Mystery of the Whale Tattoo (10 page)

“Okay, tough guy,” Frank said, pulling the groggy Felsen to his feet. “Let's have some explanations.”

Felsen pressed a handkerchief to his bleeding nose. “Look, you guys, I'm not your enemy, Why'd you jump me like that?”

“Why were you skulking behind that tree?” Chet asked, stepping forward.

“Mr. Solo sent me to give you a message. He told me you were on a tricky case and that I was supposed to be careful.”

“Okay,” Joe said. “What's the message?”

“The carnival's closing in Bayport. We made as much as we can there and we're moving on to Newton.”

Newton was a small town thirty-five miles from Bayport. Neither Frank, Joe, nor Chet could understand why Solo would send Felsen all the way to Mystic just to inform them of the move.

“Was there anything else?” Joe asked.

“Yeah. A note.” Felsen went through his pockets. A worried expression came over his face. “I must have lost it!” he exclaimed.

The boys searched the ground, but found nothing. Then Knocker explained that he had planned to return to Bayport earlier that evening. “I can't go now,” he said dejectedly. “It's too late.”

“Where will you sleep?” Chet asked him.

“Don't know. Could I stay with you guys?”

Frank was suspicious and far from pleased at the prospect. Joe felt the same way. Chet, however, felt that Knocker was okay.

“All right, you can stay with us,” Frank said finally. “But no funny business!”

Felsen was given a cot and fell asleep quickly, and the Hardys and Chet followed suit shortly.

At daybreak Frank suddenly snapped awake and glanced about. Felsen's cot was empty! He leaped up and roused Chet and Joe. Neither of them had heard Felsen leave.

Frank sat down on the cot. “I knew this would happen. Hey, what's this?” He reached down and drew an object from within a fold in the covers. “Felsen's wallet!”

The three of them examined the wallet carefully and Frank located a cleverly concealed secret compartment. From it he drew out a folded piece of paper which he opened.

It was a pencil drawing of a man's fist. At the base of the thumb, and on the tip and the base of the index finger were three sections of a tattoo, which, when joined, formed a whale!

“WHAT do you think of Knocker Felsen now, Chet?” Frank asked.

“Can't win 'em all,” Chet said apologetically.

There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” Joe called out.

The door opened and there, out of breath, stood Knocker Felsen. The three boys regarded him in stunned silence.

“Man,” said Felsen, “I was just getting on my bus when I discovered I'd lost my wallet. Did you see it laying around anywhere?”

“Yes,” Frank answered. “And we also found this!” He confronted Felsen with the whale tattoo.

“What's that?” Felsen asked.

“You tell us,” Frank replied. “We found it in your wallet. And say, why'd you sneak off like that?”

“Didn't want to disturb you,” Felsen said. He eyed the note. “Hey, that's what Mr. Solo gave me to deliver to you. He found it near Rembrandt's bunk and he thinks it might be a clue. Am I glad it wasn't lost after all.”

Frank eyed Felsen with distrust. “Well, thanks anyway. And say thanks to Mr. Solo, too.”

Felsen took his wallet and left, grumbling all the way out. The boys waited until his voice faded before they spoke.

“What do you think?” Joe asked.

Frank sighed. “I don't really know. He might be telling the truth and he might not. Too many unknowns to start drawing conclusions.”

“I wonder if we might get anywhere trying to trace the Long Island whale that Murphy told us about,” Joe said.

“I was thinking along that same line,” Frank remarked. “I suggest we look through the old newspaper files in the New York Public Library.”

Both Hardys looked to Chet for confirmation. He shrugged his big shoulders. “It's okay with me. I'm just the Indian. You guys are the chiefs.”

They packed their bags and went downstairs. Mrs. Snow served them breakfast in the dining room. The boys ate, thanked her for her help and hospitality, settled their account and left.

The drive to New York City was long and une ventful, and the boys took turns at the wheel. The arrived in the midafternoon, parked near Times Square, and walked the few blocks to the mair branch of the library. It was a huge, imposing building. The long flight of stairs that rose to its main entrance was guarded by two stone lions.

The boys went directly to the section in which the microfilm copies of old newspapers were kept. They checked out the indexes of the various New York papers for the years 1919 through 1929. Frank, Joe, and Chet each took a third of the material to be perused, sat down, and began poring through the thick volumes.

Other patrons of the library came and went, as the large clock on the wall silently marked the passage of time.

Joe marked his place, looked up, and stretched. Suddenly he went rigid. Across the room and seated at a table pretending he was reading a newspaper was Baby Face! Without taking his eyes from the youth, Joe reached over and tapped his brother's arm.

At that moment Baby Face looked up. Joe noticed two things in the split second that followed. First, the man's shocked look of panic at having been recognized—and second, a black circular mole just above the bridge of his nose and directly between his eyes.

Baby Face was the first to move. He leaped from his chair and bolted out of the room. Frank and Joe were after him in a flash. They hesitated when they reached the hall. Including the up and the down stairwells, there were five possible directions in which Baby Face could have gone.

A guard came up to them. “Here, here! You can't run through the library making a racket like this!”

“We're chasing a criminal,” Joe explained. “A young man, short and slightly built, with sandy hair. Did you see him?”

“No. I just came out of the manuscript room.”

Frank's shoulders slumped. “I'm afraid we're out of luck, Joe. There are too many directions he could have taken. We'd never find him.”

