The Secret Agent on Flight 101 Read online

  “Well—okay, but I’ll have to make it fast. I want to get home in time for supper!”

  Chet then assumed a nonchalant air. Strolling slowly around the room, he began to whistle softly. The boys watched as he extended his arms in front of him, then clenched his left hand into a fist. From it, with his right hand, he drew out a vivid purple silk scarf, followed by a train of varicolored kerchiefs.

  “Bravo!” Joe said, clapping loudly.

  “Great trick, eh? I thought you’d like it.”

  When the last scarf refused to come out, however, Chet became aggravated. “What’s the matter with this thing?” He tugged on it violently.

  “Something go wrong?” Joe needled.

  Suddenly the kerchief pulled free and dragged the lining of Chet’s jacket sleeve along with it. A small black container was revealed. From it popped a metal spring which shot through the air, then bounced around the floor like a grasshopper.

  “So that’s where all those scarfs came from,” Frank said. He tried not to laugh.

  Chet whipped off his jacket and frantically stuffed the lining back into the sleeve. As he chased the bouncing spring around the room, the Hardys burst into howls of laughter.

  “You fellows are a jinx when it comes to my magic tricks,” Chet said indignantly.

  “Maybe Hexton will give you a few pointers when we get to his castle,” Joe teased.

  By the time Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude announced dinner, Chet had regained his composure. He had a second helping of dessert, then decided he must leave.

  “Thanks for the delicious meal,” he said.

  Chet slowly rose from the dinner table. He stuffed the string of silk kerchiefs into his pocket and lumbered out to his jalopy.

  The next day Frank and Joe said good-by to their mother and Aunt Gertrude, then drove off. They picked up Chet and went directly to the Bayport field. Jack Wayne was already warming up the engines when they arrived.

  Tossing their luggage into the plane’s baggage compartment, the boys climbed aboard and strapped themselves into their seats. Minutes later they were streaking down the runway on take-off.

  Kenneth Dell was waiting for them at Great Circle’s base. He gave a long briefing, then at six P.M. led the boys to the plane that was to whisk them overnight to Scotland. Chet and the Hardys took their seats with the other passengers. Soon the sleek jetliner roared down the runway, lifted off, and headed over the Atlantic.

  After a while Chet struck up a conversation with a pretty red-haired stewardess. She managed to keep him amply supplied with food, while he related stories of his long and daring hours in the air.

  “I don’t like to boast,” Chet said as he munched on a plateful of cookies, “but I’m going to wake up some morning and find I’ve sprouted wings if I don’t spend more time on the ground.”

  Frank and Joe, meanwhile, studied every passenger aboard, occasionally strolling up and down the aisle on the chance they might recognize some member of Hexton’s gang. But nothing seemed to be amiss. Also, no one indicated to the Hardys that he was a SKOOL man.

  Suddenly the loudspeaker crackled to life. “This is your captain speaking,” announced a deep voice. “We expect to encounter a cold front in a few minutes. The weather forecast lists it as a weak system, so there should be only light to moderate turbulence. We should be through most of it in forty minutes. Please fasten your seat belts and relax.”

  The boys looked out the window. Already the blue sky was beginning to be obscured by wisps of gray clouds. It grew so dark that the cabin lights had to be turned on. The jetliner began to toss jerkily. Chet fell quiet as the stewardess returned to her seat. He stared straight ahead with a blank expression.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Frank called across the aisle.

  “I—I feel awful,” Chet moaned. Seeing the stout boy’s expression, the Hardys knew he had overeaten.

  Chet remained tight-lipped for nearly fifty minutes until the plane came out of the churning clouds and into clear air. By this time he was asleep.

  Several hours later the captain announced that the plane was commencing a gradual descent to Prestwick Airport, Scotland. For a moment the jetliner was enveloped in a milky whiteness as it entered a blanket of stratus clouds that stretched for miles north of the Irish Sea.

  Frank looked down while the plane descended through the overcast. “That chain of islands over there must be the Hebrides,” he said.

  “And look!” Joe added, pointing off in the distance. “There’s Ireland.”

