Mystery of the Flying Express Read online

  “Sounds as if you’re accusing us!” one man said. “Sure, we don’t like the hydrofoil but we’re not criminals! No one here would sabotage her!”

  A chorus of assent came from the rest of the audience.

  “I’m sure of it,” Frank told them. “But you sound as if you’d been sold a bill of goods concerning the hydrofoil. Why not give her proprietor a chance to prove that he won’t interfere with any other boat on Barmet Bay?”

  There were cries of “Fair enough!” and the meeting broke up.

  Frank mopped his brow and joined his brother. “Think I convinced them?”

  Joe nodded. “For the moment, anyway. But these guys could forget everything you said if any more incidents occur. Solve the case—that’s the way to make them stay convinced.”

  The boys had scarcely reached home when the phone rang. Joe picked it up. “Chet’s calling from Cape Cutlass,” he said. “What’s the matter, fellow? You sound as if some ill-starred disaster had struck.”

  “That’s just it! Disaster beyond belief! I’ve lost my job! Somebody stole a cruiser from the Starfish Marina, so Mr. Hinkley fired me for negligence. What’ll I do?”

  “Hold on a minute,” Joe said and briefed Frank. “You know,” he told his brother, “it could have been stolen by the gang Dad’s after. Maybe they’re working their way north!”

  “It’s worth investigating,” Frank agreed. “Tell Chet to stay put until we get there!”

  Not long after the conversation, the Hardys were whizzing down the bay in their motorboat, the Sleuth. The trip to Providence was smooth, and Chet was waiting for them at the public dock.

  The three held a council of war. If Frank and Joe could find the missing cruiser, perhaps Chet would get his job back.

  “We’ll go see Mr. Hinkley,” Frank said. “Want to come along?”

  “Uh—no. I’ll wait here. Pick me up later,” Chet replied.

  The Hardys guided the Sleuth to the Starfish Marina. Al Hinkley greeted them at the landing.

  “Back again, eh?” he said. “Well, you won’t find your pal here. He fell down on the job.”

  “We know,” Frank said. Going straight to the point, he asked, “Mr. Hinkley, if we find your cruiser, will you rehire him?”

  “Maybe,” Hinkley hedged. “How do you expect to get my boat back?”

  “We’ll do some sleuthing around here,” Joe explained. “No time left today, but we’ll stay overnight.”

  “Hm!” Hinkley looked at them closely. “Go right ahead. That cruiser was very valuable. Tell you what. There’s a cabin about a quarter of a mile from here. Look, you can see it.”

  He pointed and the Hardys took note of the place, which was little more than a fisherman’s shack. “It belongs to a friend of mine who’s out of town,” Hinkley went on. “You can sleep there.”

  “Thanks,” Frank said. “We’ll make the cabin our headquarters.”

  They berthed the Sleuth and walked back to the jetty, where they briefed Chet.

  “Gee. Thanks, fellows,” he said.

  “Want to stay with us in the cabin?” Frank asked.

  “Sure,” Chet replied.

  On their way to the shack, a youth walked up to them. He was thin, lanky, and had sandy hair.

  “Hi,” he said. “My name’s Skee. Say, are you interested in buying some marine equipment—secondhand and cheap?”

  Frank and Joe exchanged glances.

  “Why not?’ Joe replied. ”We could use a foghorn for our cabin cruiser.”

  “Okay. What’s your name?”

  “Joe Hardy. When will you deliver the goods?”

  “Soon.”

  “Well, how do we get in touch with you?” Chet inquired.

  “Don’t bother. I’ll find you.”

  Skee ambled off in the gathering darkness and the boys proceeded to the cabin.

  When Chet saw it he said, “This isn’t the Cutlass Hilton.”

  “Forget it,” Joe chided. “Didn’t you think that Skee is a suspicious character?”

  “No. Why?” Chet replied.

  Before Joe had a chance to reply, Frank spoke up. “You think he’s involved with the marina thieves Dad’s after?”

  “It’s possible. That’s why I ordered the foghorn. Maybe we can find out more about this stranger.”

