The Sting of the Scorpion Page 9

  “I made it for him on Mom’s sewing machine,” Iola confessed, giggling again.

  “You’ll bring down the house!” Frank told Chet.

  “Think they’ll like it?” Chet asked eagerly, preening himself proudly before an imaginary audience of thousands.

  “That’s not quite what I meant.”

  “I get it. You’ve no confidence in the act.” Chet snorted. “Well, this didn’t just happen overnight. I’ve been working on the show for weeks. I got the idea long before Pop Carter hired us at Wild World, and it’s been developing ever since.”

  “Maybe you should have squashed it when it first hatched,” Biff said with a wink to the others.

  With another disdainful sniff, the leopard-skinned boy led the way out of the barn and into the wooded grove at the rear. Long ropes were dangling from several trees. Chet grabbed one, and with remarkable agility, swung himself up onto a high branch.

  Despite their teasing a few moments earlier, his school chums broke into spontaneous applause.

  “Not bad, Jungle Man!” Joe called out.

  Chet sketched a pleased professional bow, teetering precariously on the branch as he did so. “Okay, white princess and Simba!” he shouted down. “This is your cue! Go get her, Simba!”

  Biff let go of Tivoli’s collar, but the huge Great Dane merely stood there, panting and gazing around contentedly.

  “What’s he supposed to do?” Frank inquired.

  “Leap at Iola with fangs bared,” Biff explained, trying to keep a straight face. “Then Chet will swing down to her rescue and grapple with the ferocious man-eating lion.”

  After several encouraging slaps of the flank, Tivoli finally ambled toward Iola, tongue lolling and tail wagging amiably.

  “Trying to keep that mop out of his eyes,” Frank deduced.

  “Go on! Snarl at her, you dumb cluck!” Chet berated the dog from his tree branch. “Act ferocious!”

  “Gr-r-r!” Iola growled, trying to get Tivoli to imitate her. Instead, he licked her hand.

  “Oh, never mind!” Chet fumed in disgust.

  At that moment, Tivoli suddenly reared up on his hind legs and began to slobber kisses on Iola’s face.

  “Hey, that’s great! Hold it!” Chet yelled.

  “Well, hurry up!” Iola cried frantically, covering her face with her hands in a vain effort to protect it from Tivoli’s moplike tongue.

  “Here I come!”

  With a jungle bellow, Chet swung down from his perch. As he did, his leopard-skin snagged on a projecting branch, threatening to strip him down to his underwear!

  Desperately Chet let go of the rope with one hand and tried to hold his costume in place. But his hefty weight was too much to support. Losing his grip, he slid down the rope and, with a plop, landed heavily astride the Great Dane, who bounded off into the underbrush, yelping loudly!

  Jungle Man wound up sprawling among the dead leaves on the ground, with his costume half off.

  His audience staggered around and leaned against nearby trees, rocking with laughter.

  Chet got up sheepishly, brushing himself and examining his torn clothes. “I guess the act needs a little more work,” he conceded, then burst out laughing, unable to control his own mirth.

  Joe flung an arm around his plump pal. “What a sense of humor! Chet, you’re wonderful!”

  The Hardys escorted their pal into his house, then left for home. When they arrived, the telephone rang. The caller was Sam Radley.

  “I just heard from the FBI,” he reported. “Clyde Bohm’s got a record, all right.”

  “No kidding!” Frank exclaimed. “What for?”

  “Fraud and embezzlement. He served two years behind bars in Kansas and got out a couple of months ago. But the Bureau’s got nothing on any of the foreign passengers who flew in Monday on the Safari Queen.”

  “What you just told me about Bohm is news enough,” Frank said with an eager smile. “And that’s not all, by the way.”

  He informed the operative about the car that had shadowed them that afternoon and how he had discovered that their shadow was one of Bohm’s employees.

  “Good work, Frank,” Sam Radley congratulated him. “Are you going to confront Bohm with all this?”

  “You bet! I think Joe and I will drop around to his place tonight. Want to come along?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Sam chuckled.