  Suddenly Chet snapped alert. “Wh-where are we?” he asked.

  “Just coming up on the Scottish coast,” Joe told him. “How do you feel?”

  Chet rubbed his eyes. “Oh—okay, I guess,” he answered sleepily. “But never again so much food!”

  “Oh no?” Joe grinned.

  At seven o’clock Greenwich time, the jetliner’s wheels touched down on the macadam surface of the runway and taxied to the parking ramp.

  As the boys walked across the ramp toward the administration building, a shiny black car marked “Police” sped up to them. Seated behind the wheel was a man with a large sweeping mustache and a hat pulled low over his eyes. He rolled down the window and called out, “Are you the Hardys?”

  “That’s right,” Frank answered. “And our friend Chet Morton.”

  “Inspector Clyde sent me to fetch you chaps. He wants to see you right off. We’ll send for your luggage later.”

  “What about customs?” Frank inquired. “We’ve already arranged special clearance,” the driver explained.

  Frank, Joe, and Chet squeezed into the back seat. On the floor in front a blanket covered a large package. The car started off with a violent lurch. It sped across the airport ramp, out through an exit, and onto a road leading away from the field.

  At that moment the driver yanked off the blanket. A man crouched beneath it straightened up and settled in his seat. The boys were flabbergasted at his sudden appearance.

  “Wh-what—?” Frank started to say, when the man turned around and faced them. They gasped.

  Vordo!

  CHAPTER XIII

  Sky Spies

  As the boys stared in dismay, the driver pulled off his false mustache and removed his hat. Stony Bleeker!

  Vordo looked at the Hardys with contempt. “Insist on poking your noses into our business, hey?” he growled. “We’ll fix you for good!”

  Frank realized that the boys could not risk attacking their abductors. The driver would surely lose control of the car and all might be killed. Besides, the men undoubtedly were armed.

  Frantically the Hardys searched for a way out of their dilemma. Frank noticed that Bleeker was beginning to drift to the right.

  Vordo also saw what was happening. “Get over to the left!” he snapped. “You know they drive on the opposite side of the road here!”

  Bleeker swerved the car sharply to correct his mistake. “Sorry,” he said, mopping his forehead. “I keep forgetting we’re not in the U.S.”

  “See that you don’t forget again,” Vordo growled, “or the Hardys and their fat friend won’t be the only ones to regret this ride!”

  Farther along, the road bent sharply in a hairpin curve. As Bleeker rounded it, he again instinctively favored the right side.

  “Get over, you idiot!” Vordo bellowed, seeing a double-decker bus coming head-on.

  Bleeker spun the wheel and the car rocked violently. Then, with a splintering crash, it tumbled over on its side! Vordo and Bleeker were thrown clear.

  The three boys scrambled dazedly from the vehicle. The bus had stopped a short distance down the road. Its driver and several passengers were running toward them.

  “Are you lads all right?” shouted the driver.

  “Yes!” Frank called out. He then ran around to the front of the car. “Our men! Where are they?”

  One of the passengers pointed off into the distance. “I saw two men disappear over that dune as we ran from the bus.”


  The boys gave chase but found no sign of Hexton’s henchmen.

  “We’ve let Vordo and Bleeker slip through our fingers again!” Joe said in disgust.

  “But we’re free,” Frank reminded him.

  “And still in one piece,” Chet observed.

  He and the Hardys walked back to the bus. Frank asked the driver to notify the police. Before long, three constables arrived to take the boys’ story and examine the car. They said it was a stock model, rigged up to look like a police car.

  “Clever job,” a constable remarked. “I can see how it fooled the airport police.”

  He drove the boys back to Prestwick, where they checked through customs. One of the officials, recognizing their names on the passenger manifest, said that an Inspector Clyde had telephoned him shortly before they had landed.

  “You’re to meet him at the chief constable’s office in Ianburgh,” he said. “A car has been sent to pick you up.”

  The boys thanked him and lugged their suitcases to the front of the terminal, where the car was waiting. This time the driver produced a card to identify himself and the boys got in.