  As Chet had said, the cabin was far from luxurious. It was small and dingy, but they were too tired from the day’s events to care much. Flopping down on rickety cots, they were soon fast asleep.

  When Frank awakened, the sun was already up. He stretched and was about to tumble out of bed when he heard a loud, grinding noise. It came from just outside the cabin. He roused Joe and Chet.

  “Good grief, what’s that?” Frank sprang up just as the side of the shack caved in with an ominous whack.

  “Look out!” Joe yelled. “It’s a bulldozer!”

  CHAPTER VIII

  An Unheeded Horoscope

  FRANK pulled Chet from his cot, an instant before it was cut in half by the bulldozer’s blade. All three dived out a window to safety.

  The bulldozer’s operator stared bug-eyed as his machine crunched to a halt.

  “I’m sorry, boys. I had no idea anyone was inside.” The operator said his job was to flatten the shack for a housing development.

  “Who told you the cabin was empty?” Frank asked.

  “The Fidelo Corporation. Did anyone know you were in here?”

  “Al Hinkley from the Starfish Marina. He said we could use the place.”

  “Where can we find Mr. Fidelo?” Joe inquired.

  “There’s no Mr. Fidelo. That’s just the name of the company.”

  “Who’s the boss?”

  “Big Malarky. He has an office in Providence.”

  The man waited until the boys retrieved their meager baggage before backing his machine for another thrust at the cottage.

  Frank, Joe, and Chet hastened to the marina, where they talked to Al Hinkley. He shook his head in disbelief at their narrow escape.

  “I heard yesterday that the building was due to be demolished,” he admitted. “But no one told me they’d start so soon.”

  Convinced that there was nothing more to be learned from Hinkley, the boys left their suitcases at the marina and boarded the Sleuth for a reconnaissance expedition around the basin of the docks.

  “The sooner we find the cruiser, the sooner our stargazer gets his job back,” Frank said.

  They had been searching along the coast for over an hour when Chet stood up and pointed toward the shore. “There’s the boat!” he yelled.

  The stolen craft was rocking in a swell, heading dangerously toward a rocky promontory.

  “Full speed, Joe!” Frank ordered.

  His brother headed the Sleuth toward the cruiser.

  “Nobody’s aboard! She’s abandoned!” Chet cried as Joe pulled alongside. A quick inspection showed no damage had been done.

  “What a load off my mind! Must have been taken by some joy-riders who left it here after they’d had their fun!”

  The cruiser was out of gas, so the boys towed it to the marina. Al Hinkley was as good as his word. Happy to have the missing boat back safe and sound he rehired Chet as his assistant.

  As the Hardys helped Chet fuel the boat Frank spotted an outboard motorboat chugging back and forth in front of the marina.

  “Recognize the fellow in it?” he asked Joe.

  “Sure do. The artist who won’t let anyone see his work. Wonder what he’s doing out there. Want to go see?”

  “Not yet. Chet can keep an eye on him. First we’d better visit Big Malarky. I’m still not convinced that the demolition business this morning was really an accident.”

  Joe nodded. “We’ll see you later, Chet.”

  Frank and Joe found the office of the Fidelo Corporation. It was in the only high-rise building in Providence. A secretary ushered them into a room with oak paneling, a thick carpet on the floor, and a large kidney-shaped desk.

/>   A big man sat behind it. He was at least six-three and two hundred fifty pounds, Frank thought.

  Malarky got up. “What can I do for you?”

  Frank told the story of their narrow escape.

  “I’m awfully sorry,” Malarky said. “Yes, I ordered the demolition. But I had no idea that the cabin was occupied.”

  Frank changed the subject. “You’re in real estate, Mr. Malarky?”

  “Right. We’re developing a large area on the cape.”

  “Do you know Spencer Given?” Joe asked.

  “Sure, sure. He’s my only competition. One of us will do real well. Look here,” he added abruptly, “I’d like to offer you my hospitality. I own a couple of cottages. One’s empty, and no one’ll knock it down, either!”

  “Thanks, Mr. Malarky,” Frank said. “We’d be happy to accept.”

  The builder handed him the key. “The cottage is close to the Starfish Marina, not far from the site of the wrecked cabin. Stay as long as you want.”

