aunty. You’ll have plenty of time in the morning. We’ll pick him up and meanwhile you can straighten up the house.”

  The next morning the boys drove to the bus terminal, parked the car, then scanned the crowded waiting room. Elmer Hardy, looking like some romantic figure straight out of the Great Age of Exploration, was not difficult to spot. His sun-bronzed skin, great mane of hair, thick beard, and rough seaman’s garb set him miles apart from the rest of the travelers.

  “Cousin Elmer!” Frank called out. “Oh, Cousin Elmer!”

  The man swiveled his head and his face lit up with pleasure. “You must be Frank and Joe,” he said, hastening through the crowd toward them. His right arm was in a sling, so he used his left hand to shake hands. Then the visitor stood back and looked the youths over from head to foot.

  “Well, knock me down with a belayin’ pin! I can hardly believe that you are Fenton’s sons. Why, you’re practically full-growed!”

  “We’re really happy to meet you, Cousin Elmer. From what Aunt Gertrude tells us, you’re practically a family legend.”

  “Oh, pshaw! Just call me Elmer. Nothin’ legendary about me. I’m an old sea dog, that’s all.”

  “Did you break your arm?” Frank said solicitously.

  “Nope. Just a strain. Got it heftin’ my duffel bag the wrong way. Speakin’ of that, hate to bother you, but could you boys give me a hand?”

  “Glad to,” Joe said.

  Elmer walked to the baggage claim area and pointed out a huge canvas sea bag with his name stencilled upon it. “There she be.”

  “Wow!” Joe said. “I’ll bet that took up half the bus.”

  Elmer laughed. “Only a quarter of it, boys, only a quarter.”

  Frank and Joe lugged Elmer’s bag to the car, placed it in the rear seat, then drove their cousin home. Elmer greeted Laura Hardy and Aunt Gertrude with warmth, and as he kissed each of them fondly on the cheek, tears glistened in his eyes.

  Aunt Gertrude had prepared a hearty breakfast and Elmer pitched into the food with great gusto. He was reluctant to talk about his past except in general terms.

  “Oh, there were good times and bad times, just like in anybody’s life, I guess.” He sighed. “I’m well into middle age now and these last few years I really been hankerin’ to see my relatives. Just think—me being cousin to the famous Fenton Hardy. I’m awfully sorry he’s not here. But enough about me. Fill me in on what all of you have been doin’ over the years.”

  Later Joe and Frank asked to be excused, since they wanted to see Tony.

  They found he had made a fine recovery, and that the doctor had said it wo
uld be all right for him to get out of bed. Frank and Joe went down to the spacious recreation room, where Tony was pacing up and down.

  “I don’t care if Mr. Solo did call me and offered to help in any way he could,” he fumed. “I say those carnival people did it!”

  Biff Hooper, lounging on a couch, supported Tony. “I’m with you!”

  “Even if it was someone from the carnival,” Frank said, “I just don’t think Mr. Solo was in on it. Sure, he’s an excitable guy, and your whale exhibit was taking business away from the carnival but I feel he’s okay.”

  “That may be,” Biff said. “But I’m not so sure about that goon Felsen. And for that matter, Boko and Rembrandt don’t seem to be Cub Scout leaders, either.”

  “Speculation’s an integral part of detective work,” Frank said. “But what we need now are facts. Facts!”

  “Who’s fat?” said a voice from the stairs. Then Chet clomped down into the recreation room.

  “Fellows,” Joe said with a sweep of his hand, “I give you Chesterton the Great!”

  Biff and Tony applauded with the Hardys. Chet made a comic bow, then crossed the room and slumped wearily into an easy chair. “Oof! I just had a dozen pancakes for breakfast!” He patted his middle section and rolled his eyes.

  Just then Mrs. Prito came down to the recreation room bearing two steaming hot mushroom and sausage pizzas. She smiled. “I thought I might interest someone in a snack,” she said. “Any takers?”

