The Disappearing Floor Read online

  The Hardys chuckled and Joe apologized for his remark. Between them, the two young sleuths managed to make Chet change his mind by telling him they could not get along without him.

  The mantel clock in the living room was just chiming nine when Frank and Joe arrived home. A note propped on the dining-room table explained that their mother and Aunt Gertrude had gone to visit a neighbor down the street.

  The boys got apples and milk from the refrigerator. Frank poured two glasses and they sat down in the kitchen to discuss their case.

  “Think we should notify the police?” Joe said.

  “About Darrow?” Frank shrugged uneasily. “I don’t know. We’re not sure it was he that we saw. For all we know, he may have told Strang not to admit any visitors. Remember, Dean Gibbs said he had become very huffy.”

  Joe nodded. “I sure wish Dad or Sam Radley were here to advise us.”

  A moment later the radio signal buzzer sounded from the basement. “Maybe that’s Dad now!” Joe exclaimed, setting down his glass and tossing his apple core into the garbage can.

  The boys rushed downstairs and soon established radio contact with their father, who was calling from Chicago.

  “Sam and I are still sifting leads here,” Fenton Hardy reported. “The thieves seem to have covered their tracks pretty well. Incidentally, the same method was used as on all the other jobs. The private patrolman guarding the place blacked out and has no recollection of what happened.”

  The detective listened as Frank and Joe brought him up to date on events in Bayport. He, too, was baffled by Jack Wayne’s interrupted radio message. When the boys asked what to do about the situation at the Perth mansion, he was silent for a moment, then said:

  “That window at which you think you saw Darrow—was it barred or heavily screened in any way?”

  “No, it was partly open,” Joe replied.

  “Then if the man was Darrow, it hardly sounds as if he’s being held against his will. Strang undoubtedly has some kind of undercover setup there at the mansion. Darrow may not be aware of it. And we still have no proof Strang’s involved in these jewel thefts. Proof is what we need before we move in on him. Meantime, I have another job for you boys.”

  Mr. Hardy explained that he had just received another anonymous phone tip. “The caller simply said ‘Go to Haley Building—Bayport’ and then hung up. Sounds to me like another fake lead, but I wish you boys would check it.”

  “We’ll do it right away, Dad,” Frank promised.

  Two minutes later the brothers’ convertible was speeding downtown. It pulled up in front of a new office building on Main Street.

  An elderly night watchman was seated at a desk in the lobby. As Frank and Joe entered, he glanced up at the wall clock, which read 9:41.

  “Kind o’ late, you fellers. This place’ll be closin’ up in about twenty minutes—in fact, the building’s practically empty now. Someone you wanted to see?”

  When Frank showed his identification, the watchman’s face brightened. “Oh, Fenton Hardy’s boys, eh? Well, I’m pleased to meet you!”

  Frank told why they had come and asked if anything unusual or suspicious had happened that evening. The watchman shook his head.

  “No. Except a parcel o’ gems was delivered to Paul Tiffman up on the fifth floor ‘round eight-thirty. But I knew beforehand that was comin’. Tiffman’s a diamond merchant, y’see. When he stays late like tonight to receive a delivery, he always tells me. Most nights, everyone’s gone by six.”

  Both Frank and Joe had stiffened at the mention of gems. Before they could comment, the elevator signal rang. The watchman rose.

  “ ’Scuse me, boys. I have to double as elevator operator after six o’clock. That must be Tiffman now, wantin’ to go home.”

  The Hardys asked to ride up. When the watchman opened the elevator door on five, they saw a worried-looking man, plump and dark-mustached. “Hasn’t that messenger arrived yet?” he asked.

  The watchman looked surprised. “Why sure, Mr. Tiffman. He was here at eight-thirty. I took him up, and then brought him down again later after he delivered those gems to you.”

  Tiffman’s jaw dropped open. “Are you crazy?” he spluttered. “I haven’t received any gems. No one has come to my office this evening!”

  CHAPTER XII

  The “Seacat” Clue

  THE watchman stared at the diamond merchant. Both their faces were turning an angry crimson.

