The Missing Chums (2 page)

With a twinkle in his eyes, Biff said, “Chet was hoping that would be your first and only case.”

“The last one you took on was nearly the death of me,” Chet grumbled. He was referring to his adventures with the Hardys while solving
The Secret of the Old Mill.
“From here on,” he declared, “just leave me out of any mysteries!”

His friends laughed, knowing how Chet hated to be left out of anything.

“Too late,” Joe told him. “We're heading for Shantytown to take another look-see.”

By now the speedy craft was far out on the broad bay. The water had grown choppy and was turning from green to steely gray. In the distance the boys watched a cluster of white sails skim ming before the breeze.

“A race,” Biff observed.

“Hey! Look out!” Frank cried sharply.

A black hull, parting the water in white sheets at its prow, was bearing straight down on the
Sleuth's
rear on the portside.

Frank shouted and waved frantically at the oncoming boat. “Cut her, Joe!”

Still the strange craft roared along toward the boys. At the last moment it came about, throwing a heavy bank of water aboard the
Sleuth.
For a moment the two boats sped forward, gunwale to gunwale. The name
Black Cat
was on the prow of the strange boat.

“Not so close!” Frank shouted angrily. The pilot ignored the warning. He was a swarthy man with black hair combed straight back. At his side sat a huge man with a bald head.

Calling on the
Sleuth's
reserve of power, Joe shot the craft forward, veering to the right. The boys looked back with satisfaction as the black boat dropped behind.

Facing forward again, Joe caught his breath in horror. Directly ahead loomed the great white sails of the racers, bearing down on them swiftly. He cut the wheel frantically to the left.

“Hang on!” he yelled. “We're going to hit!”

INSTANTLY Frank grabbed the steering wheel held by his brother. He twisted it violently and pulled out the throttle at the same time.

For a moment the
Sleuth
banked hard and balanced on her side, while the huge tilting sails hovered overhead!

One—two—three—tour—dark sailboat hulls sliced safely across the speedboat's boiling wake as she shot outward into the bay.

“Wow! That last one only missed us by a foot!” Biff exclaimed.

“Oh, boy, let's not do that again!” Chet said shakily.

“You okay, Joe?” Frank asked as he slid back to his side of the boat.

“Yes, thanks to you! Where did the
Black Cat
go?”

“There she is!” Biff shouted.

Looking around, the brothers saw that the other speedboat had veered in plenty of time to run easily before the sail craft. The big, bald man was pointing to the boys and laughing.

“Bank her again, Joe!” Frank cried angrily. “We're going after those men!”

“I can‘t!” Joe shouted back over the roar of the engine. “She won't respond to the wheel.”

Already a quarter of a mile of open water separated the two boats. Helpless, the four friends watched the black craft race away.

Meanwhile, the
Sleuth
shot ahead at full speed, her handsome prow lifted clear of the water.

“Do something!” Chet cried. “We'll run aground!”

“No, we won‘t,” said Frank, who had noticed the curving white swath of their wake. “We're going in circles.”

The
Sleuth,
her steering mechanism disabled by Frank's emergency turn, was clearly completing a wide circuit.

“We might as well save gas,” Joe said, throttling down. “One thing's sure. We won't make Shantytown today.”

Glumly the four sat still while the distant shores seemed to rotate around them. To the east, where the bay opened toward the sea, a grayish mist lay over the black water.

“Look at that fogbank,” Biff said. “I hope we're not stuck here when it rolls in. It would be mighty hard for anybody to find us.”

“I don't think that pea soup will move in before dark,” Frank said, but there was a note of concern in his voice.

“We're supposed to go to Callie's costume party tonight,” Chet reminded the others, “so we'd better get out of this mess soon!”

Suddenly the boys' attention was diverted by the high whine of a motorboat plowing toward them across the water.

“More trouble?” Chet muttered.

“Trouble, nothing!” Joe exclaimed. “It's the
Napoli!
Hi, Tony!”

The four companions waved wildly at their friend and in a few minutes a yellow speedboat idled up alongside the
Sleuth.

“Thought it was you,” said dark-haired Tony Prito from behind the wheel.

“Why are you fellows running in circles?” asked Jerry Gilroy, who sat beside Tony.

“Our steering's fouled up,” Joe reported briefly. “Give us a tow, will you, Tony? I'll tell you about it on the way in. Chet, let's have that line back there!”

Taking a coil of rope from the stout boy, Joe scrambled onto the prow of the
Sleuth.
He secured the line at the bow, passed it to Jerry in the
Napoli,
and then climbed into Tony's boat himself. While the Sleuth bobbed along toward Bayport in the wake of the
Napoli,
Joe told the new-comers of the near collision.

Twenty minutes later the six friends stood together on the dock of the Bayport boatyard while a mechanic examined the
Sleuth.

“You think the fellow tried to sideswipe you on purpose?” Tony Prito asked.

“Yes, I do,” Frank said. “They saw us clearly and heard us shouting, but they came straight at us, anyhow.”

“Maybe something went wrong with their boat,” Tony suggested. “It could have been an accident.”

“Accident!” Chet Morton snorted. “You should have seen the look on the bald man's face after we skinned past that last sailboat. They were out to get us all right.”

“But why?” Jerry inquired. “Did you ever see them before?”

“Never!” Joe stated positively. “But I certainly hope we see them again!”