  As they emerged from the lobby a familiar face passed by in the crowd.

  “Our mysterious friend the artist!” Joe hissed. “Let’s trail him!”

  The man led them down the main street to Rance Nepo’s photography shop. He entered and spoke to the owner. The boys paused before the window but close enough to the open door to hear the conversation.

  “I’d like to rent a camera for aerial photos,” the artist said. “And I’ll need some film.”

  Nepo replied, “I have an old Speed Graphic somewhere. Let me look in the storage room. I’ll be right back.”

  Gesturing for Joe to follow, Frank walked into the shop. Close up the artist looked like a friendly individual—sandy hair, light-blue eyes, and a pleasant smile. He responded readily when Frank began to talk about photography.

  Frank introduced himself and Joe. The stranger stuck out his hand. “Henry Chassen’s the name. Profession: photography. Hobby: painting. Prospects: good, if I succeed on my present assignment, taking aerial pictures of Cape Cutlass, the kind that can be reproduced on post cards.”

  Frank and Joe exchanged glances. Was the stranger really as harmless as he sounded?

  Frank was not convinced. He wanted to find out more about Chassen. An idea came to him. “Tell you what,” he said to Chassen. “We’re renting a plane for a spin this afternoon. Would you like to come along and take some pictures? We’re licensed pilots.”

  Chassen jumped at the opportunity. “That’ll be a big help. Save me a pilot’s fee!”

  “Okay. We’ll meet at two o‘clock at the Providence airport.”

  Just then Nepo walked in with a camera in his hand. He looked at the Hardys and grinned. “Did you find your girl friends?”

  “Of course,” Joe said breezily. “No sweat. So long, Chassen.”

  Frank and Joe had lunch before returning to the marina, where Chet was finishing a large pizza. They told him of their plan.

  “Jumping Gemini, you can’t do that!” Chet protested through a mouthful. “This is not the day for you to have anything to do with air travel!”

  “Why not?” Joe demanded. “Is the sky about to fall?”

  “Saturn has just moved out of Aries and—”

  “Oh cut it out!” Frank sounded irritated. “The solar system can’t be all that concerned about our doings here at Cape Cutlass. Saturn is millions of miles away. I doubt that it’s going to interfere with one little airplane.”

  Chet shook his head sadly. “Mark my words, Saturn has set the stage for you today. There’s no escape. Your trip will be ill-fated.”

  “We’ll chance it,” Joe said.

  Leaving Chet to grumble about his disbelieving friends, the Hardys deposited their baggage at Malarky’s borrowed cottage, then joined Chassen at the Providence airport, a short strip that handled nothing bigger than two-engine planes. They rented a four-seater model and took off with Frank at the controls.

  As the plane zoomed over Cape Cutlass, Chassen snapped a series of photos.

  “Good flying,” Chassen complimented Frank. “I’m getting just the scenes I need.”

  After a while Joe remarked casually, “We saw you painting near the Starfish Marina. Something in oils?”

  Chassen smiled. “Nothing but an outline for a picture to be filled in later. It’s hard to work on the docks. People continually come up to see the picture. And I can’t stand that.”

  “I see,” Frank said. To himself he thought, “Seems we were on the wrong track to suspect this guy. He’s on the level!”

  “Could we fly along the coast?” Chassen asked. “I still need shots of the coves and inlets.”

  Frank complied. The plane passed over the indented coastline—flying and photography both going smoothly—until the engine began to sputter.

  “Out of fuel!” Joe exploded, with a glance at the instrument panel.

  Frank looked grim. He picked out a level stretch of shoreline and nosed down gradually. The wheels touched with a thump in the grip of wet sand, causing the aircraft to bounce wildly until it swerved around and came to a halt.

  The three occupants were shaken but unharmed. They climbed out of the cockpit onto the sand and surveyed their situation. Frank noticed a stain on both sides of the fuselage where the fuel had been leaking out of the wing tanks. “Somebody sabotaged our plane!” he declared.

  “Lucky for us this terrain was firm enough to land on,” Chassen observed.

  “Unlucky for us that we’re so far from the nearest town,” Joe replied.

