The Bombay Boomerang (10 page)

“You think she warrants investigation?” Frank asked.

“Yes. Find out what cargo she carries, what crew is handling her, and if there is anything suspicious about her voyage.”

“We'll be glad to check her out, sir,” Joe said.

“Fine. But I don't want everyone on the ship to get wind that an official investigation is underway. I'll arrange with the captain for you to go aboard without arousing suspicion. And you're both good detectives. Is that all right with you, Mr. Hardy?”

“Frank and Joe can take care of themselves,” the detective replied. “I have every confidence that they can give the freighter the once-over, and bring back the facts.”

“Okay, then.” Rodgers wound up the conference. “We'll leave it at that until something breaks. You can report to me at my office. If I'm not there, call my home any time of the day or night and we can get together. This case must be solved, and judging from the Hardy record, you could be the ones to do it.”

“That's a compliment, Admiral,” said Mr. Hardy, “and I hope we can make it stand up. This is about as tough an assignment as I've ever been on.”

Frank and Joe echoed the words of their father. “We'll do our best to beat this gang,” Frank said.

Admiral Rodgers went immediately to the airport to fly back to Washington. The Hardys spent the night at the motel. Early Friday morning they left for Baltimore. They took turns driving the rented car.

Frank looked at his watch as they neared their destination. “This is one of the hours when Teddy Blaze is on the air. We might as well listen to his program, Dad. It'll give you some idea of what we're talking about. And you might pick up a clue that would get by us.”

Joe flipped the radio to the Bayport station. The disk jockey was playing a popular recording, and the rhythmic beat filled the car.

“Nothing to pick up there,” Mr. Hardy declared. “That music isn't my cup of tea. Guess I'm too old and far away from the younger generation to appreciate it.”

The piece ended. Blaze came on with his breezy patter. At first everything seemed in order. He was talking the jargon of the trade, using the slang of the new generation to hold the attention of his audience.

Suddenly his tone changed, and so did his patter. Through the radio came the words, “Balto says tonight is the night for a new record album ”Steal My Heart Away,” and it's strictly for you, precious.”

“Now there's a nonsense line if I ever heard one,” Joe volunteered. “That is, if it really is nonsense. You see, Dad, that's why we think there may be more to it than meets the ear.”

Frank had been musing over Blaze's announcement. “Assuming that he's in with the mercury thieves, he could be telling them that a new assignment is on the agenda. He might be ordering them into action tonight. But where?”

The three discussed the possibilities in this interpretation. They were baffled when they came to the word “precious” in the disk jockey's talk.

Suddenly Mr. Hardy sat bolt upright. “I know a company in Baltimore named Precious Metals!” he exclaimed. “Can it be next on the gang's list? Will Precious Metals discover tomorrow that a shipment of mercury has been stolen?”

 

 

 

 

“IF those thugs are planning to hit Precious Metals,” Fenton Hardy mused, “then I'd better warn the company. We can't just sit on this information while they make off with the mercury.”

“Well, we certainly have to do something,” Frank agreed. “But suppose an employee of the firm belongs to the gang. If you phone he might get wind of what's up and sound the alarm. And he could be in management. Even if you went there in person—”

“That's right!” Joe interrupted. “They could call off the heist at the last moment and reschedule the operation for a later date.”

His father mulled over the problem. “You're probably right. In any case, we should be able to keep the factory under surveillance. Pull into that service station over there, Frank. I want to phone a friend of mine.”

After making the call, Mr. Hardy explained that his friend had an office in a high-rise building across from the Precious Metals company.

“He's invited us to use his premises in any way we see fit. As there's some distance between the two buildings, my idea is to rig up a telescope and watch events in the factory yard. We can buy a ten-magnification model on our way downtown.”

Soon they had reached their destination. With Frank carrying the black barrel of the instrument, and Joe the tripod, they went to the top floor. Mr. Hardy's friend, who was on his way out of town, had telephoned the superintendent to unlock his office and let them in. Without wasting a minute they set the telescope up at an open window.

Training it on the rear of the factory, Mr. Hardy scrutinized the area. “This will do nicely. We'll be able to spot a single flask of mercury, and even the label. Have a look!”

Frank peered through the eyepiece. The magnifying power of the instrument made every object look enormous. Swiveling it from left to right, he took in the panorama of office buildings, warehouses, and trucking areas.

“A lot of movement going on,” he said. “And a row of mercury flasks in one corner. Could they be what the gang is after?”

Joe took his turn at the telescope. “Wonder if anybody we know is working down there. Guess not, but we seem near enough to strike up a conversation. Wouldn't that driver in the green truck be surprised to learn that we've met by way of a telescopic lens!”

The Hardys had a clear view of Precious Metals until evening when rain started to fall heavily.

“No use staring into that deluge,” Fenton Hardy muttered in disgust. “Our rig will be useless until it stops.”

About an hour later the rain slackened off, then petered out. The three observers trained their telescope back on the factory yard, which was now empty.

“The afternoon shift has gone home,” Frank observed. “The only guy left is the guard at the gate.”

“Anything suspicious we should report to the police?” his father inquired.

“Maybe!” Frank answered with suppressed excitement after a short pause. “The guard is letting a truck through. It's pulling up to the mercury flasks! The men in the truck are too furtive to be legitimate. I think the robbery must be on, although the truck is blocking our view! Take a look at that, Dad!”

Meanwhile, Joe called Captain Stein. “We'll have reinforcements in a few minutes,” he said as he put down the phone. “The police are on their way.”

“Those flasks are heavy,” Frank added. “Stealing that many should keep them occupied long enough for the U. S. Cavalry to come riding to the rescue!”