  The trip to Ianburgh took little more than an hour. The visitors were intrigued by the pleasant rolling countryside, dotted with stone and thatch-roofed cottages.

  At the chief constable’s office they were greeted by a tall, distinguished-looking man who introduced himself as Inspector Clyde of Scotland Yard.

  “My dear chaps,” he said crisply, “I am sorry you have had such a rough reception.” He turned to a stocky man with bristly gray hair and mustache. “This is my colleague, Chief Constable Burns.”

  “I’ve had a report on your kidnapping, of course,” said the constable as he shook hands. “It was a daring trick. I think this gang has the wind up.”

  “They’re scared,” Frank agreed. “And that makes them more dangerous. But it doesn’t matter. Through Hexton we might be able to identify the other members of UGLI and break the whole organization. But first we must get the goods on Hexton.”

  “That we must,” Clyde said grimly. “UGLI has secret eyes and ears in every country of the world.”

  Burns nodded. “The jewel robberies are big-and very cleverly done—but they are nothing compared to the international danger.”

  “Will you be in charge of the investigation in Scotland?” Frank asked the inspector.

  “Not officially,” Clyde replied. “I have been invited to cooperate with the Scottish authorities.”

  The chief constable smiled at the boys. “Scotland Yard is tops, you know. Local authorities are often pleased to have them lend a hand.”

  “There’s something that has always puzzled me,” Chet interrupted. “How come Scotland Yard isn’t in Scotland?”

  “Many years ago—in 1829 to be exact,” the inspector explained, “a police station and office were set up in a private house at Number 4 Whitehall Place in London. The rear of the house opened onto a court named Scotland Yard because it was part of the palace grounds where the kings and queens of Scotland lodged when they visited the English Court in medieval times.”

  Frank was eager to return to the case. “Inspector Clyde,” he said, “Joe and Chet and I would like to try to get into Hexton’s castle.”

  “Good boys,” said Clyde. “Dell told me you suggested it.”

  “Where is the place?” Joe asked.

  Chief Constable Burns unfolded a map on his desk and the boys leaned over to study it. “About one hundred miles north of Ianburgh.” He put his blunt finger down on a spot. “There it is. A huge stone fortress, set deep within a private park surrounded by miles of high iron fence.”

  Joe grinned. “Sounds like fun, getting in.”

  “Actually,” said Clyde, “since the gang have impersonated officers and attempted kidnapping, we have a right to go there and demand entrance. But it would be defeating our purpose.”

  Frank nodded. “Yes. Vordo and Bleeker have sounded the alarm by now. Besides, by the time you got through the gates and up to the castle, every bit of evidence would be well hidden.”

  “It’ll have to be an undercover job,” Joe agreed.

  “Maybe we could start by spying on it from the air,” Frank suggested.

  “Capital idea!” the inspector said.

  “I know exactly the man who can help you,” said Burns. “Aaron McHugh. He’s an excellent pilot.”

  The chief constable said McHugh flew in the vicinity of Hexton’s castle on a charter to the Hebrides, so the sight of his plane in the area would not be likely to arouse the suspicion of the magician and his men.

  After leaving the constable’s office, the boys went to their hotel and registered, then had showers, food, and several hours of rest.

  That afternoon they were introduced to Aaron McHugh, a middle-aged man with a jutting square jaw and a crop of wiry brown hair that sprang out from his head.

  The pilot was unusual looking, but his plane, which he used to haul cargo, was even more so. The boys were surprised and amused to see a metal-covered, trimotored craft with unusually thick wings and a system of exposed control cables that stretched back to the tail. Although the craft appeared antiquated, McHugh assured them that it was as durable and reliable as the day it was built.

  “My tin bird is no’ ver’ fast, lads,” he explained, “but it’s a splendid workhorse.”

  Frank decided that they should waste no time in getting their first look at Hexton’s castle.

  “Chet, Joe,” he said, “got your binoculars and cameras?”

  “Righto,” Chet replied.

  Joe grinned and slapped the leather case slung over his shoulder. It also contained the Hardys’ high-power photographic equipment.