  “You bet!” said Biff. Tony opened some bottles of soda while Biff helped Mrs. Prito cut the pizza.

  “Chet? How about you?” Mrs. Prito asked.

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” he groaned. Then, a brief moment later, he said, “Well, just a little to keep up my strength.” He helped himself to a large wedge.

  The boys ate silently. Midway through a hot triangle of pizza, Frank looked up suddenly.

  “I just remembered something about Boko,” he said, and told the others about the clown’s strange whale tattoo. “Think there might be any connection between that and the missing whale?”

  Biff shrugged. “It’s probably just coincidence.”

  “You know,” said Joe, “Rembrandt has a whale tattooed on his chest. That makes three whales.”

  Tony looked doubtful. “Still coincidence. Tattooed men have all kinds of designs and pictures on their bodies. There’s no reason why a whaling scene shouldn’t be one of them.”

  “Still,” Joe said, “three whales...”

  “Four whales!” Chet cried, springing to his feet.

  The others stared at him.

  “Frank,” Chet said, “didn’t you tell me that the name on the note sent to R. R. Dunn offering the Ivory Idol for sale was Blackright?”

  “Yes,” Frank answered. “What of it?”

  “Well, Blackright is a whale, too!”

  CHAPTER VII

  Night Attack

  “How do you know?” Frank asked in surprise.

  “Scrimshaw’s the answer to that,” Chet replied proudly. “I’ve learned a lot in my hobby. It’s pretty hard to study the art of carving whale ivory without picking up some information on whales themselves.”

  “That’s obvious,” Joe said. “Come on, Chet. Get to the point.”

  As the only person in the room who knew the answer to the riddle, Chet was enjoying his position and consequently in no hurry.

  “Look,” he said. “First, there are two general classes of whales: toothed whales, like the Sperm Whale and the Killer Whale and the Bottlenose and so on. And what they call baleen whales. None of the whales in this last group—the group, incidentally, that Tony and Biff’s Blue Whale belonged to—have any teeth. They all have a series of ‘plates’ in their mouths that act like giant sieves. They swim around with their mouths open, take in a couple of tons of water that has food in it like shrimps and tiny fish, then close their mouths and expel the water through the plates, or as they’re properly known—through the baleen.”

  “Listen, Chet,” Frank put in quickly, “get us off the hook! Tell us about Blackright.”

  “That’s what I’m doing,” Chet protested.

  “In the most roundabout way I’ve ever seen,” Tony said with a long sigh.

  “Ah,” Chet went on, “to think of the tragedies that befall people such as I, who try to bring enlightenment to the world.”

  “Come on,” Biff growled. “I can’t take any more of this.”

  “Okay, okay,” Chet resumed quickly. He explained that when men first started pursuing whales they called the most-sought-after variety Right Whales. One in this category was black, hence the name Blackright.

  Chet wore a smug expression and folded his arms.

  “Is that all?” Tony asked.

  “All!” Chet said. “I think it’s quite a bit!”

  “It’s an intriguing bit of deduction, Chet,” Frank said. “We’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Sounds pretty far-fetched to me,” Tony remarked.

  “I think the chain of whales is a good theory,” Joe said, “but for the moment let’s concentrate on what we know to be true.”

  Chet whacked his forehead with his palm.

  “Aiieee! The trials and tribulations we geniuses go through.”

  “Fellows,” Frank said, “duty calls. Let’s drive to the carnival. Later, when the crowds are gone we could go to the spot where Tony regained consciousness and see if we can turn anything up.”

  All agreed. They left Tony’s house, piled into the Hardys’ convertible, and drove to the fairgrounds. After the carnival had shut down for the night, the four boys spread out so as to cover more ground, each probing with a flashlight beam as he searched for possible clues. Their efforts took them farther and farther away from each other, and so, thinking he was alone, Frank was startled when a hand dropped on his shoulder. He whirled around, ready to meet an attack.

