Mystery of the Flying Express Read online

  The Hardys laughed and Joe said, “Guess we all can make a mistake, Mr. Malarky.”

  Frank assured him that everything about the cottage was just fine. There was a bit more small talk about boating and then Malarky left.

  “That’s a Virgo for you,” Chet observed. “Passion for details.”

  “Think Malarky’s on the up-and-up, Dad?” Joe queried as his father crawled out from under the bed.

  Mr. Hardy brushed his palms across the knees of his trousers, and straightened up. “I’m not too sure. He certainly sounded like a prowler. On the other hand, this is his cottage and you fellows are his guests. He had a plausible enough reason to be down here.”

  “I still suspect him,” Joe asserted. “He may be a Virgo with a passion for details, as Chet says. But we know him as a tough operator who doesn’t like competition. He’s practically admitted that he’s out to ruin Spencer Given and destroy the hydrofoil.”

  “I agree,” Frank said. “Why should Big Malarky be concerned about our comfort? It’s just as likely that he was snooping around for information about our connection with the Flying Express!”

  “I’ll leave that point to you,” Fenton Hardy told them, “and take off while the coast is clear.”

  He opened the back door, took a look around to be sure no one was lurking near the house, and quickly slipped out.

  The boys turned in early, and were fast asleep when their alarm system came to life. Frank was the first to hear it.

  He shook Joe and Chet, and the three gathered around the receiver.

  “No ducks this time,” Chet murmured. “Men are out there on the dock.”

  “Let’s listen,” Joe advised in an undertone. “Maybe they’ll give themselves away if we don’t go barging in on their summit conference.”

  Several voices came through at once until one, who seemed to be the leader, called for silence.

  “Get the boats going!” he ordered.

  “What about the Flying Express?” another voice demanded. ”Isn’t that caper still on?”

  There was a scuffling noise as if the speaker was being roughed up.

  “You fool!” the leader raged. “Mention that again and you’ll end up keeping company with the flounders!”

  “Okay, okay! Leave me alone! It was only a slip of the tongue! Won’t happen again!”

  “It better not!”

  “Forget it,” came a third voice. “We’ve got enough to do tonight. No sense fighting among ourselves when we’ve got the Hardys to deal with!”

  The men fell silent. Motors began to purr.

  “They’re probably going to raid the Starfish Marina!” Chet exploded. He dashed from the cottage.

  Joe followed him, while Frank rushed to the nearest public phone and called the police. Then he joined Joe, Chet, and Al Hinkley at the marina. They were standing on the jetty counting the lines of boats at anchor.

  “They’re all accounted for.” Hinkley was puzzled. “Are you fellows sure you heard a gang of raiders?”

  “I’d like to ask the same question,” said a stern voice behind them. It was the constable. “You said boats were being stolen. Well, how many are gone?”

  Frank gulped. “It seems like none.”

  “But there’s something fishy about this,” Joe burst out. “Half a dozen motors were running.”

  Frank slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. “A diversionary tactic. That’s what it was! They foxed us into congregating here, while they’re making the real hit elsewhere.”

  “But where?” Chet asked.

  “Good night!” Joe exclaimed. “The Flying Express! We’d better get over there double-quick!”

  They piled into cars and sped to the hydrofoil dock. Spencer Given was standing there, gazing forlornly over the water. Shoulders sagging, he turned toward the group running toward him.

  “You’re too late!” Given’s features contorted with rage. “The Flying Express has been stolen!”

  CHAPTER XVI

  Clever Clues

  “I wAs in my office at the dock when I heard the hydrofoil motors rev up,” Given explained. “She was in port all day for minor repairs. I snapped on the lights and came running out to the berth—just in time to see the Flying Express vanish.”

  “Did you get a look at the thieves?” Frank asked. “Could you identify them?”

  “No. They were already in the pilot house before I realized what was happening.”

  “We’ll put out an all-points bulletin,” the constable promised him. “A hydrofoil’s not easy to hide. Yours must be somewhere along the coast not far from here. Someone will spot her.”