  Chassen shaded his eyes in the direction of the sea. “Say, isn’t that a speedboat out there?” he asked.

  “Sure thing!” Joe exclaimed. “They must have seen us land.”

  “They’re coming to help,” Frank said.

  The boat beached itself and three men jumped out. They strode up the beach, smiling. They wore skivvies and dungarees, like fishermen out on a holiday.

  “Perfect timing, gentlemen,” Chassen saluted them. “We’ve had an accident. Could you help us get back to Providence?”

  One of their rescuers made a quick move and the Hardys gasped.

  They were staring into the muzzle of a revolver!

  CHAPTER IX

  A Buddy Lost

  “OKAY, reach!” snarled the man with the gun. The smiles had vanished. “And no tricks!” His confederates frisked Frank, Joe, and Chassen.

  “All clean, no rods on them,” one reported.

  “What’s going on?” Frank demanded. “Is this a holdup?”

  “They think they’re on TV,” Joe said.

  “Real pop-offs, ain’t you?” rasped the gunman. “How’d you like a taste of this?” He moved as if to pistol-whip Joe.

  “Don’t lose your cool, Spike!” the tallest man warned him. “We got nothing to gain from messing them up until later.”

  Frank, Joe, and Chassen were tied up, blindfolded, and carried aboard the speedboat, then it purred away from the shore.

  Side by side on the floor of the cabin the trio discussed their predicament in low whispers.

  “What are they going to do with us?” the photographer murmured.

  Frank moved his wrists to get relief from the chafing caused by the rope. “Who are they? That’s the question.”

  Joe shifted a cramped shoulder and managed a grin. “Our predicament lies squarely with Saturn!”

  “How’s that again?” Chassen asked.

  “A friend of ours dabbles in the signs of the Zodiac,” Frank said. “He warned us not to fly today.”

  “What are we going to do?” Chassen whimpered.

  “Play it by ear, that’s all we can do right now,” Frank said.

  After what seemed like a very long ride, two of the men removed the ropes and blindfolds and herded the captives on deck. It was growing dark. The speedboat pulled alongside a weather-beaten dock on the rocky coast.

  “Out!” the leader commanded and pushed the boys toward a shabby boathouse.

  Frank tried to get
his bearings. High above the boathouse on the side that faced the road, he saw what seemed to be the glow of a red neon sign. The next instant he was shoved inside. The building was filled with dust and cobwebs. Joe started to sneeze.

  “Okay, into the cabinet,” ordered the leader, and the boys were quickly marched toward a large closet.

  The door swung shut with a clang. The lock grated into place. They were left in darkness. Moments later they heard the speedboat roar off.

  “Not much air in here,” Joe stated grimly as he felt his way around.

  “We’d better get out quickly,” Frank warned. “We’ll suffocate if we don‘t!”

  Henry Chassen was terrified. “You have any ideas?” he asked, his voice shaking.

  “Not yet,” Joe replied. “Let’s find out what’s in here besides us.” He crouched down and began a minute examination of their prison with his hands. Frank followed his example.

  “There’s something under my heel,” Chassen said. “Wait a minute—Oh, a book of matches!”

  “Great,” Frank said. “Light one, Henry!”

  Chassen struck a match and held it up so that it threw a flickering light over the interior. Peering around, Frank and Joe spotted a pair of dirt-stained license plates nailed to the door.

  “Real antiques,” Joe remarked.

  Frank read the year of issue on the plates. “Twenty years old.”

  True to their training in detection, the boys memorized the numbers on the plates.

  “Ouch!” Chassen dropped the burnt match-stick as the flame licked his fingertips. Frank lit another one.

  Chassen fumbled around the shelves lining the sides of the closet. “This might be useful,” he suggested. “A blowtorch!”

  “Nice going!” Joe said. “Here, let me see if I can cut through this door!”

  He lit the torch, knelt down, and applied the blue flame to the area around the lock. Smoke rose from the heated metal.

  Joe wiped the perspiration from his eyes and kept working. He was finding it difficult to breathe.

  Frank’s voice sounded far away. “Joe, I’m feeling faint! We’re using up all of our oxygen! We may never get out alive! We‘ll—”