Mystery of the Whale Tattoo (9 page)

“Not much. His clothes were worn, but pretty nondescript. I did notice an anchor tattoo on the back of his left hand. He might have been a seaman, but I wouldn't swear to it.”

“Those are pretty good clues,” Joe said. “Thanks a lot.”

The boys left to scan the area, trying to pick up Tim Varney's trail. They had no luck, so they returned to Mrs. Snow's in the late afternoon. After supper they headed back to the seaport.

They searched in seamen's meeting houses and in cheap restaurants, and questioned proprietors of stores and clerks at hotel desks. But their efforts were fruitless. Several persons readily admitted to knowing Varney, but no one had seen him for the last few days or knew where he might be found.

Finally the trio stopped at a drugstore and ordered sodas.

“Boy, these are really good!” Joe said after the first cooling gulp.

“Good!
My friend, they're superb!” Chet responded. He finished his soda before the Hardys were halfway done and ordered another. After the gurgling sound of the straw reaching bottom, Chet gave the Hardys a plaintive look. “Fellows,” he said, “it's not that I'm trying to get out of work or anything, but these sodas are the best I've ever tasted.”

“What are you trying to say, Chet?” Joe asked.

The chubby boy wore a sheepish expression. “Well, if you guys think you might be able to do without me for a while, I'd sure like to stick around and do some real justice to that artist who makes these ice-cream dreams.”

“Look, Chet,” Joe said. “We were planning on having you lead us in a couple of double-time laps around the block.”

Chet raised his hands in mock horror, and Frank added, “Okay. If we run into any trouble, we'll come back and get you. Otherwise plan on meeting us here in an hour.”

Frank and Joe left the drugstore and continued their search. Darkness was falling and the moon was visible only as a dim, thin crescent above a layer of black wind-driven clouds.

“Do you think Tim Varney has gone into hiding?” Joe asked.

“It's a possibility. I—Wait a minute! Over there by the grocery store, Joe!”

Joe squinted against the blackness, focusing his eyes on the figure that was moving furtively along the other side of the street. “That's our man, all right.”

“Into this doorway, quick,” Frank said. “Give him a chance to get a bit of a lead, then we'll follow him.”

Varney glanced nervously around, as if to make sure that he was not being followed. After a moment he shrugged and hurried on. When he was half a block away, Frank and Joe stepped out of the doorway. They tailed the man through a labyrinth of twisting streets until he arrived at a clapboard shack close to the waterfront. Varney paused, looked around him, then pulled open the door and went inside.

Frank and Joe pressed against the side of a warehouse, watching. “What do you think we should do now?” Joe asked.

“Well,” Frank said, “there was no light when he entered, and he still hasn't turned one on. It's my guess that he's waiting for somebody. I think we should stick tight and see what happens.”

“Okay.”

After fifteen minutes Joe grew restless and began to fidget, when Frank suddenly whispered, “Something's moving off to the side of the shack.”

Joe looked. Two dark forms—one of them much larger than the other—were approaching the ramshackle structure. They made their way to the door, then rapped on it with four sharp knocks. The door opened and they stepped inside. Moments later a weak light appeared behind the covered windows.

The boys crouched low and covered the distance between the shack and the warehouse at a half-run. A thin wedge of light knifed through a crack on the side of the door. The Hardys each pressed an eye to the opening.

Inside, three men were pacing about. One of them strode close to the door. Instantly Frank and Joe recognized him as the hulking man who had been in the red coupé with Varney and the blonde.

“Hey, Mug!” came Varney's voice.

The big man turned. “What?”

The boys could not make out Varney's next sentence. A higher voice said, “Wish we could get this job finished.” Frank and Joe strained for a look at the speaker. Moments later they succeeded, when a youth about their own age, slightly built and with sandy hair, stomped angrily past the door, snarling the name “Hardy.”

“There's nothin' you can do, Baby Face!”

“Well, I don't like sittin' around, Mug,” replied the blond youth hotly. “There's no sense talkin' any more. Let's get out of this hole.”