  After dinner that evening, he accompanied the Hardy boys to Clyde Bohm’s home, which they found by consulting the latest phone directory. It proved to be a rented flat on the north edge of town.

  The real-estate man was at first indignant that the Hardys should bother him after hours. “What right have you got to come snooping around here at this time of evening?” he ranted, snuffling and squinting at his three visitors. “I’ll report this to the police!”

  “You do that,” Frank said calmly. “And while you’re at it, maybe you’d better tell them how you’ve been employing this fellow lately.” He held out a piece of paper bearing the name, address, and license-plate number of their shadow, which he had obtained from the police that afternoon. Bohm turned pale as he read the information.

  “Maybe they’ll also be interested in your record as a con artist and embezzler,” Sam Radley added.

  Gulping and stammering, Bohm stepped back from the door. “M-M-Maybe you’d better come inside.”

  Wringing his hands after they had entered and sat down, the real-estate man went on, “My reputation could be ruined here in Bayport if all this comes out. Remember, I’m new on this job, gentlemen. Surely you won’t find it necessary to make the information public?”

  “That depends on how well you cooperate,” Frank said.

  “I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” Bohm whined. “Anything at all!” He then revealed that he had been ordered to buy out Pop Carter’s interest in Wild World, using available means.

  “Did that include harassing him with stink bombs and nasty rumors?”

  “No, no! Nothing like that!” Bohm assured them.

  “Where did your orders come from?” said Frank.

  Bohm claimed they had been passed down by some unnamed official higher up in the holding company that owned his real-estate firm. “We’re just a subsidiary!” he stressed.

  After the trio left, Sam Radley promised to trace the owners of the holding company. “But it may not be easy,” he added. “The financial structure of corporations can get complicated these days. Often holding companies are used to mask the real owners of a business.”

  The operative was amazed to hear about the Hardy boys’ investigation of the dirigible crewman, Hector Maris. “If he turns out to be the son of Quinn’s ex-partner, he may be the saboteur behind the Safari Queen explosions,” Sam conjectured, “trying to avenge his father’s breakup with Quinn.”

  “That’s the angle we’re working on,” Frank said.

  After dropping Sam Radley at his house, the Hardys drove to their own home on Elm Street. As they turned up the drive, Aunt Gertrude suddenly appeared in the glare of their headlights. Waving a broom, she appeared to be in a state of high excitement.

  “Help me!” she cried. “I’ve caught the culprit!”

  CHAPTER XV

  Aunt Gertrude’s Prisoner

  FRANK slammed on the brakes, and both boys leaped out of the car.

  “What culprit, Aunt Gertrude?” Joe demanded.

  “Over there!” she replied, jabbing the air with her broom in the direction of the back porch. “He may be the head of that Scorpio gang Fenton’s after! Or at least the rascal who chalked those marks on our front door!”

  Joe had snatched a flashlight from the car’s glove compartment, and aimed it in the direction in which Miss Hardy was pointing.

  A man was slumped on the back-porch steps, clutching his head in both hands. He looked up groggily. The Hardy boys gasped as they recognized his mustached face.

  “It’s Jemal Raman!” Frank exclaimed.


  The man shook his head. “No. I’m not.”

  “Tell us another story,” Joe scoffed. “How’d you catch him, Aunt Gertrude?”

  Miss Hardy explained that she had been home alone and had noticed a suspicious-looking mustached stranger lurking on the corner when she went out to the drugstore to buy some indigestion pills.

  “When I came back, he was no longer in sight,” she went on, “but I remembered what you had told me about that terrorist Fenton had mentioned, so I decided not to take any chances.”

  “Smart thinking, Aunty,” Frank approved.

  After scouting the front of the house, she had circled around through a neighbor’s yard and had glimpsed a dark form huddled outside one of the Hardys’ rear basement windows.

  “I retreated to the front porch,” Aunt Gertrude related, “and armed myself with a broom I had left out this morning. Then I tiptoed around the house and attacked the intruder. I whacked him good and proper!”

  “Aunt Gertrude, that’s the bravest thing I’ve heard in a long time,” Frank declared, hugging her.

  “You said it!” Joe chimed in, planting a kiss on her cheek.

