The Secret Warning Page 9

  “Is there any other way he could have reached the strong room?” the young sleuth asked.

  Roland Perry hesitated. “He might have worked his way in through a deck hatch or companionway—I’ d have to check. But offhand I doubt if that would have been any easier.”

  “Besides, lad,” Captain Rankin put in, “would he have bothered to cut the hole in her side? The hole is the only tip-off that a thief was down there at all.”

  “That’s true,” Frank conceded.

  “There could still be a reason,” said Joe. “Maybe he figured the hole would throw us off the track for a while—at least long enough for him to sell the head.”

  Shane remarked wryly, “I’d say we’re up against a pretty shrewd operator.”

  “Rollie,” said Frank, “is there any chance the thief could have gotten the head—and then himself blocked access to the strong room?”

  The three salvage men were startled by this idea.

  “By George, I guess that’s possible,” Perry admitted. “With a small explosive blast, he might have shifted the debris inside the ship quite a bit. It’d be hard to tell now.”

  The Hardys and Chet exchanged quick glances. They had already found out—almost at the cost of their lives—that someone on Whalebone Island knew how to handle explosives!

  “Well,” Frank said, “to sum up, it looks as if there are four possible answers to the question of who cut that hole in the Katawa.”

  “Let’s hear ’em,” said Matt Shane.

  “One: the thief may have been someone hired by the owners of the Carona, to help them duck responsibility for the collision. Two: he may have been a free-lance diver after the head—or maybe just after brass scrap. Three: he may have been hired by Mehmet Zufar, the owner of the head, to help him gyp the insurance company.”

  “You don’t have to name the fourth,” Perry broke in. “That I can already guess.”

  Joe nodded. “You mean Gus Bock?”

  “I do. Bock’s been my candidate for the thief ever since I first saw that hole.”

  “I realize Simon Salvage is not famous for square dealing,” Captain Rankin said, frowning. “But do you believe even they’d risk such a maneuver?”

  “Sure,” Perry reasoned. “What else can they be doing around Whalebone Island? We know they wouldn’t pass up any chance of big loot.”

  Before the discussion could continue, there was a knock on the door of the captain’s cabin.

  “Come in!” Rankin barked.

  A deckhand stepped inside. “Sparks says there’s a radiotelephone call from shore for the Hardy boys, Cap’n.”

  Frank and Joe excused themselves and hurried to the radio shack, Chet puffing along eagerly behind them. The call was from Sam Radley in Philadelphia.

  “What’s up, Sam?” Frank asked his father’s operative.

  “A couple of news items I thought I’d pass on to you fellows. For one thing, your dad has found out, through Interpol, who sent that warning cablegram from Egypt.”

  Frank’s eyes lighted with interest. “Who?”

  “The Egyptian police traced it to a Dutch goldsmith named Van Hoek who was living in Cairo.”

  “Was living?”

  “That’s right. He seems to have disappeared.”

  Frank glanced at Joe and Chet, who were listening in. Chet gulped.

  “A goldsmith!” Joe exclaimed. “Sounds as if there might’ve been some funny business with the Pharaoh’s head. Van Hoek may have made a duplicate!”

  “And he may also be another victim of the Pharaoh’s curse,” Chet croaked gloomily.

  “What’s the rest of your news, Sam?” Frank asked, turning back to the telephone.

  The detective hesitated before replying. “The truth is, your dad’s missing, too. At least I haven’t heard from him for over twenty-four hours.”

  “What! Haven’t you any idea where he went?”

  “None,” Radley admitted worriedly, “except that he was following up on that lead from Zufar. Look, I’d rather not talk too much over the phone. Do you think you boys could break off what you’re doing and fly here to Philadelphia?”

  Alarmed for their father’s safety, the Hardys readily agreed. Radley promised to arrange a special charter flight with the Ace Air Service, which would be standing by as soon as the youths could get back to Bayport.

  Chet was sympathetic and immediately offered whatever assistance he could give his pals.

  Frank gave him a grateful slap on the back. “Thanks, Chet. You’ve been a swell sport to help us this far. You deserve a break. We’ll drop you off in Bayport, but stand by.”

