The Great Airport Mystery (12 page)

The Hardys told the troopers where they were going, and said they should be back in about an hour. They started off at a fast pace.

“This sure is tough traveling,” Joe remarked as they picked their way up a hillside among closely spaced trees and tangled brush.

“It's rugged,” Frank agreed. “But we ought to be getting close to the cabin soon.”

The boys continued to plod ahead. Finally Joe tugged at Frank's arm and pointed to a small clearing a little to his right.

“The cabin!” he whispered.

The boys proceeded cautiously and stopped at the edge of the clearing. The cabin was weather-beaten and dilapidated.

Again Joe pointed. “Look! The door's halfway open!”

“There doesn't seem to be anyone around,” Frank answered in low tones.

The boys bent down and edged their way closer. They stepped with meticulous care to avoid making any noise. Suddenly the cabin door slammed shut with a loud bang. Startled, the boys quickly dashed for cover behind a large tree and focused their eyes on the building.

CHAPTER XVII

TENSE and excited, Frank and Joe watched the cabin door. Suddenly it swung open, then slammed shut again. During the next few moments this cycle was repeated several times.

“What's going on?” Joe whispered.

Frank glanced at the surrounding trees. He noticed that the leaves were moving, and grinned.

“It's the wind,” he said. “The door is being blown open and shut. It must have a faulty latch.”

The boys studied the cabin for a sign somebody was around. When they were fairly certain that no one was nearby, they stepped from behind the cover of the tree.

“I'm going into the cabin,” Frank announced. “You stay on guard here.”

“Be careful,” Joe urged. “If you need help, just yell.”

Frank slowly approached the cabin. The door swung open and was about to slam shut again when the young sleuth grabbed the knob. Stealthily he poked his head inside the building.

The cabin's one small room was in deplorable condition. Unwashed dishes were piled in a metal basin, articles of clothing were scattered about, and dust lay everywhere. “Wouldn't Aunt Gertrude fuss if she could see this mess!” Frank said to himself, chuckling.

He stepped into the room and looked around for clues. At one end was a stone fireplace in which were scattered several charred logs. Flanking each side of the fireplace were numerous boat anchors of varying shapes and sizes. “This is Anchor's place, all right,” thought Frank. “I can see how he got his nickname.”

The young detective spotted a supply of canned foods, stacked on a wooden shelf above the sink. Realizing he was hungry, Frank opened a couple of cans of meat. He then took them outside and shared their contents with Joe.

“Anchor brand meat, eh?” Joe grinned. “Remind me to thank that crook!”

Frank returned to the cabin to continue his investigation. After a thorough search, he found nothing. Frank was about to give up when something in the fireplace caught his eye. It was a charred piece of paper. Lifting it carefully out of the ashes, he placed it gently on the floor.

Bending down, the young sleuth saw that it contained a list of names. The printing was extremely faint, but he could make out the names Peterson, Anchor, and Rodax. At the bottom of the list was a skull and crossbones and the initials C.H.

“C.H.,” Frank repeated. “Could they stand for Clint Hill?”

On a hunch Frank picked up a bucket of fire-wood located nearby and dumped the contents on the floor. Among the wood was a crumpled fragment of paper which appeared to have been torn from a small loose-leaf diary. Frank smoothed out the paper and found written on it:

Excited, Frank rushed outside to show Joe his discovery. Joe examined the note, then pointed to a patch of ground near the cabin.

“I've made an interesting discovery of my own,” he said, and led Frank to the spot. Impressed clearly in the earth was a set of footprints. The instep of the right foot was narrower than that of the left.

“Clint Hill's footprints again!” Frank exclaimed.

“And they appear to be quite fresh,” Joe said.

Frank stared at the prints. “Now I'm convinced Clint Hill is alive! If he was double-crossed by the gang, maybe he's plaguing them for revenge, or to extort money from them in return for keeping quiet about their activities.”

“That could be the reason why Peterson wanted us to track down the ghost,” Joe replied. “Once we found Hill, he could get rid of him.”

“Possibly,” Frank said. “Then again, we could have Hill all wrong. He could be working to bring the gang to justice in his own way.”

Frank took an envelope from his pocket and gently inserted the charred piece of paper he had found.

“Mack should be here soon to pick us up,” he said. “We'd better get back to Bayport pronto and show this new evidence to Mr. Allen.”

The boys returned to the pasture. They had waited only a few minutes when they saw the helicopter skimming over the tops of the hills. The pilot descended directly over the pasture and touched down a few yards away. The boys climbed into the cabin and the craft lifted off the ground.

A brisk tail wind carried the helicopter along at a ground speed greater than that normally experienced, shortening the return flight by almost fifteen minutes. Mack set the craft down on a grass-covered area near the Ace Air Service ramp, and the Hardys hurried off to telephone Mr. Allen.

“I'll meet you at Peterson's office in a few minutes,” he said.

Minutes later, the two detectives were walking through the company hangar. They noticed that all of Stanwide's aircraft were out except one. As the Hardys passed it, a man suddenly jumped from behind the plane and, unnoticed by the boys, lobbed a spherical-shaped metal object at them. It struck the concrete floor, bounded hard once, then rolled directly toward the brothers.