  “Hmph! Well, anyhow,” she continued, trying to maintain her poise, “I was just about to go in and call the police when you boys drove up.”

  “We’ll attend to him,” Frank said.

  After herding their prisoner inside and frisking him, the boys made him sit down on a kitchen chair while Joe checked the contents of his wallet. To their surprise, the man’s ID showed his name as Gopal Raman.

  “I’m Jemal’s brother,” he confessed. “I’ve been a student in your country for three years.”

  Gopal explained that he had happened to see Fenton Hardy at the St. Louis airport and had recognized him from news photos. This gave him the idea of coming to Bayport during the detective’s absence and trying to break into his office.

  “What for?” Frank asked.

  “I wanted to find out exactly what evidence he had gathered against my brother. You see, Jemal wants to apply for re-entry into the United States on a student visa. So I thought if I could find out what your father has against him, it would help him prepare his case.”

  “And what was the idea of trying to break into our boathouse?” Joe prodded.

  “I learned you two had a boat while talking to some fan of yours on the plane flying into Bayport.” Gopal Raman said he had hoped to find something useful in the boathouse, perhaps even a spare set of keys to the Hardy home, which would enable him to slip in easily when everyone was out or during the night.

  His spying and the chalk mark on the door were intended to unnerve the family. “That way, if I were spotted breaking in,” Gopal confessed glumly, “I hoped to scare the women into letting me go without a struggle.”

  “Boy, you sure didn’t count on our broom-toting aunt!” Joe chuckled.

  The prisoner was so depressed and woebegone, the Hardy boys hardly had the heart to turn him over to the police. They both felt that Gopal Raman had proved himself a rather bumbling, inept villain.

  “P-please don’t hand me over to the authorities,” he quavered. “I shall be totally disgraced and disowned by my father if I am kicked out of this country and sent home without completing my education!”

  Joe scratched his head and glanced at Frank. “What should we do with him?”

  Frank turned to their aunt. “He’s your prisoner, Aunt Gertrude. What do you think? Should we give him another chance?”

  Gopal’s large dark eyes fastened hopefully on Miss Hardy. He placed his palms together in the praying namaste gesture of India. “P-p-please, Madame!”

  “Hmph!” Miss Hardy frowned and fussed uncomfortably. Despite her tart, forbidding manner, she was soft-hearted. “Use your own best judgment, Frank,” she decided.

  “Okay. Joe, take his driver’s license, his car registration, his passport, and any other LD. he’s carrying.”

  Joe nodded. “Right—I’ve got them.”

  Frank turned to the prisoner. “Where are you staying here in Bayport?”

  “At the Regent Hotel.”

  “Our father should be home in a day or two. If you’ll promise not to leave town, and to remain in your hotel room until he’s able to interview you, we’ll let you go for now.”

  “Oh, I shall! I shall!” Gopal Raman promised fervently, sounding as if he were on the verge of tears.

  “Okay, then beat it!”

  As the Hindu disappeared into the darkness, Frank shut the door behind him and headed for the hall phone.

  “What are you going to do?” Joe inquired as his brother consulted the telephone directory.

  “Call his hotel and make sure he doesn’t pull any fast ones.” Frank dialed the Regent Hotel’s number and spoke to the manager. After explaining the situation, he asked the man if he would notify the Hardys at once if Gopal tried to check out.

  “You can depend on it!” the manager promised.

  Next morning the Hardy boys left home early to keep their appointment with Arthur Bixby, the second party who had tried repeatedly to buy Wild World. The animal-park magnate had opened a temporary office in Bayport while he conducted negotiations.

  Bixby was a stout, jolly man, built along much the same lines as Chet Morton. Throughout most of the interview, a king-sized cigar tilted upward from one corner of his mouth, filling the office with wreaths of blue smoke.

  “So you two are the Hardy boys, eh?” he said, rocking back in his desk chair. “Heard lots about you, but I never expected you to come calling on me!” He chuckled and slapped his thigh to emphasize his surprise. “What can I do for you, lads?”