  “You bet.”

  After a hasty farewell to their friends on the Petrel, the boys embarked in the Sleuth.

  It was evening when they finally reached home. Here Frank and Joe ate a quick supper with Aunt Gertrude. Not wanting to worry her, they made no mention of Fenton Hardv’s disappearance, saving only that they were needed urgently in Philadelphia to help on his current case.

  “Any word from Mother?” Joe asked.

  “Her friend is better, but Laura plans to stay on in Bartonsville a few days,” Miss Hardy replied. “Don’t eat so fast, boys! You’re as bad as Tivoli.”

  Frank grinned. “How’s Tivoli’s appetite these days?”

  “Humph! He does eat rather a lot, but he’s proving to be a very well-behaved dog. I’m seeing to that!” Aunt Gertrude added with pride.

  The two boys sped to the airport in their convertible and were soon taking off into the dusk aboard the charter plane.

  Sam Radley met them at the Philadelphia air terminal, but waited until the Hardys were settled in a hotel room before telling them the whole story

  “When your dad and I opened that airport locker,” he began, “we found a walkie-talkie inside.”

  “A walkie-talkie!” Frank exclaimed.

  “Yes—with a note saying to keep listening in. But it wasn’t till Saturday that anything came through.”

  “What did you hear?” Joe asked.

  “Not much the first time. The voice that spoke sounded pretty suspicious—wanted to know why Zufar himself didn’t answer. Your dad said he was acting as Zufar’s agent or go-between for the pickup of the head.”

  “Then what?” Frank inquired.

  “He was told to stand by for instructions—while the gang did some snooping around, I suppose, to make sure there was no trap.”

  “Then,” Sam went on, “early yesterday morning another message came. Fenton was told this time to grab a taxi immediately, have the driver go down Market Street, and then turn north onto Johnson Avenue. The voice said he would receive further instructions en route.”

  The sandy-haired, muscular detective rose from his chair and paced anxiously about the room.

  “I tried to follow him in another cab, but lost him in traffic. I haven’t heard a word from him since.”

  Frank said, “Have you told the police?”

  Radley nodded. “Yes, your father kept them informed all along, but there was no time to rig a trap. A police operator was tuned in on the same frequency, but he heard nothing.”

  “Some of the gang probably got close behind Dad’s cab and broadcast at very low power, so the transmission wouldn’t carry far,” Joe declared.

  Both boys felt sick with worry, but knew there was little they could do except await developments. Frank told Radley about Captain Early’s cane and passed on the description of the “helpful” motorist and his car. Radley promised to have this circulated by the police.

  “Better get some rest, fellows. We may need all our energy tomorrow,” the operative advised after they had listened to the eleven-o’ clock news report on TV.

  Radley left to return to his own room. Frank and Joe undressed and went to bed. Exhausted by their strenuous day, they fell asleep quickly.

  Joe awoke suddenly some time later. Was the floor creaking—or had he only imagined it? He raised his head from the pillow and peered around.


  A shadowy figure was darting toward the window!

  CHAPTER XVII

  Secret of the Mummy Case

  JOE was out of bed in a flash. He sprang clear across his brother’s bed and leaped at the intruder in a flying tackle.

  With a snarl, the man kicked backward. His heel connected full force with Joe’s jaw and the boy crashed to the floor in a daze.

  By this time Frank had awakened. He jumped out of bed just as the man was disappearing through the window. Frank ran over and stuck out his head. “Stop! Thief!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. The intruder was already darting down the fire escape into the pitch-dark alleyway below.

  Frank raged in frustration. He had started to put on his bathrobe, in order to give chase. But he checked himself, not daring to leave Joe alone.

  Dashing to the room telephone, he signaled the operator. “A man just broke into Room 3211 He got away down the rear fire escape and went through the alley!”

  Hurrying to his brother’s assistance, Frank was relieved to find Joe groggily raising himself from the floor.

  “Whoa! Easy, boy! Better stay put for a bit,” Frank advised. He switched on the light, got Joe a glass of water, then helped him onto a bed.

