The Flickering Torch Mystery

Table of Contents

 

 

TWO unexplainable plane crashes near an airport on the East Coast plunge Frank and Joe Hardy into a bizarre case.

When their famous detective father is called to New York City by a group of insurance companies to investigate air freight thefts at Kennedy International Airport, Mr. Hardy asks Frank and Joe to take over his current case of the suspicious plane accidents.

From the moment Frank and Joe find a radioactive engine in an airplane junkyard, unexpected dangers strike like lightning. Despite the repeated attempts on their lives, the teen-age detectives pursue their investigation and make a second startling discovery involving contraband uranium isotopes. These two vital clues and others that Frank and Joe unearth provide the solution to one of the most baffling mysteries the boys and Mr. Hardy have ever encountered.

Copyright © 1971, 1943, by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset
Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.
THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07636-1

“BOYS, I'm on a new case and I've run into a problem,” Fenton Hardy said. He had walked into his sons' second-floor bedroom, which was vibrating from the sounds of Joe's guitar.

“Sorry, Dad,” said the seventeen-year-old blond boy. “Didn't hear you come in. Frank and I were testing this new amplifier.” He set down the guitar as Mr. Hardy took a seat.

“What's the matter?” asked Frank, dark-haired and a year older than his brother. “Can we help in any way?”

“I think so,” his father replied. “This case has me up a tree. It's a baffling mystery. In fact, two of them. A couple of light planes crashed recently near Marlin Crag Airport outside Beemerville. They were coming in from the sea for a landing and hit the cliffs. Both pilots died.”

“What a shame,” Frank said. Both he and Joe were licensed pilots and shared the comradery of fliers.

“Any theories?” Joe asked.

“Weather conditions were bad in both cases. Heavy fog. But the two men, Jack Scott and Martin Weiss, were experienced and could have come in on instruments.”

“I take it the Federal Aviation Agency has investigated?” Frank said.

“Right. Now Scott's family has asked me to look into it. Sam Radley's done some preliminary work.”

Fenton Hardy was world-renowned as a sleuth. Trained in the New York City Police Department, he had resigned to become a private investigator in Bayport, a medium-sized town on the East Coast.

His sons were following in his footsteps. Starting with the mystery of
The Tower Treasure,
Frank and Joe had proved their detective ability. Most recently they had cracked a tough case,
The Clue of the Broken Blade.

Sam Radley was Fenton Hardy's assistant. A skillful operative, he could be relied on to stick to a case till it was solved.

“Sam obtained taped interviews with the Scott family,” Mr. Hardy continued. “I'd like you boys to listen to them when he returns to Bayport in a few days.”

“Meanwhile our assignment is to snoop around Marlin Crag Airport,” Frank concluded.

“Exactly. Ask questions. Talk to the manager and find out if anyone knows any details about the crashes. You can fly up in our plane.”

“It would be easier to go by car,” Joe said.

“I know. But with the plane you can take the same approach as those pilots did and perhaps learn something as to why they crashed.”

Mr. Hardy showed his sons a piece of paper with the flight route of the two planes.

“Now all we need to start out are the aircraft and engine numbers,” Frank said.

“I've got them right here,” Mr. Hardy said and handed him another piece of paper. The numbers were neatly typed in two columns.

“What about you, Dad?” Frank inquired. “Will we see you in Beemerville?”

“No. I'll be in New York working on a case for some insurance companies. They're worried about a ring of freight thieves who have been hitting the airports. Millions of dollars are involved.”

“So we'll be on our own,” Joe commented.

Fenton Hardy nodded. “Play it by ear, and I'll get in touch with you as soon as I can.”

He rose from the chair and slapped Frank on the shoulder. “Continue your guitar practice. You both can drive me to the airport in a couple of hours and start your case tomorrow.”

As their father went down the stairs, Frank said, “Okay, let's try the amp again.”

Joe started playing a folk rock number. The amplifier picked up the sound and sent it reverberating through the house.

Frank and Joe were getting ready for a rock festival at the local park. They had a combo, in which Joe played the lead guitar. Frank handled the rhythm guitar. Three of their friends were on the other instruments—Biff Hooper bass guitar, Phil Cohen at the portable organ, and Tony Prito on the drums.

Moments later, above the sound of the twanging strings, the boys heard the rackety cough of a back-firing motor. A battered jalopy bucked along and jolted to a stop in front of the Hardy house. A plump youth with a freckled face eased out from behind the wheel.

Joe went to the window and chuckled. “Chet's music doesn't turn me on, Frank. I wish he'd trade the ancient heap in for a later model—like 1950, perhaps.”

The Hardys ran downstairs and met their friend on the porch. Chet Morton, who lived on a farm outside of Bayport, was bubbling with excitement.

“What's up?” Frank inquired.

“Up is right! Up in the air! I'm building me a flying machine!”

Frank and Joe knew all about Chet's mania for hobbies. Almost every time they saw their chum he was involved in a new project.

“It'll take a jumbo jet to lift you off the ground,” Joe needled their hefty visitor.

“Aw, cut it out,” Chet protested. “I'm serious. Look. You know Beemerville?”

The Hardys exchanged glances. “Sure, it's sixty miles up the coast from here,” Frank replied. “What about it?”

“It has an airplane junkyard. Mountains of old motors, fuselages, wheels—everything. Just the place for me to collect the parts for my plane. But I need your help.”

“Why?” Frank queried.

“Well, you guys are licensed pilots, right? You even fly your father's plane. I want you to come along and help me pick out what I need.”

“We've got a few weeks before the rock festival,” Joe mused and gave his brother a knowing wink.

Frank clapped Chet on the shoulder. “All right, we'll go with you.”

“You will? Terrific!”

“See you at the airport tomorrow morning at eight,” Frank said.

“You want to fly? But it's only a little over an hour by car!”

“Well, we're combining the trip with a little assignment for Dad,” Joe said and explained their mission to Chet.

“Oh, I see. I'm only second fiddle,” Chet said with a grin. “Well, I don't mind. See you tomorrow!”

The next day was Saturday. Chet was waiting when the Hardys arrived at the airport. Frank, at the controls of their single-engine aircraft, took off smoothly and the shoreline flashed past beneath their wings. The sixty miles passed quickly. When they came in sight of Marlin Crag Airport, Frank swung out to sea in a big arc.

Then he turned back inland again toward the airport about two miles ahead. “This is the approach Scott and Weiss took,” he said to Joe.

“Boy, these cliffs are for real!” Chet exclaimed. “They're like an accordion, the way the rocks wave in and out.”

“And that oil refinery to the right looks like a beacon,” Joe said. “You can't miss the high pipe burning off gas.”

Glancing down, they saw the surf breaking over a rugged headland studded with huge boulders. The high escarpment fell in a sheer drop to the rocks below.

“Frank, watch it,” Joe cried suddenly.

A light plane zoomed up under their left wing. They could see the face of the pilot, a square-jawed fellow with a long scar along his left cheek. Frank veered to the right to let the other pilot swish past under his left wing with little room to spare!

“Some nerve that guy's got!” Chet exploded.

“He just wasn't paying any attention,” said Frank. Wiping some beads of perspiration from his face, he added, “At least I hope it was just negligence and he didn't do it on purpose!”