Mystery of the Whale Tattoo (5 page)

As soon as they landed at Bayport Airport, Frank reported their find to Harrington. Then he called Jack Wayne and asked him to check on the wind velocity and direction over Bayport the previous night.

“Give us all the meteorological info you can get your hands on,” Frank urged.

The boys had something to eat and then drove out to the carnival.

Now that the carnival had no competition, business was booming. Sid Solo was happy about this, but he was wringing his hands over a new problem.

“Boko's act is due to start in ten minutes,” he said. “But he's disappeared. What am I going to do? The tent is packed and the customers are going to raise a big ruckus if I can't give them a clown.”

“Boko's gone?” Frank exclaimed with alarm.

“Yes. He hasn't been seen since late last night.”

Frank said to Joe, “I think we'd better call Chief Collig and tell him to be on the lookout. Boko's either in danger, as he told us last night, or else he's tied in with the stolen whale.”

As Joe went to call Chief Collig, Solo moaned. “There's no way out of this one. Those people are going to want their money back, and I don't blame them.”

“Cheer up, Mr. Solo,” Frank said. “I think we can find a clown for you.”

Solo's head snapped up. “Who? Where?”

“Chet's been on pickpocket duty until we got here, right?”

Solo nodded.

“Well, we're back,” Frank said.

Afraid of being disappointed, Solo was almost unwilling to let himself hope. “Do you think Chet will ... ?”

“We won't know until we ask him.”

They found Chet and put the question to him. The chubby boy grinned and said, “Well, sounds like fun. Sure, I'd be happy to.”

Solo pumped his hand. “Thank you. Thank you. If you pull this one off, you have my permission to eat free at every food concession in the carnival.”

“Let's go!” Chet said eagerly.

The trio rushed to the costume and makeup trailer, hastily fitted Chet out in a clown suit, and daubed his face with grease paint. Solo grabbed a handful of props and stuffed them into Chet's pockets.

“It's time,” Solo cried. He took Chet's hand and pulled the tubby youth toward the big tent. “Wait here until I call you.”

A bareback riding troupe had just completed its act and the ringmaster was standing in the center of the arena looking unsure of himself. Apparently he did not know what announcement to make since the next slot was Boko's. Solo rushed forward, waved to the crowd, then took the microphone from the ringmaster.

“Ladies and gentlemen and children of all ages,” he announced. “Due to circumstances beyond our control, Boko will not appear.” The audience made loud sounds of disappointment. “But,” Solo hurried on, “we have been very fortunate in securing for you the services of-of Chesterton the Great!” He turned away from the microphone and whispered to the bandleader, “Give 'em Number Three.”

The band struck up a very serious and pompous march.

“Oh, oh,” Chet said nervously. “That's for me.”

“Good luck,” Frank said.

Chet moved into the arena. He walked with great and exaggerated dignity, then suddenly he tripped and fell, shot quickly to his feet, and whirled around as if to see who had tripped him. The crowd roared at Chet's antics.

Chet shook his fist at them and stalked over to the nearest seats in mock anger. He selected a man and pointed a plastic flower at him, then showed the rest of the audience a squeeze bulb that would send water squirting into the man's face. He pressed the bulb—and the water squirted out the
back
of the flower into Chet's face! Chet feigned surprise and the audience howled with delight.

Next, the newly born clown drew a long chalk line on the floor. He opened a tiny umbrella, then stepped gingerly onto the chalk line, as if it were a wire stretched high above the ground, and began a balancing routine. The audience was laughing heartily by the time Solo rejoined Frank, who was howling in glee. Solo chuckled.

“It's really great!”

“I'd love to stay and watch,” Frank said. “But I think there's something we should do.” He told the carnival owner of Boko's instructions concerning the strongbox.

“Well,” said Solo, “I think the situation justifies your opening it.”

They left the Big Tent, found Joe, and went to Boko's wagon. As they drew near it, a figure burst from inside and dashed away.

“After him!” Joe shouted.

Frank threw all his strength into the chase, moved ahead of Joe and Solo, and gained on the fugitive. The man rounded a corner, Frank close behind. Then suddenly a low-strung tent rope caught Frank by the ankle and sent him pitching headlong to the ground. Joe and Mr. Solo came pounding up as Frank was pushing himself to his feet.

“What happened?” Joe asked.

“I tripped,” Frank said disgustedly. “We'll never find him in the crowd now.”

“Are you all right?” Joe asked.

“Fine. Let's get back to Boko's wagon and see what that guy was up to.”

They walked back, mounted the wagon's steps, and pushed through the half-open door. “I smell smoke,” Joe said.

Frank sniffed the air. “You're right.”

The young detectives went directly to Boko's bunk, pulled up the mattress, and after a moment's search located the loose board. Frank raised it and stared into the empty hole. “The box is gone!”

A quick check of the wagon turned up the missing container under a pile of rags in a corner.

“I found it!” Joe exclaimed. Mournfully he added, “We're too late!”

He held the strongbox up for Frank and Solo to see. The lock had been broken open. The box was empty!

“WE missed it by minutes,” Joe said. He set the strongbox down and shook his head. “Another blind alley.”

“Let's search the wagon,” Frank suggested. “The intruder might have left something behind that could prove valuable to us.”

Frank, Joe, and Solo began a methodical investigation, opening storage lockers, tilting back the few pieces of furniture, running their fingers along cracks and crevices.

“Here's something!” Frank exclaimed suddenly. Solo and Joe gathered around him. On the floor near the entrance, mashed by a heel, was a small mound of dark, flaky ashes. “This accounts for the smoke you smelled, Joe. Whoever was in here must have burned the contents of the strongbox.”