  “Feel okay?”

  “Guess so. Slightly foggy, that’s all.” Joe waggled his jaw. “I guess it’s not broken.”

  His eyes widened and he sat up again as Frank reached for a sheet of white paper propped on a table. “Our visitor left a message,” said Frank.

  “What’s it say?”

  Frank read aloud: “‘Leave town at once or there’ll be trouble!’ ”

  “More on the other side, isn’t there?” Joe said.

  When Frank turned the sheet over, his jaw tightened. Without a word, he handed the paper to Joe. The remainder of the message was:AND DROP THE PHARAOH’S HEAD CASE IF YOU HOPE TO SEE YOUR FATHER AGAIN—ALIVE!

  “If only I could’ve nailed that creep!” Joe complained bitterly.

  “Did you get a look at him?”

  “No, it all happened too fast.” Joe scowled. “But—there was something familiar about him, at that. Just his general shape, or the way he moved, I’m not sure what.”

  Frank went down the hall to rouse Sam Radley, whose room was several doors away. On the way back, they encountered the house detective.

  “A couple of scout cars are cruising around, looking for likely suspects,” the hotel security man reported. “Can you give us any description to go on?”

  “Not a very good one, unfortunately,” Frank said. “The man was tall and had on a dark suit, that’s about all. He was pretty much in shadow going down the fire escape.”

  The house detective took down a complete account of the incident from both boys and offered the services of a doctor for Joe, who vigorously declined. “I’m fine, now.”

  Radley, meanwhile, had been prowling about the room, looking for clues. A moment after the hotel detective had left, Radley bent down and plucked something from behind the wastebasket near the window.

  “Did either of you throw this away?”

  The Hardys shook their heads. “What is it?” Frank asked.

  “A notice of an art auction sale,” Radley replied, holding out a small brochure, “from the Holt-Hornblow Galleries in New York.”

  “An art auction sale!” Joe exclaimed, looking at his brother excitedly. “The fellow must have dropped it going out the window.”

  “That would figure, all right,” Frank said. “If the men who kidnapped Dad really have the gold Pharaoh’s head, they may be in the art business!”

  They found no marks or jottings on the brochure which might provide a further clue.

  “You know something?” Frank said suddenly. “There’s an angle to this business we’ve been overlooking all along.”

  “What’s that?” asked Radley.

  “The gang behind all this must have had some real inside knowledge if they salvaged the head from the Katawa’s strong room. Remember, no story about the head being aboard was ever published in the newspapers.”

  Radley nodded. “True.”

  “One of the Katawa’s crew may have let the secret slip out,” Frank went on. “Then word was passed along, either to a museum, or an art dealer —maybe someone who knows Zufar.”

  Joe suddenly leaped up off the bed as if he had been stung. “Sufferin’ snakes!” he blurted. “Bogdan! Fritz Bogdan!”

  “What?” Frank exclaimed.

  “I mean, he was the man I saw—the guy who broke in tonight!”

  Radley and Frank stared at Joe.

  “How can you be sure,” Radley asked, “if you didn’t see his face?”

  “I’m not sure,” Joe admitted, “but at least I’m positive that’s why the figure looked familiar. Tall, slightly stooped, right shoulder higher than the other—just like Bogdan!”

  Frank was impressed by his brother’s theory. “That definitely adds up,” he said. “Bogdan could have learned from Zufar about the head going down on the Katawa—maybe heard about it the same day that it happened. So he decided to steal a march on the insurance company and hire somebody to grab it before they could send down a diver of their own.”

  “And remember, we suspected Bogdan was eavesdropping on us at Zufar’s office,” Joe said.

  Sam Radley paced back and forth worriedly. “Boys, if you’re right, we’d better move fast,” he decided. “We might be able to nail Bogdan on his way back to New York from here.”

  “What’s your plan, Sam?” Frank asked.

  “We’ll have police cover the airports, and the train and bus stations,” the operative replied. “Meantime, we’ll fly back to New York in our charter plane. If he’s driving, we’ll still get to New York before him.”

