The Bombay Boomerang (5 page)

Frank related the sound of scuffling, the call for help, and the reference to the Super S data. “And then,” he added, “there were those mysterious words about the Bombay Boomerang!”

Admiral Rodgers listened with a grave expression. “You've stumbled into a real-life drama here at the Pentagon,” he said. “Happened down the hall in the office of Commander Wenn, who's been directing secret research on our latest missile systems.”

“Was he the one who answered our call?” Joe asked.

“Yes. He was still on the line when the intruders appeared. Luckily he had a split second in which to press a button underneath the edge of his desk. This triggered a tape recorder in a false bottom of one drawer. We've got a tape of everything that was said, including what you heard.”

“What happened then?” Frank inquired.

“Someone bashed the commander over the head, knocking him out. They ransacked his office. Looked as if a tornado hit it. Drawers overturned, locks broken, files rifled, official documents strewn around like confetti!”

“Wow!” Frank exclaimed.

“The worst part is that they found what they were looking for. You heard Commander Wenn's shout about the Super S data. Well, they took it! And that is what's got us in a serious jam!”

“But what does it all mean?” Joe was baffled.

“The Super S is the newest addition to our missile program. Air-to-ground. This one zeros in on heat. The instrumentation is sensitive enough to be set for any degree of temperature above the level of lukewarm water. You probably know from your scientific experiments in high school that precisely equal degrees of heat are rarely found together outside the laboratory. The Super S will ignore every heat level except the fraction of a degree it's programmed for.”

The admiral ran his fingers through his hair. “Virtually nothing can fox this missile,” he concluded. “The target is a dead pigeon the moment the pilot launches a Super S.”

“Are we the only nation who has it?” Frank asked.

“We used to be,” Rodgers said grimly. “We'll run into international competition if those thieves smuggle the information out of the country, though! I could mention a number of foreign powers that would be interested in a deal at any price!”

“Is that what the thieves are planning, sir?” Joe inquired. “I mean, selling the information. Does the tape indicate that?”

The admiral frowned. “No, it doesn't,” he replied slowly.

Frank pursued this line of questioning. “What about the phrase Bombay Boomerang? Joe and I could swear that we heard it mentioned.”

“You did,” the admiral told him.

“It could mean that India is involved.”

“It could.”

“What else is on the tape, Admiral?”

Rodgers held up one hand. “Sorry. I'll have to flag you down on that question. Can't give you the answer.”

“Why not, sir?”

“Because it's classified information. No one has security clearance on the missile program except those directly assigned to Super S research.”

The Hardys' expressions showed that they were keenly disappointed. They were depressed that they had made the trip to Washington, only to find the riddle as perplexing as ever.

“Don't be so dejected,” Admiral Rodgers went on. “You both know what it means to be sworn to secrecy, don't you?”

Frank and Joe nodded. “You've proved yourselves in helping your father with some difficult cases. I have some information for him which I will give you now. But it's strictly confidential.”

The boys took the oath binding them to secrecy. Then the admiral proceeded.

“We've been trying to keep the lid on a very serious situation we're faced with. A Super S missile has been stolen from the Baltimore arsenal!”

Frank and Joe gasped. “How could anyone make off with a rocket belonging to the U. S. Navy?” Frank exclaimed. “It seems impossible!”

“It happened,” the admiral said dryly. “Now here's what I want you to do. Tell your father, but under no circumstances anyone else. And you must speak to him personally. Don't say anything over the telephone.”

Frank nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“I have no opportunity to contact him myself,” Admiral Rodgers went on, “since he is working underground. But I want him to get in touch with me as soon as he can.”

Admiral Rodgers escorted them to the elevator. “Let me know if your father discovers any leads that tie in with this affair. It's a race against time. If we don't recover the missile, it might change the balance of power in the world!”

Frank and Joe thanked him, the elevator doors closed, and they were on their way out of the Pentagon.

They hastened back to the airport and put in a call to the Baltimore hotel where Fenton Hardy had been staying. Joe asked if L. Marks had returned.

“Yes, he has,” the clerk replied. “He left a message for two fellows named Fred and Jim. They're to meet him here. Are you Fred or Jim?”

“Jim. Thanks.” Joe hung up. “We're in luck!” he exulted.

Frank was not ready to celebrate yet. “I hope you're right. But this could easily be another phony. Remember what happened to us last time we answered a communication from L. Marks?”

“Do I?” Joe probed the tender spot at the back of his head. “How could I forget, with this bump? What do we do now?”

“We go to Baltimore,” Frank decided. “Only we'll be more cautious about walking into anybody's parlor.”

Joe grinned. “The resident might be the spider in this case!”

“Right. The point is, we can't simply ignore the message. If Dad really left it for us, we'll have to see him. Besides, he might be in a tight corner.”

Frank and Joe described their plan to Jack Wayne, who offered to help. En route to Baltimore they got down to details. Jack would remain at the airport, ready to take off at a moment's notice.

Frank said, “We have no idea where this mystery will end. Boston could be our next stop, or Miami!”

“We'll let you know what's cooking when we discover what those crooks have on their menu,” Joe added.

When the plane landed in Baltimore, they had a quick bite to eat. Then Jack ensconced himself in a chair with a newspaper, prepared to sit it out until the call to action. The boys gave him the address of the hotel so he could start a search if he did not hear from them within three hours.

“Good luck!” Jack called to them as they left. Frank and Joe hailed a taxi and settled back for the ride into town. The driver guided his vehicle through the streets with a practiced hand, weaving in and out of traffic, swerving around pedestrians, and timing his speed to catch the green lights block by block.