  “Frank, it’s me!” came Joe’s urgent whisper.

  Frank relaxed. “You took me by surprise. What happened to your flashlight?”

  “I doused it on purpose. I was scouting near the gate and caught sight of someone moving from shadow to shadow toward one of the carnival wagons—Knocker Felsen’s, to be exact.”

  “We might lose him if we stop to get any of the other guys,” Frank decided. “Better handle this one alone.”

  “That’s why I came for you. Let’s hurry.”

  Frank extinguished his own flashlight and the two made their way stealthily toward Knocker Felsen’s wagon.

  “There,” Joe whispered. “See him?”

  Frank squinted against the blackness and made out the dim silhouette of a crouched figure moving toward the wagon. “Let’s not jump the gun. We’ll wait until it’s absolutely certain he’s going to break into Felsen’s quarters,” Frank advised.

  “Right.”

  They watched the figure advance a few more steps, pause, move forward and pause again.

  “He’s reached the steps,” Joe said tensely. The intruder dashed up the steps and reached for the door. “Let’s take him!” Frank yelled.

  As the boys rushed forward, the figure poised before Felsen’s door and spun to meet them. Frank was the first to get to the wagon and his speed earned him a punch in the jaw that sent him sprawling.

  Joe came running and was hit like a tackling dummy. Crash! Both he and the stranger hit the ground. Frank shook his head to clear the cobwebs, sprinted to the struggling pair, and leaped into the fray. “Wow!” he thought. “This is one tough cookie!”

  Their adversary fought with skill and power; only Frank’s agility and quick reflexes saved him from being kayoed.

  But suddenly he spotted an opening, seized his opponent by the wrist, spun on his heel and threw him over his shoulder. The intruder hit the ground with a thud and Frank pinned him.

  Voices sounded in the distance as Joe thumbed his flashlight to life. The Hardys gasped as the beam revealed the face of Biff Hooper!

  At the same time, sleepy-eyed Kn
ocker Felsen poked his head from the wagon with a blank look.

  Biff groaned. He saw Frank and Joe, shook his head, and said, “Boy, you guys play awfully rough!”

  “Us!” Frank fingered a bruise. “What about you?” In a lower voice he added, “What were you doing, sneaking up on Felsen like that?”

  Frank had relaxed his grip and Biff got to his feet. “We all know he did it. I was going to force a confession out of him.”

  “Biff,” Joe said, “that’s no way to do detective work!”

  “I guess so,” Biff said dejectedly. “How come you jumped me?”

  “We didn’t know it was you,” Frank answered “How come you lit into us like that?”

  Biff grinned. “Same reason you came after me—I didn’t know who you were.”

  Flashlights bobbed toward the trio and a moment later Chet and Tony arrived. Close on their heels came Sid Solo.

  “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

  “Yeah, what’s up?” chimed in Knocker.

  “Just a bit of a mix-up,” Joe explained. “We came back in the hope of finding new clues and we-ah-stumbled over each other in the dark.”

  Felsen yawned, squinted against the bright lights, and lumbered back to bed.

  Solo was sympathetic and again expressed regret over the theft of the whale.

  “We just can’t give up,” Frank said. “Mr. Solo, would it be all right if we had another look around Boko’s wagon?”

  Solo consented. He went with them to the clown’s quarters and opened the padlocked door with a key from his chain. Solo and the five youths gave the wagon a fine-toothed combing, but at the end of an hour they had found nothing of any value.

  “It’s hopeless,” Joe said. “I think we’d better call it a night.”

  Biff finished thumbing through a file of magazines and tossed them on Boko’s bunk. One slipped to the floor, and the corner of a postcard protruded from the pages. Frank’s alert eyes caught sight of it.

  “Hey, Biff, did you see that?” he exclaimed, pulling the card out.

  “No. Must have missed it.”

  The others looked around him while he examined the card. It bore the postmark “Mystic, Conn.” and the message “Getting hot. Beluga.”