  The Ace Air Service pilot had planned to stay overnight at a motel near the Philadelphia airport. Sam telephoned him and arranged to have the plane readied for take-off immediately.

  In less than an hour Radley and the boys were bound for La Guardia Airport.

  As soon as they landed, they checked telephone directories to find Bogdan’s home address, but could find no listing.

  “Wait a second,” Frank said. “Maybe Zufar can tell us.”

  He plucked out the art dealer’s calling card. Zufar had jotted two telephone numbers on the back, along with the address of Bogdan’s curio shop. One was the shop’s number. The other proved to be that of Zufar’s hotel.

  A few moments after Frank had dialed it, Zufar’s voice came hoarsely over the line, sounding as if he had just been awakened. “Yes? Who is calling?”

  Frank explained the situation hastily. Zufar seemed to be flustered and incredulous at the idea that Bogdan might be involved in the Pharaoh’s head plot. But he gave Frank the curio-shop proprietor’s unlisted home number and address, which he said was an apartment not far from the shop.

  “Let’s try Bogdan by phone first,” Joe suggested.

  Frank called the number but got no response. Nor was there any answer from the shop number. The three sleuths hailed a taxi and sped into Manhattan.

  Bogdan’s apartment was on the first floor of an old converted brownstone. Its windows were dark, and the doorbell could be heard ringing hollowly inside.

  “Maybe he hasn’t come back from Philadelphia yet,” Frank conjectured.

  “We’d better keep a stakeout,” said Radley. It was decided that he would remain on watch outside the brownstone while the Hardys covered the curio shop.

  The boys taxied to the address and settled down to wait in an all-night drugstore across the street, which commanded a clear view of the shop entrance. The early morning passed slowly with no sign of Bogdan.

  By ten o’clock neither the proprietor nor any of his employees had appeared to open the shop.

  Finally Sam Radley arrived on the scene. Frank and Joe hurried across the street to meet him. The operative reported that he had called the Holt-Hornblow Galleries and confirmed the fact that a notice of the art auction sa
le had been sent to Fritz Bogdan. “I think we’d better call the police,” Radley told the boys.

  “Hold it!” Joe said. “Here’s Zufar!”

  The art dealer was just stepping out of a taxi. He looked upset at sight of the trio and twiddled his mustache nervously as they apprised him of the situation.

  “Do you have a key to the shop?” Radley asked. When Zufar nodded, he went on, “Then suppose we go inside and search the premises.”

  “B-b-but we have no right to do that!” the dealer spluttered. “I merely occupy office space here as a favor from Bogdan.”

  “Look,” Frank said angrily, “our dad was kidnapped carrying out a dangerous assignment for you. Your friend Bogdan may be behind the whole thing—including the theft of your golden Pharaoh’s head.”

  Joe broke in. “We’ll call the police and get a warrant.”

  Zufar fished out a silk handkerchief and daubed his perspiring face. “No, no—please! Let us do as you wish.” He unlocked the front door of the shop and they went inside.

  Radley made a hasty survey of the premises—showroom, offices, and storage space at the rear—to make sure that no one was about.

  “What do you expect to find?” Zufar asked.

  “Evidence,” said Radley. “If Bogdan did mastermind this plot, the Pharaoh’s head may be hidden here somewhere!”

  The three sleuths began a thorough search. Would they find solid evidence linking Bogdan to the plot—and would it lead them to their missing father?

  The boys and Sam probed into closets, crates, desks, rolled-up rugs—all in vain. Their hopes began to dwindle.

  In the dusty showroom Frank paused and stared around despairingly. Once again, the faded, upright Egyptian mummy case caught his eye. On a sudden hunch, he strode toward it.

  “Joe! Sam!”

  His cry brought the others rushing over. Frank pointed to several tiny borings in the case. “These look like air holes!”

  Together, the three pried at the mummy case, until Joe found a catch. When Frank and Sam wrenched off the lid, the trio gasped.

  Wedged inside, with eyes closed, was the bound and gagged form of Fenton Hardy!