Aunt Gertrude wrung her hands, and an agonizing look crossed her face. “You're involved with gangsters again!” she wailed and turned to Mrs. Hardy. “Laura, it's too dangerous for these boys to play detective!”
“It wasn't any play, I can tell you that!” Frank observed as he stripped off his mud-spattered sport shirt.
“Here, give me those dirty things,” Mrs. Hardy said. “I don't want you to trail mud into your room.”
“Thanks, Mother.” Joe grinned.
Gertrude Hardy clucked disapprovingly. “Well,” she said, “at least we can all go to bed now. Frank, Joe, mind you're up in time for breakfast and church!”
The next day was Sunday. Early afternoon Sam Radley dropped in and discussed the latest turn of events. After the Hardys had told him everything that had transpired the day before, Frank concluded, “That assistant at the airport, Bill Zinn, is a prime suspect.”
“So are Mudd and Nettleton,” Radley added. “They should be investigated.”
“That's where you could help us,” Joe put in. “Could you start checking on Zinn? You know what I meanâhis background and all that?”
“Be glad to.”
“Great,” Frank said. “Meanwhile, we'll go back to Mudd's place and do some further sleuthing there.”
After Radley had left, Joe said, “What do you have in mind about the airplane junkyard, Frank?”
“We need to follow up that tailpost clue. Remember Chet's fuselage? The tailpost was missing.”
“Now I get it,” said Joe, snapping his fingers. “Last night Nettleton was working on the tailpost of that plane. Maybe something was hidden there!”
Frank nodded and Joe went on, “What's your strategy?”
“I really don't have any yet,” Frank replied. “We could ask ChetâWow! That gives me an idea. Come on!” Frank went to the telephone and dialed the Morton farm.
Chet answered. “Hello, Frank. You're lucky to find me in. I was just practicing loops.”
“Oh, good,” Frank said. “Are you ready for an Immelmann yet?”
“Ha, you can't stump me,” Chet said. “Isn't that the outside loop invented by that German ace?”
“Let's get back down to earth,” Frank said. “There's something I'd like you to do for us.”
“Listen,” Chet said, “my pilot's training can't be interrupted byâ”
“Come on,” Frank urged. “All we want you to do is ask Mudd for a tailpost.”
Silence for a moment, as Chet mused. “Come to think of it, I could use one, too. And maybe some other parts. Okay, it's a deal. When do we go back to Beemerville?”
“Tomorrow. And listen, Chet. We want you to wear a bug.”
“Come again?”
“A bugâa concealed microphone,” Frank explained. “Stick close to Mudd; this way we might pick up a clue. Since he knows you're building a plane, that gives you a good excuse to hang around a while. We'll be listening in all the time, so you don't have to worry.”
Chet joked, “Where are you going to put the bug? In my ear?”
“Never mind, we'll take care of that,” Frank replied. “We'll pick you up in the morning.”
When Frank hung up, Joe smiled. “Pretty good thinking, Frank. What kind of a bug is it going to be?”
“A medal to hang around his neck,” Frank said. “Oh, and I want to call Tony, too. We might learn something more from a meeting with his cousin Bernie.”
“You mean about the Flickering Torch?”
“Right.”
Fortunately Tony was at home, too. “Sure, I can get Bernie down here,” he said. “I'll arrange it as soon as possible.”
The Hardys spent the rest of the afternoon working on a miniature radio pickup. They concealed it in an ornamental medal which they attached to a chain.
“Chet'll look real cute in this,” Joe said. “That is, if he'll wear it.”
“He will,” his brother replied.
Next morning at the breakfast table Joe came up behind Aunt Gertrude and put the medal around her neck. “My goodness, what's this?” she asked.
“Oh, just a little something to show you our appreciation,” Frank said with a wink at Mrs. Hardy.
“Why, what's it for?”
“All you have to do is sit and talk to Mother for a few minutes,” Frank said. “We'll be right back.”
“I'll bet they're up to something again,” Aunt Gertrude said as the boys exited through the back door.
Frank ran to the car and got a receiver. “Listen to this,” he said to Joe.