Frank sifted the ashes and snatched out a fragment of yellow paper that had not been consumed. “We're in luck!”

He held the brown-edged piece of paper up to the light. A few words were still legible:
Whitey Meldrum knows a ...

“Did you ever hear of a Whitey Meldrum?” Frank asked Solo.

“No. The name doesn't mean a thing to me.”

Frank put the scrap of paper into his wallet. Further search revealed nothing. They left the wagon. As they were descending the three steps to the ground, Joe said, “Look!” He bent and retrieved a torn photograph. Its edge was charred and there was a smear of chewing gum on it.

“This must have been in the strongbox,” Joe surmised. “The fire didn't get it and it probably stuck to the thief's foot when he ran out.”

The picture was of a wiry man, hawk-faced, and dressed in circus tights. Solo identified him as an aerial artist named Kane who had been killed some years ago in a fall from a high wire.

“Well,” Frank said, “we're on to something, but I'm not sure what. I think our next move should be to get in touch with Dad.”

Joe agreed. They thanked Solo for his help, left the carnival, and drove home. There they related the day's events to their mother and aunt.

Mrs. Hardy said, “Your father would want to be brought up to date.”

“He certainly would,” Aunt Gertrude sputtered. “You should turn it all over to him. You boys have gone every bit as far as you should, maybe even farther. You're out of your depth, and it's too dangerous.”

“Don't worry, Aunty,” Joe said. “We're being careful.”

The boys attempted to call their father at the New York hotel in which he was staying. The desk clerk told them Mr. Hardy was out; in fact, he had not been seen for the last forty-eight hours.

“That's odd,” Frank said.

“He's probably tracking down a lead,” Joe commented.

Frank suggested they try a radio message and the boys went up to their “ham” short-wave shack in the attic.

Their radio equipment was separate from that in their father's study. It included a receiver, a transceiver with VOX hookup, a signal generator, and a phone patch. Colorful QSL cards studded the wall over their gear, attesting to contacts with hams all over the world.

Time and again the boys called for their father to come in. No luck. Finally Frank clicked off the radio with a sigh and stood up.

“Dad must really have gone underground if he's not answering our radio call,” Joe said as they trotted down the attic stairs.

“He probably has a hot lead,” Frank said, “and doesn't want to risk breaking his cover.”

When they reached the first floor they found Aunt Gertrude all atwitter. “Elmer Hardy called,” she told them. “He's arriving at eight o'clock tomorrow morning!”

“That's great!” Joe said with a wide grin.

“But we didn't expect him that soon, and we'll have to prepare the guest room and .. : ”

“Don't worry, Aunty. You'll have plenty of time in the morning. We'll pick him up and meanwhile you can straighten up the house.”

The next morning the boys drove to the bus terminal, parked the car, then scanned the crowded waiting room. Elmer Hardy, looking like some romantic figure straight out of the Great Age of Exploration, was not difficult to spot. His sun-bronzed skin, great mane of hair, thick beard, and rough seaman's garb set him miles apart from the rest of the travelers.

“Cousin Elmer!” Frank called out. “Oh, Cousin Elmer!”

The man swiveled his head and his face lit up with pleasure. “You must be Frank and Joe,” he said, hastening through the crowd toward them. His right arm was in a sling, so he used his left hand to shake hands. Then the visitor stood back and looked the youths over from head to foot.

“Well, knock me down with a belayin' pin! I can hardly believe that you are Fenton's sons. Why, you're practically full-growed!”

“We're really happy to meet you, Cousin Elmer. From what Aunt Gertrude tells us, you're practically a family legend.”

“Oh, pshaw! Just call me Elmer. Nothin' legendary about me. I'm an old sea dog, that's all.”

“Did you break your arm?” Frank said solicitously.

“Nope. Just a strain. Got it heftin' my duffel bag the wrong way. Speakin' of that, hate to bother you, but could you boys give me a hand?”

“Glad to,” Joe said.

Elmer walked to the baggage claim area and pointed out a huge canvas sea bag with his name stencilled upon it. “There she be.”

“Wow!” Joe said. “I'll bet that took up half the bus.”

Elmer laughed. “Only a quarter of it, boys, only a quarter.”

Frank and Joe lugged Elmer's bag to the car, placed it in the rear seat, then drove their cousin home. Elmer greeted Laura Hardy and Aunt Gertrude with warmth, and as he kissed each of them fondly on the cheek, tears glistened in his eyes.

Aunt Gertrude had prepared a hearty breakfast and Elmer pitched into the food with great gusto. He was reluctant to talk about his past except in general terms.

“Oh, there were good times and bad times, just like in anybody's life, I guess.” He sighed. “I'm well into middle age now and these last few years I really been hankerin' to see my relatives. Just think—me being cousin to the famous Fenton Hardy. I'm awfully sorry he's not here. But enough about me. Fill me in on what all of you have been doin' over the years.”

Later Joe and Frank asked to be excused, since they wanted to see Tony.

They found he had made a fine recovery, and that the doctor had said it would be all right for him to get out of bed. Frank and Joe went down to the spacious recreation room, where Tony was pacing up and down.

“I don't care if Mr. Solo did call me and offered to help in any way he could,” he fumed. “I say those carnival people did it!”

Biff Hooper, lounging on a couch, supported Tony. “I'm with you!”

“Even if it was someone from the carnival,” Frank said, “I just don't think Mr. Solo was in on it. Sure, he's an excitable guy, and your whale exhibit was taking business away from the carnival but I feel he's okay.”