Frank and Joe apologized for the disturbance and returned to the newspaper section. Chet looked up when they approached. “Where did you guys go? You took off like rockets before I even knew what was happening.”

The Hardys told him about Baby Face spying on them and of how they were unable to catch him.

“Well, it's not a total loss,” Chet said. “While you were gone I found this.” He turned the index in his hands around so that they could read it and pointed to a specific entry:

“Good work, Chet,” Frank said. “Now we're getting somewhere.”

They requested the appropriate roll of microfilm and put it into the viewing machine. Frank worked the crank handle until he located the page they wanted. Chet and Joe pressed in on either side of him. It was not a very long story, but it did confirm that the stranded giant was indeed a Blue Whale and that it had been sold to Ralph Zelemeyer—owner of Zelemeyer's Circus—who intended to have it stuffed and to use it as a side-show attraction.

The boys returned the microfilm to the librarian. They decided to sit in the park behind the library a while, have an ice-cream bar, and discuss what they had learned. New York City's businesses were closing and the park was crowded. The boys strolled through it, seeking an unoccupied bench.

“I don't think there's any doubt that the Montauk whale is the same one Biff and Tony discovered,” Frank said. “The next step is to locate Zelemeyer's Circus.”

“As long as we're in New York,” Joe suggested, “why don't we skip the circus a while and try to run down Whitey Meldrum?”

“That sounds reasonable,” Frank agreed.

“Hey, fellows,” Chet said, “I hate to spoil a good ice-cream bar, but there are some not-too-friendly friends of ours over there.”

Frank and Joe looked in the direction Chet indicated. Near a water fountain they saw Baby Face talking to Tim Varney.

Frank flung his ice cream into a trash basket and sprinted forward. “Let's go!”

Chet and Joe were right behind him. Their dash was like running an army obstacle course. They had to thread their way through knots of people and careen around others. Baby Face and Tim Varney spotted them coming.

“It's the brats!” Varney yelled. “We gotta scram!”

The criminals ran out of the park and plunged into a subway entrance. Frank, Joe, and Chet followed them, but three minutes of search in the jammed labyrinth were futile. They emerged disappointed.

“Let's hope we have better luck with Meldrum,” Joe said.

After Frank had consulted his notebook for the addresses of three homes for old seamen that Captain Flint had given them, the boys were lucky enough to find a taxi in the rush-hour traffic.

Frank gave the driver the first address. Half an hour later they pulled up in front of a three-story brick building with white shutters and wrought-iron grillwork.

A plaque set into the cornerstone identified it as
Seamen's Haven.

The boys entered the building and went to the clerk's desk. “Excuse me,” said Frank. “We're looking for an old merchant sailor by the name of Whitey Meldrum. Does he live here by any chance?”

“He used to,” the clerk replied. “Took off 'bout a week ago. Don't know when he's comin' back—if ever!”

“Boy, what a sense of timing we have,” Joe said. “Say, would you have a guest here by the name of Spike Marlin?”

“Matter of fact, we do. Checked in a couple of days after Meldrum left. Friend of Meldrum's. What do you want with him?”

“We—er—have some mutual acquaintances. We promised them we'd look old Spike up.”

The clerk shrugged. “He's in room 2-D. Up the stairs and to your left. Second floor.”

“Thanks,” Frank said.

Grinning with excited anticipation, the three ascended the stairs, walked softly down the hall, and stopped in front of 2-D.

Frank put an ear to the door and listened for a while. Someone was moving quietly about. Since there was no conversation, Frank assumed the person inside was alone. He stepped back and beckoned to the others.

“We don't know what to expect,” Frank whispered, “so let's be ready for anything. Joe, you and Chet each get on one side of the door. I'll knock. Ready?”

Chet and Joe took up their positions and nodded. Frank tensed his muscles and prepared himself for instant action. He clenched his hand into a fist and rapped loudly upon the door.

Silence. Frank knocked again, this time even louder.

“Just a minute,” came the muffled reply.

Footsteps approached, then the door was flung open. A well-built man stood before them.

Frank's eyes bulged and his jaw dropped. “Dad!” he gasped.

“FRANK!” exclaimed Mr. Hardy in astonishment. “What in the world are you doing here?”

The detective was even more amazed when Chet and Joe stepped into view. He glanced up and down the hall to make sure no one had witnessed the meeting, then beckoned the boys inside.

Mr. Hardy was dressed in old work clothes. His hair was dyed gray and his face made up to look old. Though the masquerade was effective, Frank and Joe would have recognized their father's tall figure and handsome countenance anywhere.

“Don't tell us you got tattooed just to make your disguise authentic!” Frank said, looking at the blue anchor on the back of Fenton Hardy's left hand.

The sleuth laughed. “No, it's only a semipermanent ink. It'll wash out with a few good scrubbings.”

“Spike Marlin, what a name!” Joe grinned. “Takes real talent to make that up!”

“Don't you know you're looking at a genius?” his father quipped.

When the boys made themselves comfortable, Frank asked what connection Whitey Meldrum had with the Ivory Idol.

His father explained, “The back of the envelope in which the letter to R. R. Dunn was sent was sealed with cellophane tape. I managed to take a good thumbprint from the tape. It proved to be Meldrum's. Now, may I ask what interest you boys have in our elusive Mr. Meldrum?”

Joe told about the scrap of paper bearing Meldrum's name which had been found in Boko's wagon.