  “Not to beat around the bush,” said Frank, “we’d like to know why you’re bidding so hard for Wild World.”

  “Because it’s a good investment. Why else?” Bixby boomed.

  “If you’re so eager to own an animal park around here,” Joe probed, “why didn’t you open one yourself?”

  “I intended to, but old man Carter beat me to it. I may still have to, if he won’t sell out. That’s why I’ve opened this office, so I can scout the area and pick out a good location.”

  “You don’t really think this area would support two separate animal parks?” Frank challenged.

  Bixby chuckled, but his eyes remained cold. “You’re a smart young feller, me lad! No, between the two of us, I don’t think so. That’s why I’ve been trying to buy Wild World.”

  Joe said, “Do you believe it’s fair to pressure Pop Carter into selling out after he’s worked so hard to get the park started and invested all his life savings in it?”

  “Business is business, son. Besides, I’m offering Pop a good price. I’d even be willing to let him stay on and run the park. After all, I’m a showman. So’s he. A good one. We’d get along!”

  “Wouldn’t be quite the same for Pop, though, would it,” Frank pointed out, “working as a hired hand for someone else, compared to running his own show?”

  Bixby undamped long enough to wave his cigar through the air. “Ah, what’s the difference? I treat all my employees right. They love working for Arthur Bixby. Talk to them if you don’t believe me.”

  “May I ask you a blunt question?” Frank said.

  “Shoot!”

  “Do you want Wild World badly enough to resort to dirty tricks to crowd Pop into selling out?”

  “Dirty tricks?” the stout impresario cocked a perplexed eyebrow at the Hardys.

  “Like having someone toss a stink bomb in the park on a hot, busy day,” said Joe, “or spreading scare stories about the animals’ being rabid.”

  “I’ve never resorted to such tactics in my life, and I don’t intend to begin now!” Bixby thundered, thumping his fist on the desk. A moment later, his little blue eyes twinkled and his doublechinned face burst into a sly smile. “On the other hand, I play to win!”

  Frank glanced at Joe, who shrugged and smiled faintly.

  “Thank you, sir,” Frank said, risi
ng. “No need to take up any more of your time. I guess we’ve learned all we’re likely to.”

  “Oh, no, you haven’t, son! If you’re smart, you’ll go on learning all your life, just as I try to do. And just to make sure you don’t forget old Arthur Bixby, let me present you each with a little memento of this cherished meeting!”

  Bouncing up from his chair, he extracted two small plastic animals from a box on his desk and handed them to the boys—a giraffe to Joe, and an elephant to Frank.

  “What are these?” Frank asked, slightly mystified.

  “Read what’s on them, son!”

  Both boys examined their presents carefully and discovered the words, Souvenir of Arthur Bixby, Animal Parks, Inc. stamped into the plastic base.

  Bixby roared with laughter as he ushered them out the door.

  “Quite a character!” Joe remarked drily as the Hardys drove off in their car.

  “Don’t let him fool you,” Frank said. “Under that jolly mask, he may be as hard-boiled and ruthless as they come.”

  At home, Frank made another call to “Hector Maris” at the Quinn Air Terminal. Once again he was told that Maris had not reported for work.

  “Where’s he gone?” Frank pressed.

  “Don’t ask me,” the crew chief rasped over the phone, “but if I don’t hear from him in the next twenty-four hours, he’s going to be out of a job!”

  Frank shook his head at Joe as he hung up. “Still missing.”

  “What do you make of it?” Joe asked.

  The older Hardy boy shrugged uneasily and plowed his fingers through his dark hair. “I don’t know, but if Maris doesn’t show up by tomorrow, maybe we should notify the police.” After an early lunch, the boys sped to the Bayport airfield for the blimp ride Eustace Jarman had promised them. Both were eager to try out one of his mini-aircraft.

  Apparently the baby blimp had touched down shortly before they arrived. Jarman was proudly holding forth about the craft to a crowd of admiring onlookers. To the Hardys’ amazement, its gas envelope had shrunk to less than half its normal size as compared to the gondola cabin, which rested on well-sprung landing gear.

  “How come it’s deflated?” Joe asked.