  “Mr. Tiffman, I don’t know what kind of a joke you’re playin’,” the watchman said, “but I saw that messenger with my own eyes!”

  “And I don’t know, Mike, what kind of a joke you’re playing!” Tiffman roared back. “I tell you no messenger came to my office!”

  “Can’t help that! He came here and left!”

  “I think you’d better call the police at once,” Frank put in quietly.

  “Who are you?” Tiffman snapped.

  “We’re sons of Fenton Hardy, the private detec tive.” Frank explained about the anonymous phone tip. Tiffman’s attitude promptly changed.

  The watchman called the police. A prowl car was at the building within moments, and Chief Collig arrived a few minutes later, accompanied by a plain-clothes detective.

  “You boys watch the door,” Collig told the two prowl car officers. “The rest of you come upstairs to Mr. Tiffman’s office.”

  The five crowded into the elevator and rode up. Tiffman’s office door was flush-paneled with a pane in one corner. It was marked “507” in modernistic metal numbers, and the name plate below said: PAUL TIFFMAN, Gemologist.

  After the Hardys had told Collig about the anonymous tip-off and the two men had told their stories, the police chief commented, “Sounds to me as if that messenger pulled a fast one.”

  “You mean he simply walked off without delivering the gems?” When Collig nodded, Tiffman frowned and shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. If he were planning to flee with the diamonds, why bother coming to Bayport at all?”

  “Is there any chance he could have been waylaid between the elevator and this office?” Joe put in. “If so, the thug might have dragged his body somewhere out of sight, and then gone down in the elevator posing as the messenger.”

  Collig turned to Mike. “How about it? You sure the man you took down was the same man you brought up here?”

  “Sure was,” the watchman said tartly, “unless he was awful good at disguises. That messenger had red hair, freckles, and a wart on his cheek. So did the man who rode down.”

  “Have you ever seen this messenger?” Collig asked Tiffman.

  “Wouldn’t know him from Adam.”

  “Who sent him?”

  Tiffman named a firm of diamond importers in New York City.

  “Ever had deliveries from them before?”

  Once again Tiffman shook his head. “Normally I make buying trips to New York once a month and select my gems right there,” he explained. “But it happens I want to show a special selection to a wealthy client out in Dorset Hills tomorrow. The New York firm was expecting a new shipment from South Africa today, so they promised to make up a parcel and rush it down here tonight.”

  “How was the messenger traveling?” Collig inquired.

  “By train—at least they told me he’d get in on the eight-fifteen.”

  Collig picked up the phone and called New York City Police Headquarters and asked them to watch the incoming trains. He also called Bayport Headquarters and told his desk sergeant to put out a statewide alarm for the messenger. Finally he tried to contact the diamond importers, but evidently their office was closed for the night.

  “Well, that’s about all we can do now,” Collig said, hanging up. “But we’ll have that messenger here with some answers tomorrow morning or my name’s not Clint Collig!”

  Frank and Joe hurried home, intending to radio their father immediately and report the mystery. But their mother, who had returned with Aunt Gertrude, told them he could not be reached.
/>   “Your father called while you boys were gone,” she explained. “He and Sam Radley had to rush down to Gary, Indiana, to follow up some urgent clue, and they probably won’t get back to Chicago before tomorrow afternoon.”

  Next morning, the Hardys still had no further word from Jack Wayne, so they drove to the airport to make inquiries about him. At the office of the Ace Air Service, they found a young freelance pilot named Tom Lester, who often handled charter flying assignments for Jack.

  “Are you boys looking for Jack, too?” he asked.

  “We sure are,” Frank replied. He told Tom about the puzzling interrupted radio message.

  Tom could offer no explanation. “It certainly sounds strange. What worries me is that Jack filed no flight plan. Ordinarily, under those circumstances, I would have expected him to be back last night.”

  “Do you think he may have crashed?” Frank inquired anxiously.

  “It’s possible—especially if his radio conked out. That would explain why he hasn’t called for help.” Tom rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose you boys feel like telling me any more about this case you’re working on?”

