Mystery of the Whale Tattoo (8 page)

“We're in for it now,” Chet fretted. “They're going to arrest you guys for planting a phony news story. And they're going to charge me with being an accomplice!”

“Don't be a worrywart, Chet,” Joe said. “We had Chief Collig's permission. It must be something else.”

The trooper got out and walked to Frank's open window, the leather of his holster and his highly polished boots gleaming in the sunlight.

“We're in trouble!” Chet lamented. “Look at his face. He means business!”

The trooper consulted his note pad, then asked “Are you Frank and Joe Hardy and Chet Morton?”

“Yes, sir,” Frank replied. “What's wrong, Officer?”

“I received radio instructions through Chief Collig's office in Bayport to relay a message to you. Your mother received a call a short while ago in reference to the case you're working on. The man didn't identify himself and his message was short:
‘Lady, tell your brats that they'll lay off if they know what's good for 'em!' ”

“Man!” Frank said. “We got through to them. They're really worried now!” He thanked the officer for having delivered the message. The policeman said he was glad to be of help. He cautioned the boys to be on the alert, then he returned to his car and drove off.

The young sleuths maintained maximum vigilance during the remainder of the drive to Mystic. Chet was the only one who noticed anything out of the ordinary. He pointed out a blonde in a red coupé who seemed to have been following them for half an hour. Frank and Joe laughed.

“She's probably going to Mystic, too,” Joe said. “I don't think we have much to fear from a pretty girl. To tell the truth, Chet, I think you're just looking for an excuse to flirt.”

Chet blushed, mumbled, and looked straight ahead for the next five miles.

By the time they arrived in Mystic, it was midafternoon. Joe took a map of the town from the glove compartment and directed Frank toward Mrs. Snow's house.

Suddenly there was the roar of an accelerating engine behind them. The same red coupé went shooting past, cut sharply in front of them, and forced Frank off the street and over the curb.

The windshield was filled with the sight of a huge elm tree. They were heading straight for it!

“HANG on!” Frank shouted.

He slammed the brake pedal down and wrenched the wheel violently to the side. The car went into a skid, tipped precariously up on two wheels, then was brought to a bone-jarring halt when the right fender buckled against the tree.

“Anybody hurt?” Frank gasped.

“I'm okay,” Joe said.

“Me too,” Chet answered shakily.

“Lucky we had our seat belts fastened,” Frank said.

“There is no doubt that our enemies are here,” Joe muttered. “That blonde certainly was no lady.”

“She may come back to find out what happened to us,” Frank remarked. “Mrs. Snow's house should be right down at the end of this block. Let's get there fast, conceal the car, and keep a lookout.”

“Good thinking,” Joe said.

“I'm all for concealment at this stage of the game,” Chet added.

After a quick check, which revealed that the only damage was the crumpled fender, Frank drove to Mrs. Snow's house and parked in her driveway. The boys hurried up the front steps and rang the bell.

Mrs. Snow, a small, white-haired woman, opened the door. The boys introduced themselves hurriedly and told of what had just happened.

“Why, the nerve of those scoundrels!” Mrs. Snow replied. “Joe and Chet, come right inside. Frank, you can take your car around back and park it in the garage.”

Frank drove into the rickety clapboard garage behind the house and closed the door. When he turned to go back into the house, he saw the tail end of a red car whizzing by.

“Wow!” he said softly to himself. “She certainly came back in a hurry!”

He raced in to join the others. “Did you see—?” he started, but Joe interrupted him.

“Negative. It was not the same car. We'll have to wait, I'm afraid.”

The trio and Mrs. Snow stood alongside the front windows, keeping vigil at the edges of the drawn curtains.

“Aha!” Joe said ten minutes later. “Here comes the coupé.”

“Are you sure it's the right car?” Chet asked.

“I'm not likely to forget that one for a long time.”

The red automobile was moving slowly down the street. As it passed in front of Mrs. Snow's house, the sleuths noticed that there were now three people in it.

“She must have picked up some confederates,” Joe said.

“Do you recognize any of them?” Frank asked Mrs. Snow, who stood at his elbow.

“I never saw the girl,” she replied. “But I've seen the big man, the one in the blue work shirt. I'm not sure, but I think he's a retired seaman.”

Unfortunately the boys could not get a really clear look. To do so, they would have had to open the curtains and possibly give away their position. The car passed by the house twice again in the next fifteen minutes, then vanished.

“I think our trip is
really
going to pay off,” Frank announced. He asked Mrs. Snow if he might use her telephone to make a long-distance collect call. She led him to the phone table in the hall.

Frank had the operator ring his home in Bayport. Elmer Hardy answered, accepted the charge, and told Frank that his mother and aunt were out. Frank asked him to report that he had received Mrs. Hardy's message and everything was all right.

Elmer said there had been no word from Mr. Hardy yet and that none of Chief Collig's men had been able to uncover any news about Boko. Frank thanked Elmer and hung up.

The boys decided to remain at Mrs. Snow's, since there seemed to be little they could accomplish the rest of the day. Mrs. Snow showed them to their rooms, and while they unpacked, she went downstairs and had supper waiting by the time they reappeared.

The boys slept well that night in spacious, comfortable beds. They got an early start in the morning and arrived at the museum just as it was opening.

“We'll case the area first,” Frank said, and warned Chet to act casual. “And if you see the blonde,” he added, “for Pete's sake, don't sing out!”