Aunt Gertrude's words along with Mrs. Hardy's came through clearly.
“Well, what's on the agenda today, Laura?” asked Aunt Gertrude.
“The laundry, the upstairs bathroom, all the upstairs windows, and the coat closet,” Mrs. Hardy replied cheerfully.
Aunt Gertrude sighed. “You know, as fond as I am of the boys, sometimes I wish they were girls and would give us a hand with the housework!”
Frank grinned as he recorded the conversation. Then the boys returned to the dining room.
“Frances and Josephine Hardy checking in,” Joe said. “Wow, you can't imagine how glad we are to be boys!”
“Detective work is much more fun than cleaning out the coat closet,” Frank added. He set the recorder on the table and played back the conversation.
“Oh, you scallywags!” Aunt Gertrude exclaimed. “You shouldn't eavesdrop like that!”
“Well, we had to test the bug!” Frank said, and took the chain off Aunt Gertrude's neck. “See you later.”
They hurried out of the house, got into their car, and were soon at the Morton farm. Chet was waiting for them.
Joe handed him the medal.
“Where's the bug?” Chet asked.
“You're holding it,” Joe replied. “Drape it around your neck.”
Chet grinned and did as he was told. “How do I look?”
“Just beautiful,” Joe replied and gave him a sharp rap on the arm.
Frank drove to Beemerville and parked several blocks from the Mudd Airplane Junkyard. As prearranged, Chet walked up to the main gate alone. As soon as he disappeared, Frank and Joe quickly approached the metal fence that surrounded the junkyard.
The boys set their receiver and adjusted the tape, then turned to a crack in the sheet metal.
“Chet doesn't seem too happy about his mission.” Joe chuckled as the receiver transmitted a nervous gulp from their hefty pal.
“Oh, oh, here comes Mudd,” Frank said.
The man strode out of his office and confronted Chet. “What do you want now?” he demanded in an irritated voice.
“I'm looking for a tailpost, Mr. Mudd,” Chet replied.
“A tailpost!” Mudd said with a look of astonishment. “What for? You don't even have a fuâ”
The man stopped in confusion and his face turned red. Chet pounced on the blunder like a cat after a ping-pong ball. “Oh, I got my fuselage back, Mr. Mudd,” he said in an offhand manner. “Some clown swiped it and dropped it at a garbage dump. I found it later. So I'm back in business for some airplane parts. A tailpost, please.”
Mudd's eyes narrowed threateningly. “Look, where're your pals?”
Chet said coolly, “I couldn't really guarantee where they are.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Come on, now, Mr. Mudd. I want to look around at some parts. You can see I'm alone, can't you? Now how about a tailpost?”
Joe whispered, “Chet's doing a great job!”
Mudd began talking again. “I don't have any to fit your model fuselage.”
“That's too bad,” Chet said. “Well, I'll be needing wings later. Mind if I check around to see what's here?”
Mudd gave a sardonic laugh. “You'll need wings all right, you fat brat. And a harp, too!”
He moved toward Chet. Grabbing the boy's arm, he twisted it around his back in a hammer lock. “I've stopped fooling with you,” Mudd snarled. “Where are those buddies of yours, and what are you snooping around for?”
Joe tensed and made a move to spring up. Frank held him back. “Wait! Chet knows how to take care of himself.”
Their friend's short gasp of pain was followed by a rebel yell. Chet put his experience as a high school wrestler to good use. Swinging his body around, he flung the heavier Mudd over his back. The man hit the ground with a thud, then rose shakily to his feet.
Chet confronted him in a wrestler's defensive stance, feet wide apart, hands extended forward. At the same time he noticed that the chain had slipped over his head and fallen onto the ground.
“We'll lose contact,” Joe hissed.
“Maybe not,” Frank said. “Look!”
A young man entered the junkyard. It was Seymour Schill! He bent over and retrieved the bug. Swinging it by the chain, he looked from Chet to Mudd.
“Cut the rough stuff, will you,” he said. “Who's this kid you're muscling?”