  He went off to sound the alarm, setting in motion an intense search by squad cars and Coast Guard boats. By dawn, however, they all had failed to find the Flying Express.

  “We don’t have any idea where they are,” the constable informed Given by telephone. “But we’ll keep trying.”

  Frank, Joe, and Chet, who had joined the search by car, came back with the same disturbing news. Given, wringing his hands, finally went to his lodgings in Providence. The boys remained alone on the dock as the sun began to rise over the bay.

  “Is this Malarky’s work?” Chet wondered aloud.

  “Nothing’s impossible where Malarky’s concerned,” Frank replied. “But we have no evidence tying him to the theft. That’s what we need—evidence. Let’s look around.”

  “Any idea what we’re looking for?” Chet asked.

  “Could be anything. I don’t imagine these pirates left a calling card. But maybe they accidentally dropped a clue.”

  Joe stooped and pulled a greenish paper from between the boards of the dock. “Here’s something—a dollar bill! Might not help us with the case, but it’ll help fill my piggy bank. Finders keepers!”

  The bill was neatly folded. Joe opened it, turned it over, and started to put it in his pocket. Suddenly something caught his eye.

  “Frank! Chet!” he called to the others. “There’s an odd bit of writing on the reverse side. I can make out a few letters.”

  The three put their heads together and Joe pointed to the bottom of the bill where the words ONE DOLLAR were printed in large capitals.

  “Take a gander at the N in ONE,” he said. “Underneath it somebody has marked the letter I in black pencil. And below that, the letter G.”

  “Notice this,” Frank added. “The first S in STATES has a circle around it. So has the R in AMERICA. Joe, I’ve got it! Those letters make the initials SR!”

  “Sam Radley!” Joe blurted. “He must have dropped the dollar bill to give us a lead!”

  “What about the rest of the message?” Chet asked.

  Frank studied the bill carefully. “I wonder if we’ve been trying to read these other letters the wrong way around. Let’s try it this way.”

  He turned the dollar bill lengthwise. “When we put the bald eagle at the top, the N in ONE ceases to be an N. It becomes a Z. Right?”

  “Right!” Joe agreed. “And with the I and G we get ZIG!”

  “Zigurski!” Frank exclaimed excitedly. “Hooks and his gang grabbed Sam Radley!”

  Joe was galvanized. “Let’s look around some more,” he urged. “Sam may have dropped another clue. He’d want to leave us a clear track to follow.”

  Finding nothing more on the dock, the boys climbed down a ladder to where the water lapped against the pilings. Paper, sticks, and other debris floated on the tide.

  “I think I see something,” Frank said. At the bottom of the ladder, he took a firm grip on one rung. Leaning far over he snatched a brown leather object from the water.

  “Look, Joe, a wallet!”

  They climbed back to the dock. Frank spread the wallet out on his knee. The initials SR were stenciled in gold letters on one flap.

  “Sam Radley!” Chet gasped.

  “Not much doubt about that,” Frank said, “but this will be the final proof.”

  He carefully slid a number of papers from the i
nner pocket. They were sodden from their stay in the water, but still legible. Frank extracted a driver’s license and held it up for the others to see.

  The name Radley was perfectly clear!

  Frank looked grim. “Now we’re certain that Sam is in the clutches of Hooks Zigurski’s gang! And they think Sam is Dad!”

  “That means Sam is in real danger!” Chet finished the thought.

  “No doubt,” Joe said. “But where did the gang take him?”

  “My guess is the hydrofoil,” Frank said. “Chances are that Sam dropped his wallet into the bay before boarding it to keep his kidnappers from learning his true identity. Could be that they called him Fenton Hardy and he decided to play along with the mistake.”

  “That means we’d better catch up with the Flying Express fast and rescue Sam!”

  The sun was well up by now. Word that the hydrofoil was missing had spread in Providence, and curious people came down onto the dock. They buzzed around, exchanging rumors and gossip.

  “That’s where she was,” one man remarked, pointing to the empty berth of the Flying Express.

  “She must be jinxed,” another argued. “She’s had too many accidents!”