He strode toward the door, barely giving Frank and Joe time to scoot around the corner of the shack. The light went out, the door slammed shut, and the three vanished into the darkness.

Frank peered around the corner in time to see two headlights wink on, a motor start, and a car pull away.

“Nuts, we can't follow them,” he muttered.

Joe grabbed his arm. “Remember that night I saw someone lurking near the phone booth at the carnival?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that fellow Baby Face is the one I saw hanging around there.”

Frank raised his eyebrows. “This gets more interesting—and complicated—every moment.”

“There's no doubt that Varney was trying to split your skull on the whaler,” Joe said. “But just what do you think is this job they're talking about?”

“I don't know. It could be connected with the stolen whale, or it might have something to do with Dad's case.”

“Or both cases, for that matter,” Joe added.

“Right, but remember we still don't have one shred of positive proof. Originally we thought the whale had been stolen by someone from the carnival. Now suddenly we find this fair-haired guy was at the carnival, which, while not ruling out the carnival people, seems to imply a bigger gang. Also there's that postcard signed Beluga that was mailed from here.”

“And once we got to Mystic,” Joe said, “we started running into seamen who are involved—Tim Varney and Whitey Meldrum. The gang Dad is after is made up of seamen. Wow! What a mess! Frank, I think we should get the police to arrest these guys right now.”

“No good, Joe. There's nothing they can be charged with—at the moment.”

“Varney tried to smash you with that whale-bone!”

“He could claim it was an accident, and we couldn't prove otherwise.”

“Well, I still think we should get them while we have the chance,” Joe said.

“They'd only be set free ten minutes after the police brought them in,” Frank countered, “and besides, they're not sure how much we know about them. We'd be tipping our hand. Come on. Let's investigate this shack!”

They walked in. Joe struck a match and lit the wick of the old-fashioned lamp.

Two things instantly captured their attention—a woman's blond wig and a souvenir cane from Solo's Super Carnival!

JOE picked up the wig and turned it over in his hands. “You know, when Chet said ‘That was no lady' he didn't know just how right he was!”

“Baby Face in disguise,” Frank muttered. “He and I are going to have a few things to settle when we finally come face to face.”

Joe set down the wig on the cane, which he twirled a moment like a baton. “This proves that at least one of them if not all three were at the carnival.”

They went through the rest of the shack, but discovered no additional clues.

“We still don't know Beluga's real name,” Frank said tersely.

“Or what his game is,” Joe added.

Frank's brow wrinkled as he repeated the message Beluga had sent to Boko. “‘
Getting hot. Getting hot.'
It could mean a couple of things. For instance, ‘We're almost to our goal.' Or, ‘The police are close on our trail.' ”

The boys pondered the possibilities. Finally Joe said, “I think we've done about as much as we can do here. What do you say we go back for Chet?”

Frank glanced at his watch. “Okay. The hour's just about up to meet Chet.” They hastened off. Reaching the drugstore, the Hardys saw nearly a dozen youths clustered around the soda counter, talking excitedly.

“C'mon, boy. You can do it!”

“Just take it slow and easy.”

“No problem, fellow. Still plenty of room left.”

“Go for broke, champ!”

The Hardys made their way forward and discovered the object of everyone's attention—Chet Morton! He grinned weakly when he saw his pals. “Hi, Frank. Hi, Joe.”

“What are you doing, Chet?” Frank asked.

“Competing in a marathon.” Chet made a sweeping gesture with his hand, taking in a row of empty soda glasses.

Joe counted. “Five! You put down five sodas?”

“You bet he did,” said a girl at Joe's elbow. “And he's far from finished!”

“That's right,” agreed a boy. “The big one's still ahead of him.”

“You see,” Chet said, “I've never encountered such scrumptious sodas in my life, and before I knew it—well, I knocked off five of them. And now, Charlie ... Oh, excuse me. Frank and Joe, I'd like you to meet Charlie, a soda-making genius!”

The man behind the counter smiled. “Your friend here is a marvel. I've never seen anybody put'em away like him.”