“I'm no kid!” Chet said indignantly. “My name's Chet Morton, and if this gorilla wants some more action, I'm ready for it!”
“Don't get physical,” Seymour said. “I've got nothing against you. I just want a few words with O. K.”
He drew the man aside and spoke in a voice too low for Chet to hear. However, the bug dangling in his hand picked up every word.
“The boss has made up his mind,” Seymour said. “It'll be Wednesday and Saturday.”
“Good,” Mudd responded. “That suits me just fine.”
“Same time, same place,” Seymour went on. Pausing for a moment, the guitarist added significantly, “Same number of rocks.”
“No!” Mudd's voice was harsh. “Tell him no more rocks, understand!”
“I understand. What's the pitch?”
“Hard cash from now on!”
CHAPTER XII
Jam Session
THEIR conversation finished, Seymour and Mudd turned to Chet again. Seymour tossed the medal at him.
Chet caught it on the fly and pulled it quickly over his head, vastly relieved that Seymour had not examined the medal closer.
“Chet's heading back for the car,” Joe observed through the crack in the fence.
“Good. We've made some headway,” Frank said. “Let's join him.”
The Hardys assembled their receiving apparatus, slipped quickly around the fence, and made tracks for their convertible.
Chet arrived shortly afterward. “Did you see? I almost got conked!” he began excitedly.
“We saw,” Joe said. “You were great, Chet!”
“We also heard everything,” Frank added. “Our little bug worked like a charm. And Seymour couldn't have done us a bigger favor!”
“When he picked it up I thought I was sunk!” Chet declared, rolling his eyes. “What did they say?”
Joe repeated the conversation.
“Interesting, but what does it mean?”
“We don't know,” Frank said.
“That talk about rocks,” Chet went on. “Suppose they meant the Marlin Crag Cliffs?”
“No. Precious stones, perhaps. Remember, Mudd asked for hard cashâanother kind of payment.”
“And what about Wednesday and Saturday?”
“Well, something's going on then, but we don't have any idea what or where.”
“The Flickering Torch is my guess,” Chet said with a professional air.
“Possible,” Joe agreed. “We'll have to watch the place.”
The trio returned to Bayport, still puzzled about the overheard clues. Next afternoon Tony Prito and Bernie Marzi showed up at the Hardy house.
After a hearty welcome by Frank and Joe, Bernie asked, “What can I do for you? Tony mentioned a case you're involved in, but didn't give me any details.”
“We can't tell you too much either,” Frank said. “But you could help us by telling us everything you know about the Torch employees. Something suspicious may be going on there. We'll have to check out the place. How about starting out with the musicians?”
“Sure,” Bernie said and gave a short summary of everyone's background. “I know very little about the waiters and the kitchen personnel,” he concluded. “As far as the band goes, I trust everybody with the possible exception of Seymour Schill. I can't tell you why, it's just a hunch.”
Frank nodded slowly. “Your intuition and ours are surprisingly alike.”
“What's the next step?” the drummer asked.
“We'd like to case the Flickering Torch,” Joe stated.
“Listen, I've got a great idea!” Bernie exclaimed. “Why don't one of you join the combo Saturday night? Who handles the lead guitar?”
“I do,” Joe said. “What about your regular guitarist? Won't he be jealous?”
“He wants the day off, Joe. We were going to hire another pro. But I'm sure you can fit the bill, so why should we look for anyone else?”
“I'll take you up on that, Bernie. When do I have to be there?”
“First you'll have to attend our practice session tomorrow. Let the gang see how you do.”
“Suits me fine,” Joe said. “I've always wanted to play with pros.”
Tony grinned at Bernie. “That means Joe'll have a jump on the rest of us in the Bayport combo.”
“Never fear, we're not that good,” Bernie said modestly.
When Tony announced he would have to leave in a little while, Joe asked Bernie if he was planning to return to Beemerville that evening.
“No,” Bernie replied. “I'm supposed to spend the night at Tony's and go back tomorrow.”
“Listen,” Joe suggested, “why don't you stay here and then we can drive down together?”