They bided their time, strolling through the streets and visiting the period buildings. The Hardys took particular delight in the dark and triangular Shipsmith Shop and the relaxing, convivial atmosphere of the Spouter Tavern. Chet's chief interest lay in the many beautiful pieces contained in the separate collections of scrimshaw in the museum.

Around eleven o'clock they strolled toward the wharf at which the old whaling ship
Charles W. Morgan
was moored. A group of leathery-skinned men in seamen's garb was congregated on a nearby bench.

“That fellow in the blue shirt,” Frank whispered to Joe and Chet. “Isn't he one of the guys who was in the red car?”

Chet and Joe admitted there was a strong resemblance, but could not be sure.

Frank decided to strike up a conversation with the man while the other two went aboard the whaler. He sauntered to the bench and sat down.

“What a beautiful ship,” he said. “I'll bet she has quite a history.”

“Aye. She does,” replied the man in the blue shirt.

“I'd sure like to go through her with someone who could tell me her background,” Frank went on.

“I'll take you—for a dollar!”

“It's a deal.” Frank took a bill from his wallet and handed it to the grizzled man.

“Thanks. Tim's the name.”

Frank's heart quickened as he saw a whale tattoo, similar to Boko's on his guide's blue-veined hand.

The two quickly boarded the
Charles W. Morgan,
and walked past Joe and Chet, who were chatting with a man in a captain's uniform. Tim took Frank on a quick tour of the deck. He knew his subject well, pointing out the davits from which the longboats were lowered to pursue whales, the brick hearths over which the oil was boiled from the blubber, and explained the function of the huge pieces of block and tackle.

As the old fellow expounded, Frank noticed that Chet and Joe were now following him at a discreet distance.

Tim took Frank below deck, where the enormous backbone of a Bowhead Whale was propped against the ribs of the ship. The two moved in its direction, while Tim explained how the ship's frame and planking had been built of live oak. He pointed out the broad-bladed harpoons used for the original strike against a whale and the thinner, long-shanked iron lances employed in the final killing thrust to the heart.

An old anchor chain lay in a great coil near the tall, gleaming white backbone. Frank bent down to examine the chain's massive links.

“Do you mean,” he said, “that they really cranked something this heavy up by—?”

His question was cut short by a grating sound. He jerked his eyes up and saw the backbone falling on him. Instantly he hurled himself backward, hit the deck, and rolled away. The heavy whale-bone crashed over the coiled chain!

Joe and Chet came pounding to his side as he regained his feet. “Frank! Frank! Are you all right?” his brother asked.

“Yes. It missed. Quick, where did Tim go?”

“He ran up that gangway,” Chet cried. “Right after he shoved the backbone at you.”

“After him!” Frank commanded.

The boys dashed up the steps to the upper deck. The area was jammed with tourists and also the wharf below.

“Too late,” Joe said angrily. “We'd never find him in this crowd.”

The boys leaned against a rail. “We know his full name at least,” Joe said.

Frank looked surprised. “How so?”

“From Captain Flint,” Joe explained. “It's Tim Varney.”

Frank nodded approvingly. “Nice work, Joe.” He told them about Varney's whale tattoo, and suggested they talk to Captain Flint again.

Flint was outraged that such a thing had happened on his ship, and apologized to Frank. “I wish I could tell you more about Varney,” he said, “but I can't. Nobody around here knows anything about him, except that he's a drifter.”

“Captain,” Joe asked, “are you familiar with stuffed whales?”

The captain pursed his lips. “Well, there's only one that I've ever heard of. It's in a museum of natural history. Wait a minute. There's somebody who knows more about this than I do.”

He walked to the prow of the ship and hailed an old man seated on one of the benches, sunning himself.

“Oh, Murphy!” Captain Flint called out. “Will you come over here, please.”

The man, gray and toothless, waved in reply and walked up to the whaler. “You want something, Captain?”

Flint cupped his hands and asked the question about stuffed whales.

“Sure, I know another one,” Murphy replied. “It was washed ashore on Montauk in the 1920's. Some carnival guy stuffed it.”

“You know his name or where I can find him?” Frank asked. But the old man shook his head, and shuffled back to his bench.

“That's a great help, Captain,” Frank said. “Another question. Have you ever heard of a man named Whitey Meldrum?”

“Whitey Meldrum? Sure. He's an old merchant marine seaman. I don't know the specifics, but he was mixed up in a couple of shady deals several years back.”

“You have any idea where he is now?”

Captain Flint removed his hat and scratched his head. “I'm not sure, but I seem to remember someone mentioning that he was living in New York. That was about two months ago.”

“Captain,” Frank said, “you've been a tremendous help to us and I want to thank you very much.”

“Not at all. My pleasure. Oh, there's one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“I just recalled. Strange thing, you looking for Meldrum. There was another fellow up here just a couple of days ago. He was looking for old Meldrum, too.”

“Who was he?” Joe asked.

“Marlin. Called himself Spike Marlin.”

“ARE you joking?” Joe asked. “Spike Marlin. Turn it around and you get marlinespike, the tool used in rope splicing.”

“It struck me the same way,” Captain Flint replied. “But that's what he said his name was.”

“Fine alias for a guy with a sense of humor,” Frank said, and asked the captain where Marlin was from or where he was going. Flint did not know. “Was there anything unusual about him, anything that might help us to identify him?” Frank asked.