“Wrong!” his father exclaimed in startled tones. “The truck is moving already! There it goes, right through the gate! And the flasks are all gone!”

The Hardys rushed down to the street to meet the police. A rapid inspection of Precious Metals showed that the detective had been right. The thieves had gotten clean away with the mercury. There was no sign of the guard, either.

“An inside job,” Mr. Hardy explained to the two police officers who had arrived with Captain Stein. “The guard at the gate was in on it. Obviously the thieves waited for him to give them the high sign. All they had to do was drive in, load the truck, and drive out. He probably went with them.”

“The mystifying thing is the timing of the job,” Frank declared. “Even with inside help, it should have taken much longer to steal a shipment of mercury. No one can juggle one-hundred-and-thirty-five-pound flasks as if they were empty beer cans!”

The captain shook his head. “Something mighty strange is going on here. Did you get the license number of the truck?”

“Yes.” Frank handed him a slip of paper on which he had written it down.

“We'll check it out, even though I'm afraid it's a phony.” Captain Stein went to his car and reported the number over his radiotelephone. Then he rejoined the Hardys.

“Frank and Joe, suppose you get to work on this problem with Captain Stein right away,” Mr. Hardy suggested. “I'll have to get back to Bayport before morning.”

“Okay,” said Frank. “Let's take our rig down at the office and be on our way.”

Upstairs, while the boys disassembled the telescope, Mr. Hardy donned one of his numerous disguises. “Can't go back into the lion's den any other way.” He grinned. A thick black wig covered his head and he pulled a matching beard and mustache out of his brief case. By the time he was finished, even his sons did not recognize him.

“One more point,” he said, before departing. “Since I'll be in Bayport, I'll see what I can find out about Teddy Blaze, beginning with a visit to headquarters. The thumbprint report should be on the chief's desk by now.”

Frank and Joe joined the police in searching the Precious Metals property for clues to the robbery.

“Footprints first?” Joe inquired. “After the cloudburst, the thieves couldn't have tramped across the yard without leaving some pretty good prints.”

“We have a clear set right here,” an officer grunted with satisfaction. He was pointing to the spot where the men had lifted the flasks into the truck. “The guy who made them was big. Size thirteen shoe, probably. Otherwise, I can't see that they tell us anything we didn't know before.”

Frank was squatting down, giving the footprints a thorough inspection. “Look closer, Officer. What do you make of the depth of these marks?”

“Depth? Oh, I see what you mean. They're shallow. Those guys don't seem to have been carrying much more than their own weight.”

“Yet,” Frank pursued the point, “they're supposed to have been toting flasks weighing a hundred and thirty-five pounds. One flask is enough to make a man sink flat-footed in the mud!”

The policeman frowned. “Perhaps we'll have the answer when Jack here from the crime lab takes impressions. Footprints and tire marks both,” he added to his colleague, who was getting out his equipment.

Frank and Joe watched as the lab man took impressions from the soft ground. “We're not the only ones interested,” Frank said suddenly, cocking a thumb at a couple of sailors who seemed fascinated with the proceedings at the scene of the crime.

The seamen were Indians, each dressed in a blue jacket with a red stocking cap on his head. Their dark eyes took in the scene, flickering from the Hardy boys to the policemen, and then down along the ground where tire ruts had corrugated the earth just off the pavement.

“The Indian theme again,” Joe murmured. “Do they give you the impression of being spies, Frank?”

“I haven't made up my mind on that. Anyway, they have a perfect right to watch what we're doing. No point in challenging them just yet. Better wait for them to tip their hand.”

Captain Stein approached. “We've got clear impressions. Nothing more on the footprints than you mentioned before. They're too shallow for men carrying heavy burdens.”

Frank nodded. “I thought so.”

“The tire impressions are something else. We know that the left rear tire of the truck is worn nearly bald, far down past the treads. The right has a deep slash that's cut into the rubber almost to the inner tube. They're sure headed for a super blowout.”

“That might just be the break we need,” Frank said.

“Right. We're going to cruise around this part of Baltimore and look for the truck along the routes leading toward the city. Want to come along, boys?”

“Sure!” was the instantaneous answer. They climbed into the back of the car, while the three officers occupied the front seat. Back and forth they cruised, up and down the truck routes, without sighting the vehicle that Frank and Joe had watched at Precious Metals.

“Let's try the service stations,” remarked the captain, “in case a blowout's occurred already. They may have called for assistance.”

He cut off the highway into the first gas station. Frank and Joe got out and asked whether the attendant had received a call concerning a truck with a flat tire, but the answer was negative. They had no more luck at the next half-dozen service stations. Then Captain Stein received a report on the radio that the license number was a phony.

Finally the first break developed. One attendant told them about a call he had received from near Westminster Churchyard, at Fayette and Greene streets. A truck driver had reported that his right rear tire had gone completely. “He wanted us to give him a tow,” the man said. “I told him we'd be along whenever we could, but we've been tied up with an accident along the highway. Haven't been out to Westminster yet.”

“We'll take care of it,” said Captain Stein, and stepped on the gas.

One of his colleagues turned and glanced at the Hardys. “As detectives you should be interested in Westminster Churchyard. The writer who invented the detective story is buried there. Edgar Allan Poe himself.”

Joe chuckled. “We sure could use him on this case. It's as tough as the murders in the Rue Morgue any time!”

The patrol car swung through the city up to the cemetery. “There he is.” The officer pointed to Poe monument, Baltimore's salute to the master of mysteries. “And that appears to be the truck we're looking for!”

It was the one all right. The blowout had torn the one tire to shreds, but the second fitted the impression taken from the Precious Metals loading area.

“No one inside,” Frank observed. “They must have been scared off while they were waiting for a tow.”