  The trio climbed aboard the plane and sat down on the floor. McHugh fired up the three engines. The craft lumbered along during the initial take-off run, then began to bounce lightly across the rough turf runway.

  Soon it lifted off the ground and started to climb slowly, like a tired bird. When McHugh felt he had sufficient altitude, he tapped the various instruments on the panel with his finger to make sure none of the dials were sticking and giving false indications.

  “We have a wee bit of a headwind,” he announced, “so it will take about an hour to reach our destination.”

  The boys enjoyed the flight as they gazed down at the craggy landscape of the Scottish coast. As McHugh had estimated, nearly an hour elapsed before he pointed ahead.

  “There it is!”

  He adjusted his course, then rolled the plane into a shallow bank to give the boys a better look. Far below was the large stone castle. Its sturdy gray battlements were sharply defined from an altitude of three thousand feet.

  “It must be centuries old,” Joe observed.

  “About the eleventh century,” McHugh said.

  Chet exclaimed, “It has a moat, too, just like in the history books, but there’s no water!”

  “Nowadays, with planes,” said their pilot, “a moat of water isn’t much protection.”

  Frank asked McHugh to circle the castle without getting too close. Using binoculars, they peered down. Frank observed that the castle was on high ground, without trees or shrubbery, and noted that it would be impossible to approach it on foot without being seen.

  Joe extracted a camera, attached a telephoto lens, and clicked off one frame after another. Presently his viewer picked up two men on the castle wall.

  “Oh-oh!” he exclaimed. “We’d better get out of here. I think we’ve been spotted.”

  McHugh turned the plane back toward Ianburgh. When the craft landed, the Hardys hurried to the police darkroom to develop their photographs. To their disappointment, the glare of the sun on the plane’s window had obscured a clear view of the castle.

  “Rotten luck!” Joe exclaimed.

  “We’ll take another crack at it,” Frank said.

  He suggested that in order to avoid arousing suspicion, this should be done during one of McHugh’s
regular charter flights.

  “Tomorrow morning I’m taking a load of feed to the sheep raisers near Stornaway in the Hebrides,” the pilot told them. “Come along.”

  Shortly after dawn, McHugh and the boys again boarded the plane. Its fuselage was crammed with feed bags, and the three passengers had to worm their way to separate spots near the windows. The pilot started the engines and taxied out for take-off.

  Without warning, a man appeared from behind a stack of feed bags and darted for the passenger door. Frank grabbed him and uttered a cry of surprise when he recognized the intruder’s face. Timken, the Great Circle’s steward! UGLI spying again!

  “Let me out!” Timken shouted frantically. “I want to get off! You hear me?”

  “I’m not deaf,” Frank said, pinioning the man against one of the sacks. “Why are you here?”

  As he spoke, the plane lifted. “We’re already airborne,” Frank continued. “I wouldn’t suggest your taking a walk just now!”

  With a snarl, Timken thrust his feet against the cabin wall and broke Frank’s grip. He grabbed a feed bag and threw it at the boy, knocking him to the floor. But Frank sprang up and leaped at his attacker. Timken threw a punch, which Frank ducked. He got off a hard counterblow, catching the man squarely on the chin. The steward fell, unconscious.

  “Joe, Chet!” Frank called out over the roar of the engine. “Lookee here! We have company!”

  The boys climbed over the sacks.

  “Timken!” Joe cried as he gazed in amazement at the man on the floor.

  “Right.”

  “What’s he doing here?” Chet asked.

  “I don’t know,” Frank answered. “But we’ll sure find out when he comes to!”

  They tied up their unexpected passenger, then tried to revive him. Several minutes elapsed before Timken regained consciousness. When he realized he was still in the plane, he became panic-stricken. “How long have we been in the air?” he screamed.

  “Why do you want to know?” Frank retorted.

  “Quick! Tell me!” The steward’s face turned pale with fear.

  Frank glanced at his watch. “Ten ... maybe fifteen minutes.”

  “Let me out of here!” Timken screeched. “You’ve got to land this plane, or we’ll all be killed! There’s a bomb aboard!”