A big black sedan roared up abreast of the cab at top speed. “That guy sure is in a hurry,” Joe observed.

The driver of the car pulled sharply to the right, cutting in front of the taxi. Frantically the cabby twisted the steering wheel to avoid a collision. He lost control as the black car forced him off the highway.

The cab careened wildly into a dead-end street! As it slewed around, the rear end slammed toward a telephone pole with terrific force! The Hardys braced themselves for the crash!

 

 

 

 

THE tires of the cab screeched against the curb. Frank hung on grimly, and for one split second he got a look into the black car.

The two thugs from Bayport!
Almost subconsciously, his mind registered the license plate number as the sedan shot past. Much good it would do him if the taxi wrapped itself around the telephone pole!

The vehicle bounced off the curb, shook violently, teetered sideways on two wheels, jolted to a stop and fell over just short of the pole.

“Couple of inches more, and we'd have been goners!” gasped the driver, pale with fright. Bracing his feet against the steering wheel for leverage, he forced the front door upward and scrambled out. Frantically he wrenched open the back door.

“You guys all right?” he inquired of his passengers, who had been dumped in a heap on the bottom side of the cab.

“All right would be an exaggeration,” Joe grunted. “Let's say shaken up, with cuts and bruises, but hopefully no broken bones. How about you, Frank?”

“I'll live,” Frank predicted.

Just as the boys were climbing out of the taxi, a couple of motorcycle policemen roared to the scene of the accident. The usual formalities of name-taking began.

“H-a-r-d-y,” Frank spelled out.

“Any relation to Fenton Hardy the detective?” the officer asked.

“We're his sons.”

The cabdriver, turning livid as his indignation mounted, gave a graphic description of what had occurred. He was delighted to hear Frank report the license number of the black sedan.

One of the policemen immediately pulled out a list of stolen vehicles from his pocket and ran a finger down the numbers. “Here it is!” he said.

A little while later another officer arrived in a squad car with the information that he had found the car itself with open doors, abandoned in an alley close by. No sign of the men.

“Something funny about this whole business,” he said slowly, after hearing the boys' story. “Let's go over and give this car the once-over before we tow it in.”

While the police examined the sedan, Frank and Joe stood by silently. Finally, just as the tow truck was driving up, Frank inquired if they might have a look inside. The officers nodded permission.

The boys saw nothing of any interest and were turning away in disappointment when Joe caught sight of a white fleck at the edge of the front floor mat.

“Just a minute. There's something under the mat.” He pulled out the slip of paper.

“Takes an amateur to teach us our business,” snorted one of the policemen and took it.

“Beginner's luck, Officer,” Frank suggested.

“Beginner's bad luck, seems to me,” the policeman retorted with obvious satisfaction after examining the paper. “You're Frank Hardy, aren't you? Well, this is a driver's license. Take a look.”

Frank gulped. “It's mine!”

The boys knew they were on the spot. Since their jackets and wallets had disappeared in Bayport, they lacked any proof of identification. They were unknown to the Baltimore authorities, and all the evidence so far pointed to a connection with a car theft.

“Whatever you're up to, you've got some tall explaining to do,” the officer warned them. “We'll have to book you if you don't come up with a believable story fast!”

“Will you believe Fenton Hardy?” Joe put in.

“Sure. If he were here!”

“To begin with,” Joe explained, “we told the truth. He's our father. Furthermore, he's working on a case here in Baltimore. If you'll just take us to his hotel, he'll vouch for us.”

The tow truck started moving, pulling the stolen car behind. Since there was nothing more to be learned at the scene of the accident, the police decided to take Frank and Joe down to headquarters. There they were placed in the custody of a plainclothes detective for the ride to Mr. Hardy's hotel.

They drove in an unmarked car. “That's a rough neighborhood,” the detective explained. “No sense in alerting everybody in sight to the fact that the law is coming.”

The car swung into a heavily industrialized area, past grimy smoke-blackened factories and shoddy businesses. Here and there a delicatessen or a supermarket catered to customers with more money to spend than those who frequented the dingier shops.

The car nosed through the toughest area of all, down near the docks. Waterfront characters loomed in doorways, talking loudly. A rolling gait often betrayed the sailor. The varied accents of the foreign seamen indicated that their home ports ranged all around the world from Singapore and Liverpool, from Marseilles and Calcutta.

They stopped in front of the hotel where Fenton Hardy was supposed to be staying. Joe looked at the tacky, run-down place. “How does such a beat-up establishment stay solvent?” he wondered.

Entering the hotel, they advanced to the desk. The clerk was a handsome fellow, with dark skin and a profile of classic regularity.

He greeted the strangers with his palms together and an ingratiating smile. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

“Looks like a native of India,” Frank thought.

The detective came right to the point. “We'd like to see Fenton Hardy.”

“Fenton Hardy? I don't recognize the name. He can't be staying in this hotel unless my memory is playing tricks on me. Let me see what the ledger has to say.” He ran his finger down a page. “No, just as I thought. There's no such name here.”

Frank and Joe exchanged glances. They had forgotten to tell the officer that their father was not using his real name on this assignment.

Now they were really in a bind. What would the authorities think of Fenton Hardy and L. Marks being one and the same man? What would happen if the oily-mannered clerk put two and two together?

Still the truth was the only way out.

“Have you an L. Marks registered here?” Frank asked anxiously.

As the desk clerk re-examined the ledger, Joe drew the detective aside and gave him a quick account of his father's alias.

The clerk looked up. “I'm very sorry,” he dedared with a smirk that seemed to contradict his apology. “There's no L. Marks staying in the hotel either. Shall I search for yet a third name that may be of interest to you?”