“That's the problem,” Chet explained. “Charlie was so impressed that he offered me a King-Size Wonder—that's his specialty—on the house. I'm not sure I can handle it, but I just can't bring myself to turn it down!”

As the crowd chattered encouragingly, Frank and Joe shook their heads in amazement. “How do you do it, Chet?” Frank asked. “How in
the world
do you do it?”

“I have a natural talent,” Chet replied modestly.

“Well, what's it going to be?” Charlie asked cheerfully. “A King-Size Wonder or defeat?”

Chet gnawed on his lower lip. A freckled red-head clapped him on the back. “Hey, buddy, I got an idea. Why don't you take a couple of spins around the block. That'll work off some of the sodas you've already had, and give you the room you need to take on the big baby.”

Chet contemplated this a moment, then smiled and stood up. “Ordinarily,” he said, “I shun physical exercise. But this is a worthy cause and I feel that a sacrifice is in order.”

“That's the spirit,” Charlie said.

Chet walked out of the drugstore. He stood on the sidewalk, hitched up his pants, and rubbed his hands together. A determined look settled over his face, then he jogged down the block. The freckle-faced boy and another fan went with him.

Ten minutes and two laps later, Chet returned to his stool in front of the counter. Charlie had the King-Size Wonder waiting. It was a huge soda, made with four flavors of ice cream and enhanced with a great variety of nuts and fruits. A large mound of whipped cream topped it and a bright-red cherry sat at the peak of the whipped cream. The audience murmured appreciatively.

Chet picked up his spoon, looked around like a matador, then tackled the soda. His fans cheered as he ate with a slow, steady rhythm. When he reached the halfway mark, the spectators began to applaud. The sound of their clapping hands grew progressively louder as the tubby boy neared the end, then broke into a wild crescendo when Chet scooped out the last bit of ice cream.

“I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it,” Frank said.

Chet's admirers followed the boys out of the store, congratulating him heartily. A block and a half later the last of the fans fell away. Chet sighed and patted his stomach. “A truly inspiring experience,” he said.

Frank and Joe could do nothing but express their awe. Then the subject turned to what had happened at the shack. “So that cute blonde of yours,” Frank finished, “was none other than Baby Face!”

“Oh, no!” Chet exclaimed. Then he said quickly, “I almost forgot. I have some news for you, too.”

“What?” Frank asked.

“Knocker Felsen's in Mystic. He's looking for you.”

“You're kidding!” Joe exploded.

“No I'm not.”

“What's he want?” Frank asked.

“I don't know. He wouldn't say. But I told him he could find us at Mrs. Snow's house.”

“Oh, that's great!” Joe said. “Didn't you stop to think that Felsen may be a member of the gang we're after?”

Chet looked embarrassed. Apparently this possibility had not occurred to him. “I'm sorry, fellows. Since he came looking for you right out in the open...” He held his hands up helplessly.

“What's done is done,” Frank remarked. “I think we should play it cool and approach Mrs. Snow's place indirectly, in case Felsen is up to something sneaky.”

Three blocks from Mrs. Snow's house the boys took to back yards and advanced stealthily. Reaching Mrs. Snow's property, they split up to reconnoiter, agreeing to meet again behind a large clump of lilac bushes.

Joe was the first to spot Felsen. He was hiding behind a tree close to Mrs. Snow's back porch. The three boys knelt at the base of the lilac bushes. “Here's what we'll do,” Frank whispered. “Joe and I will circle around and come at him from both sides. Chet, you stay out of the action. If Joe and I run into more than we can handle, you pitch in.”

The boys moved out and began creeping toward their positions. When they were set, Frank whistled shrilly and rushed forward. He and Joe reached Felsen at the same moment and the three went down with a thud.

Felsen recovered from the surprise attack quickly and jammed an elbow into Frank's stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He threw Joe off and made a rush toward a neighbor's yard. Joe was after him in a flash, bringing the burly carny to earth with a flying tackle. Frank scrambled to his hands and knees, rested a moment until he got his breath back, then rushed into the fray just as Felsen was struggling to his feet.
Pow!
A right to the chin flattened the big youth.