  Knowing the young pilot could be trusted, the Hardys filled him in on the mystery. Tom Lester’s keen blue eyes showed interest at once.

  “Sounds to me as if Jack’s onto something big,” Tom surmised. “Maybe he even managed to worm himself into Hirff’s confidence. If he went to meet some of the gang, maybe he just hasn’t had a chance to contact you again.”

  “That makes sense, all right,” Joe said.

  “He didn’t leave any message for you on his desk?” Frank asked Lester.

  The pilot shook his head. “I didn’t notice anything. Let’s take another look.”

  Almost at once Frank pounced on Jack Wayne’s phone pad. “Look at this!” he exclaimed.

  The pad bore a scribbled notation in Jack’s handwriting: Amethyst calling Seacat.

  Tom read the message with a frown. “That word ‘amethyst’ ties in with his radio call!”

  “Do you know this guy Al Hirff?” Frank asked.

  “I know of him, and I’ve seen him,” Lester replied, “but I’ve never met him.”

  “Let’s look for him,” Frank suggested. “If we could work him into a casual conversation, we might fish out a clue.”

  The private rented hangar in which Al Hirff kept his own plane was locked. The Hardys and Tom Lester wandered around the airport, looking into other hangars and the passenger terminal, but could not find Hirff. When Frank and Joe finally left, Tom promised to keep his eyes open for the pilot.

  From the airport, the boys drove straight to Bayport Police Headquarters for news on the previous night’s diamond mystery. On the way they discussed the curious notation on Jack’s phone pad.

  “That word ‘Seacat’ sounds to me like the name of a boat,” Joe speculated.

  Frank agreed. “You know, Joe, it might even be the name of that mystery cabin cruiser!”

  At headquarters the desk sergeant told them to go on into Chief Collig’s office. A red-haired man, freckled, and with a wart on one cheek, was seated in front of the chief’s desk.

  “Glad you’re here, boys,” Collig told them. “This is Dan O’Bannion, the messenger.”

  The Hardys listened to O’Bannion’s story.

  “Like I told Chief Collig,” the messenger said, “I took that parcel of gems straight up to Tiffman’s office. I delivered them to him and went right back to New York on the next train.”

  “Did you get a receipt?” Frank asked.

  “You bet I did! It’s on the chiefs desk.”

  Collig held up an official receipt form. It was signed “Paul Tiffman.”

  “I’ve called Tiffman and asked him to come over here,” Collig added.

  When the diamond merchant arrived, O’Bannion looked astonished. “This isn’t the man I gave the gems to!” he exclaimed.

  “And I’ve never seen you before, either,” Tiffman said tartly.

  “You certainly weren’t in the office when I arrived,” the messenger agreed.

  “I was in my office every minute of the evening. And nobody could have taken my place!”

  Tiffman added that the signature on the receipt form was not his, and proved it by displaying his driver’s license and other identification cards. O’Bannion shrugged, tight-lipped.

  Frank suggested they all go to the Haley Building. “If we reconstruct what happened last night, it may throw a new light on the mystery.”

  “Good idea, Frank!” Chief Collig said.

  In ten minutes they were on their way to Tiffman’s office. As they stepped off the elevator, the messenger’s expression changed.

  “What’s the matter?” Joe asked him.

  O’Bannion pointed to a large, unsightly crack in the wall plaster. “I’m positive that crack wasn’t there last night,” he said.

  “It’s been there for the past two weeks,” Tiffman said. “Some careless workmen banged into the wall when they were delivering furniture.”

  When they entered Tiffman’s office, O’Bannion looked more bewildered. “This wasn’t the office I came to!” he exclaimed. “The furnishings were altogether different!”

  “Maybe you need glasses!” Collig snapped. “Didn’t you look at the sign on the door?”

  “I did look!” O‘Bannion flared back. “The office number was 507 and the sign said, ‘Paul Tiffman, Gemologist’!”

  Chief Collig’s face took on a tinge of purple. “I’m sending for the county polygraph expert!” he roared, thumping his fist on the desk. “You and Mr. Tiffman and the night watchman are all going to get lie-detector tests!”

  “That suits me fine!” O’Bannion snapped.