“We'll report this to the Coast Guard,” Frank said. “They may want to talk to those two men.”

Just then the young mechanic joined the group. “You have a damaged rudder,” he reported to the Hardys. “I've fixed it temporarily, but you'll need a new part to do the job right. It'll take a day or two for me to get it. Bring your boat back then.”

“I'll follow while you take the Sleuth to your boathouse,” Tony volunteered. “Then we can all go to the Coast Guard station in the
Napoli.”

After the Hardys' craft had been safely moored in their boathouse, Tony headed the
Napoli
out into the bay. He turned and followed the shoreline to the long jetties where the freighters were docked.

Soon the
Napoli
passed under the gray bow of a big cutter moored at the Coast Guard pier. Tony made his boat fast, and the six boys climbed up a steel ladder onto the dock. They entered the small, neat station office, which had a short-wave tower on its roof.

The officer on duty rose from his desk. “Hello, Frank—Joe—fellows,” he greeted them. The personnel at the Bayport station knew the Hardys well. More than once they had cooperated with the boys and their father on cases.

“Hello, Lieutenant Parker,” Frank said gravely. “We want to report a near collision caused by a powerboat named the
Black Cat.
Can you tell us who owns her?”

Quickly Frank gave an account of the incident while the officer took notes. Then a seaman who had been listening brought over a heavy ledger, which he spread open on the desk.

Lieutenant Parker ran his finger down the list of names and licenses of speedboats on the bay. “Nothing here, fellows,” he announced, looking up. “She must have come in from an outside port. Have you noticed a boat like that in the last week or so, Thompson?”

The seaman thought for a moment. “No, sir,” he answered. “But there's been a big regatta going on up the coast for a couple of days. She may have run down from there.”

“We'll go up and find her!” Joe put in eagerly. “What town is it?”

“Northport.”

“Not so fast,” Frank said. “Don't forget our other business, Joe.”

“You win,” Joe replied with a rueful grin, “but I hate to see—”

“We'll have our patrol boats keep a lookout for the craft,” the officer promised. “If we find it, I'll call you.”

It was late afternoon when the
Napoli
plowed through rough water on her return to the Hardy boathouse. To seaward, the wall of mist had mounted higher and moved in closer, so that now it seemed almost at the harbor's mouth.

“The fog's coming in fast,” Jerry remarked as Frank, Joe, Chet, and Biff disembarked. The Hardys thanked Tony for his help.

“That's okay,” he replied. “It's getting late. We'd all better go home and get ready for Callie's party.”

“Don't forget your costume,” Joe called as the
Napoli
churned away. He turned to Chet and Biff. “How about you, fellows? Are you all set for the masquerade?”

“I am!” The fat boy chuckled in anticipation. “Wait'll you see what I'm going to wear!”

Biff grinned. “Even you detectives won't know us.”

“We just have time to pick up our costumes from Mr. French before he closes,” Frank noted.

A few minutes later there was a clatter as Chet backed his jalopy onto Shore Road and he and Biff drove off.

The Hardys kicked their motorcycles into life and started toward town. When they reached Bayport's main street most of the stores were closing.

“We're in luck!” Frank declared as he parked in front of the costume store. “It's still open. Mr. French has a couple of customers in there!”

The boys hurried toward the door. Through the wide shopwindow they could see the tall, spare proprietor, with thinning blond hair and a small graying mustache. He was talking earnestly to two men whose backs were turned. None of them noticed the boys.

As Frank pushed open the door, Mr. French stopped speaking. The taller of the strangers raised his voice and said in an ugly tone:

“Well, you're in this
now,
French, and don't you forget it!”

THE door clicked shut behind the Hardys and the speaker whirled. He was a slight man with gray hair, pale skin, and small dark eyes. His brow was furrowed in a deep scowl, but in a flash he assumed a genial smile.

“Hello there. You startled me. I didn't hear you come in.”

His companion was short and darkly tanned, with almost white-blond hair. He gave a little laugh and nodded. Even Mr. French assumed a thin smile, though his eyes had a worried and uncertain look.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Frank said, “but we've come for our costumes.”

“You didn't interrupt anything, fellows,” the blond man assured them. “Just a little standing joke we have with Mr. French. We've known him for years. But every time we come to town he says he won't go out for a good time with us. So we have to get tough with him. Isn't that right, French?”

The shopkeeper smiled weakly and stammered, “Yes ... of course ... that's right.” Nervously he fingered a small costume box on the counter in front of him. Then, to Frank and Joe's surprise, he added, “These are the sons of the famous detective, Fenton Hardy. Excuse me, I'll get their costumes.” He hurried into the back room.

Both strangers looked steadily at the boys a few moments before the gray-haired man spoke up. “I recollect that your father was once an eminent member of the New York City police force.”

“That's right,” Frank replied.

“And haven't you young lads received attention in the public eye for your own exploits?”

Frank and Joe looked uncomfortable at the flattery. Before they could answer, Mr. French returned with two cardboard boxes. He opened one and took out a hairy-skinned gorilla costume. Its ferocious head was a rubber mask to fit over Frank's head.

“Going to a party, eh?” asked the white-haired man.

“Where will the festivities be held?” inquired the other.

“At a friend's house,” Frank replied evasively.

“Of course.” The man gave him a hard look. Then, taking the small costume box from the counter, he said, “Well, we wish you a pleasant evening, young gentlemen. Good night, Mr. French!”