“Hit the floor! Quick!” Frank shouted as he recognized the object. “That's a hand grenade!”

The boys hurled themselves flat and folded their arms over their heads. A split second later they heard an ear-shattering explosion, then the piercing whine of shrapnel flying above them.

The concussion rocked the hangar. Metal fragments from the grenade tore into the wings and fuselage of the plane. The high-octane fuel gushed out of the plane's wing tanks, buckled by the blast.

Half dazed, the boys scrambled to their feet. The churning dust and smoke choked them.

“We'd better get out of here!” Joe cried out. “If that fuel catches fire, this place will go up like a torch!”

Outside the hangar, the Hardys glanced around to see if the man who had thrown the grenade was in sight, but he had vanished. A small crowd had gathered, attracted by the explosion.

An airport fire truck rolled into the hangar. Its crew quickly sprayed the plane and the floor with chemical foam to prevent the fuel from igniting.

Just then Mr. Allen arrived. “What happened here? What's all the commotion?” he asked.

“Someone tossed a grenade at us in there!” Joe answered, wiping beads of perspiration from his forehead.

“The gang we're after sure plays rough!” said Frank, angered.

Mr. Allen's face showed his apprehension. “Things are becoming too dangerous. Maybe you boys should give up the case.”

“We're not quitting now!” Frank declared. “We have the gang worried. They're desperate, and want us out of the way. This grenade business proves it.”

The Hardys and Mr. Allen walked together to Peterson's office. There, Frank showed the executive the names on the paper he had discovered in the cabin.

“This ties in with some news I have for you,” Mr. Allen said. “I have just learned that Rodax has suddenly resigned his job. He told the payroll master, who was the last to see him, that he had been offered a better job with another firm.”

“Did Rodax say where?” Frank queried.

“No, only that it was a long distance from here. He collected what pay was due him and disappeared.”

“How about Mrs. Rodax?” Joe asked. “Has anyone questioned her yet?”

“I telephoned his home,” Mr. Allen said. “Mrs. Rodax informed me that her husband left and did not say what his destination was. He told her only that he was going on a confidential trip.”

“What time did Rodax leave the plant?” Frank asked.

“Late this morning, according to the payroll master.”

“Then it's too late to try tailing him,” Frank said, disappointed.

“Another thing,” the executive said. “One of the shipping-room clerks, John Unger, also quit his job suddenly.”

Frank remarked, “He too could be working with the gang.”

Joe stood nearby in deep thought. “I have a hunch,” he said. “It's pretty obvious they never did reach California, and no word has been received of their landing anywhere else in this country—or Canada or Mexico.”

“Where do you think they are?” Mr. Allen asked with interest.

“Ile de la Mer,” Joe answered. “Since it's uninhabited, it would make a great hideout—and Peterson would remember the air route from the trip he and Clint Hill were making when their plane crashed at sea.”

Both Frank and the company president were impressed by Joe's theory.

“It's worth looking into!” Frank exclaimed, and turned to Mr. Allen. “Could you arrange for Joe and me to go there?”

“I certainly can,” Mr. Allen said. “But not without protection. I'm going to assign a husky body guard to accompany you!”

CHAPTER XVIII

ELATED at the prospect of the trip, the brothers hurried home to discuss the island hop with Mr. Hardy. The ace detective was apprehensive, especially after hearing about the grenade incident. He agreed, however, that a search of lie de la Mer would certainly be worthwhile.

“I'd like to make the trip with you,” their father said. “But there are too many loose ends in the case to be taken care of here.” His expression became grave. “Be on your guard,” he warned his sons. “This is a clever gang we're up against.”

The Hardys were just finishing dinner when Mr. Allen telephoned. “I've obtained the use of a twin-engine amphibian aircraft to take you boys to Ile de la Mer. Jerry Madden will be your pilot,” the executive announced. “I've also managed to get two big, strapping fellows from the plant to go along.”

“Great,” Frank answered. “And thanks. We'll need only a day to get ready.”

“Keep me posted on developments,” said Mr. Allen, “and good luck!”

Only a few minutes passed before the telephone rang again.

“Hello?” said Frank.

“This is the ghost of Clint Hill,”
an eerie voice announced.
“I warn you, dead men tell no tales.”

Frank gripped the phone tighter. “Who
is
this?”

There was a moment of silence, then a loud burst of laughter.

“Chet!” Frank exclaimed. “You had me fooled.”

“You're speaking to a master impersonator,” Chet boasted.

Suddenly Frank was struck with an idea. “Listen, pal, your ghost imitation may come in handy. How'd you like to fly down to Ile de la Mer with Joe and me?”

“Count me in!” Chet responded excitedly. “Just make sure there's enough food aboard!”

The next day the brothers went to the Morton farmhouse to give Chet more details concerning the trip. They found IoIa Morton, Chet's pretty, dark-haired sister, and Callie Shaw, an attractive blonde, seated in the living room. Callie was Frank's favorite date, while Joe liked Iola very much. Standing in the middle of the room was Chet. He was whistling “High Journey.”