  Frank and Joe were mystified as they drove away from the Haley Building. Both boys would have liked to go out in their boat to sift through their thoughts in the fresh salt air and sunshine. Since the Sleuth was not yet repaired, they settled for a drive to the harbor.

  The Napoli was moored at the dock. Tony was touching up worn spots with varnish, while Chet Morton lolled on a thwart, practicing knots. Frank and Joe strolled out to chat with them.

  “Anything new on the case?” Tony asked.

  “Plenty,” Joe grumbled. “The problem is how to unravel it all.”

  “Rats!” Chet muttered. “I just can’t seem to tie a bowline on a bight!”

  Suddenly Frank let out a gasp. “Maybe that’s what Jack Wayne’s message meant!”

  CHAPTER XIII

  Snoop Camera

  JOE gave his brother a puzzled look, at first seeing no connection between Chet’s remark and Jack Wayne’s interrupted radio message.

  “What do you mean, Frank?”

  “Look! We’ve been assuming all along that when Jack said ‘tigers’ bite’ he meant the kind of biting that’s done with teeth,” Frank observed.

  Joe exclaimed, “I get it! You think he was talking about the kind of bight spelled b-i-g-h-t!”

  “Exactly.”

  “You mean the message had something to do with a rope or line?” Chet asked blankly.

  Frank shook his head. “That wouldn’t make much sense. But remember, ‘bight’ can also mean a sort of bay or indentation in a coastline. In other words, maybe Tigers’ Bight is the name of a place.”

  Joe snapped his fingers excitedly. “Sure! Tigers’ Bight could be the name of the place Jack was heading when we saw him fly south!”

  “Any of you fellows ever hear that name before?” Frank asked.

  Chet shrugged his beefy shoulders. “Not me.”

  Joe also had to admit that the name was new to him. But Tony frowned thoughtfully. “That rings a bell. I have a hunch I have heard it.”

  “Where?” the Hardys asked in chorus.

  “I don’t know. But if you’re right, it must be some place along the coast. Maybe I’ve been there in the Napoli. Why don’t we look on a map?”

  Tony opened his boat locker and took out a sai
ling chart of the Barmet Bay area. He and Chet then climbed up onto the dock, and the boys spread out the chart. But after poring over it for several minutes, they could find no such name as Tigers’ Bight.

  “Another clue conked out!” Joe muttered.

  “Let’s not give up too soon,” Frank said. “Maybe it’s not important enough to show on the map—or maybe the name’s not official.”

  “Why don’t you ask old Clams Dagget?” Chet suggested.

  “That’s an idea,” Joe said. “He’d certainly know if anyone would.”

  Dagget was a retired seafaring man, who now operated a ferry service to Rocky Isle in Barmet Bay.

  Frank glanced at his wristwatch. “Clams won’t be here to pick up any more passengers before one-thirty. Let’s go home and have lunch, Joe. We can stop by later and ask him.”

  “Okay. I can sure use some chow!”

  Each of the boys ate two hamburgers and a generous portion of French fried potatoes. They were just finishing helpings of Aunt Gertrude’s old-fashioned strawberry shortcake when the telephone rang. Tom Lester was calling from the airport.

  “Al Hirff just showed up,” the pilot told Frank. “If you want to talk to him, now’s your chance.”

  “Where can we find him?”

  “Right now he’s in the hangar, checking his plane. He has a pug nose and wears his hair in long sideburns. You can’t miss him.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Tom.” Frank hung up and told Joe. “It’s not one o’clock yet. Let’s whip out to the airport before we see Clams Dagget.”

  “Suits me. And say, why don’t I take my new camera along and snap Hirff’s picture? Dad might recognize him.”

  “Good idea.”

  Joe had recently bought an ultraminiature camera from money he had saved. It could be attached to his lapel for taking secret photographs. Both boys slipped on sport jackets to allay suspicions on Joe’s maneuver.

  A short time later they pulled into the airport parking lot and headed for Hirff’s hangar. The door was open, and inside they could see a big, twin-engined amphibian plane. But the pilot was not in sight.