  “Will she ever make the run back to Bayport? Or is she gone for good?” asked a third.

  Frank said, “This talk’s getting me down. I see Mr. Given has come back. Let’s find out if he’s learned anything new from the authorities.”

  Given obviously had not slept. He had dark circles under his eyes and a strained look on his face.

  “No,” he answered their questions, “I haven’t had any further contact with the police or the Coast Guard. For all the good they’ve done, the Flying Express might have vanished from the earth!”

  “Still, they’ve only been on the case for a few hours,” Frank pointed out.

  “And in the darkness,” Joe added.

  Chet started to say something about the cor junction of the planets in Pisces—Given’s sign of the Zodiac—but Joe nudged him sharply and whispered, “This is no time to talk astrology!”

  Just then Big Malarky came striding up, surrounded by a group of his husky aqualantes. Feet apart and hands on hips, he confronted Given with a mocking smile.

  “So,” he smirked, “the Flying Express has flown the coop! Now isn’t that just too bad!”

  Given turned purple with rage. “You won’t be laughing for long, Malarky! I’m having you arrested on charges of harassment and robbery. You’ve stolen the Flying Express!”

  Malarky stopped grinning. “Are you accusing me of being a crook? Why you little punk, I oughta toss you into the bay!”

  “Just try it! Just try it!” Given shouted, forgetting his vow never to tangle with his bigger opponent.

  Malarky pushed him toward the end of the dock. Chet stepped forward to pull Given back, and took one of Malarky’s blows full in the chest. Chet fell over backward, hit his head with a sharp crack on the edge of the dock, and went over into the bay.

  “He’s unconscious!” someone yelled. “He’ll drown!”

  Frank and Joe both leaped forward, but a man from the crowd got there before them. Hitting the water in a clean dive, he grabbed Chet and pulled him to the pier. Helped by a dozen willing hands, Chet was lifted onto the dock. There a policeman who had just arrived gave him first aid. When Chet’s rescuer climbed out of the water, the Hardy boys gasped. He was Henry Chassen!

  “Seems we owe you another debt of gratitude,” Joe commented.

  Chassen smiled modestly. “Think nothing of it. You were ready to go in after Chet Morton. I just happened to beat you because I was nearer to the scene of the accident. I’m glad to see Chet’s coming around.”

  “We thought you’d left town,” Frank said, “since we didn’t see you around the Decor Shop. Your landlady didn’t know where you were, either.”

  “I was doing some landscapes of the cape. One day’s trip down the coast, that’s all.”

  “You didn’t happen to go with Rance Nepo, did you?”

  “No. In fact, I understand he’s away on his vacation. Why do you ask?”

  Frank and Joe explained their suspicion of Nepo. Chassen expressed surprise and added, “I really don’t know him very well. I’ve bought some equipment in his store, but that’s about it.”

  “Oh my head!” Chet groaned. He was sitting up, none the worse except for a bump on his head and a pained expression on his round face.

  “Okay, Chet?” Chassen inquired anxiously.

  “Okay, thanks to you. I’m told you fished me out of the drink. Remind me to do as much for you someday!”

  Frank, Joe, and Chet went back to the cottage, where Chet changed into dry clothes, and Joe phoned Mr. Hardy in Shark Harbor.

  “Dad, you were right about Zigurski. Here’s the pitch.” Joe reported the hydrofoil theft, and the clues they had found in the dock area. “The marked dollar bill and Sam Radley’s wallet floating in the bay point to the conclusion that—”

  “Hooks Zigurski’s gang has Sam Radley!” the Bayport sleuth broke in. “No need to spell it out. We’ll have to move fast now. I’ll ask the Miami police to put Zigurski under surveillance—if he’s still there.”

  “What do you think we should do at this end?”

  “Go to the state prison. Talk to the warden. Since Zigurski did time there, the warden may have a clue about what he’s up to.”

  “Okay, Dad,” Frank said. “What’ll we do about Sam?”

  “Keep mum for a while. Let Zigurski’s gang think they have me. It may backfire on them.”

  “That all, Dad?”

  “All for now. And incidentally, my compliments to you and Frank for some expert detective work!”

  Frank and Joe hurried to police headquarters to find out if there were any new developments. There were none.

  They were about to leave when they heard a loud commotion. A police escort came in with Big Malarky. He was to be booked on a charge of harassing Given.

  The head of the Fidelo Corporation scowled fiercely as the charges were read. Suddenly he raised his hands and stiff-armed the officers on either side of him. They went over like tenpins in a bowling alley.

  Malarky lunged for the door, but Frank hit him with a flying tackle, and Joe landed on his shoulders. The policemen pulled the big man to his feet and he stood there foaming with rage.

  Turning to the Hardys, he shouted, “I’ll get even with you if it’s the last thing I ever do!”

  CHAPTER XVII

  Zodiac Zig

  FRANK drove Callie’s car to the prison, located in hilly country about fifty miles away.

  “I’d hate to try a jailbreak here,” Joe commented, pointing to the high walls with watch-towers and armed sentinels.

  “Even Hooks Zigurski couldn’t escape,” Frank said. “He did most of his time and waited for a parole before setting out to get Dad.”

  The guard on duty at the outer gate examined their credentials. “Fenton Hardy’s sons, are you? That name’s as good as a free pass. Your father helped us capture an escapee once.”

  He waved them on through to the administration building. A secretary escorted them into the office of Warden Scott Ogburn, who motioned them to a couple of chairs.

  “What can I do for you?” the warden asked.

  Frank explained. “Sir, it’s about a former prisoner who served his time here.”

  “Name?”

  “Zigurski.”

  The warden smiled grimly. “You boys are playing in a fast league! Hooks Zigurski is one of the most dangerous criminals we’ve ever had. Sorry I can’t introduce you to him. He’s out on parole.”

  “We know that,” Joe said, “but Zigurski is a hot suspect in our current case. However, we can’t prove anything unless we learn more about him. Perhaps you can give us some inside information.”

  Warden Ogburn went to a filing cabinet, pulled out a thick manila folder, and began thumbing through a sheaf of papers.

  “Zigurski’s dossier,
” he said and briefed the Hardys on the man’s background. “When he got out, he went to Miami, Florida,” he concluded.

  Nothing in the file was new to the boys, and Frank looked disappointed. “Can’t you tell us anything about his personality?” he inquired. “Or his friends, for instance?”

  “Well,” Ogburn said thoughtfully, “Zigurski had a hobby which took up lots of his time here in prison. Astrology.”

  The young detectives looked at each other in amazement. “If only Chet were here nowl” Joe thought. Aloud he said, “Astrology, sir?”

  “Yes, Zig was a student of the star and planetary influences,” Ogburn explained. “He was so interested in the signs of the Zodiac that the other prisoners nicknamed him Zodiac Zig. He used to say he wouldn’t make a move without consulting his horoscope.”

  “He was really that serious about astrology?” Frank inquired.

  “Come with me and I’ll show you how serious he was.”

  Ogburn led his visitors out of his office, through the administration building, to the cell blocks. Inmates glowered from behind bars as they passed by along the corridor.

  The warden conducted the Hardys into an unfurnished cell. “This one hasn’t been occupied since Zigurski was here. He certainly left us a memento of his stay. Take a look in this corner.”

  On the wall was a row of drawings in black ink. “The signs of the Zodiac!” Frank exclaimed.

  “They’re all accurate,” Joe added, “from the rough Y that stands for Aries to the rough H that stands for Pisces.”

  Ogburn nodded. “Zigurski showed exceptional interest in the subject and, of course, had plenty of spare time to read up on it. Let’s go over to the library. You’ll see the books he borrowed.”

  The assistant librarian on duty at the time was a trustee who looked more like a college professor than a convicted forger.

  “Zigurski?” he said to them. “I remember him well. Came in regularly. Always wanted books on astrology, horoscopes, that sort of thing. I even borrowed some books from other libraries for him.”

  “Did he have a favorite book he read more than the others?” Joe queried.