The Phantom Freighter (2 page)

“Locked! No one at home!” he shouted. “Go get the fire engines, Frank!”

Frank swung the car around and roared back toward the road. Joe jumped off the porch and raced to the barn. By this time smoke was pouring from all the upper windows and flames were eating through the shingled roof.

Joe's first thought was for any animals that might be trapped inside. He tried to get in, but the doors were locked securely by a chain and padlock.

The boy ran around the building until he found a small side door, but this too was locked. Catching sight of a window, he rushed to it. A glance through the dusty glass revealed two stalls. They were empty.

Sheets of angry flame and billows of smoke now leaped up from the floor of the barn.
And not far away stood a large cardboard carton!

“That must be Aunt Gertrude‘s!” Joe thought. “I'll have to get it out!”

The window was so small Joe knew he could not crawl through it. He ran back to the side door and thrust his shoulder against the wood. The door creaked but did not give.

Looking around, he spotted a woodpile at the back of the house, with an axe beside the chopping block. He rushed across the yard, snatched up the axe, and dashed back to the barn.

JOE swung the axe.
Thud!
He swung again, but the wood was tough and the lock was stout.

Flames had broken through the roof in a dozen places now, and the upper part of the barn was a roaring inferno. Black smoke swirled toward Joe.

Suddenly he heard the sharp blast of a horn and the squeal of brakes. Frank was back. He leaped out of the convertible and ran toward his brother.

“Phoned the firemen from that house down the road,” he called out. “But they won't get here in time to do any good. What are you up to?”

“Help me ... break down ... this door!” Joe gasped as he swung the axe again. “The lost carton is in there!”

Frank caught sight of a four-by-four propped against the side of the barn a few yards away. “Here's a battering ram! Better than the axe!”

Holding the wood firmly, they drove it against the door. At the very first impact the boards splintered. They drew back and rammed again. This time the lock snapped and the door fell in with a crash. Dense clouds of smoke poured through the opening.

As Joe looked into the burning building he knew he must act quickly to retrieve the valuable carton. “Stand by,” he said to Frank. “I'm going in.”

“Watch yourself,” warned Frank. “Stay close to the floor!”

Joe nodded. Taking a deep breath of fresh air, he held it in his lungs and crept across the barn toward the carton.

In a few seconds his groping fingers found it. He grabbed the twine and dragged the carton toward the door. But he felt as if his lungs would burst!

When Joe emerged, his eyebrows were singed, his skin parched. He drew in deep breaths of the fresh air and grinned weakly at his brother.

By this time help was arriving. Cars were driving into the yard. A siren wailed as a fire truck raced down Springdale Avenue. The barn, however, was doomed. The firemen turned their efforts to saving the house, which was threatened by flying sparks.

When the owner of the place and his wife drove into the yard half an hour later, their home was safe but nothing was left of the barn but a blackened foundation and a heap of smoking ashes. Learning that the Hardy boys had given the alarm, they came over to thank them.

“It was lucky you happened to be driving along and saw the smoke,” the man said.

“We didn't just happen to come along,” Frank told him. “As a matter of fact we were coming to make an exchange of cartons. We brought yours. The express company delivered ours here by mistake, and we rescued it from the barn, Mr. Johnson.”

“Johnson? My name's not Johnson. It's Phillips. No one named Johnson lives here.”

The Hardys stared incredulously. Joe rushed to the carton addressed to Johnson and brought it over. He noticed now that there was no mention of the sender.

Mrs. Phillips looked at it and shook her head. “I don't expect anything, and this obviously is not for us.” She turned to Joe and pointed to the box he had taken from the barn. “Do you mean to say that you went into the burning barn after that? There's nothing in it but old newspapers. I was waiting for the junkman to pick them up!”

Frank and Joe were flabbergasted. To think Joe had taken such a risk for a lot of old newspapers!

Just then an express-company truck drove into the yard. The driver got out and came over to them. He knew the Hardys.

“Your aunt called up the office a while ago about a carton,” he said to Frank. “So I thought I'd better drive out and check up on it. I delivered one to your house and one to this place. Fellow by the name of Johnson signed for it. Maybe—”

“What!” Mr. Phillips interrupted. “My wife and I have been away several days and the house was locked up!”

“Maybe so,” returned the driver. “But I delivered a box here this morning just the same. There was a man standing on the porch when I got here. He signed for it.” The driver took out his book and flipped through the pages. “Here's the name.”

The boys studied the scrawled signature of James Johnson.

“Something's strange about this,” Frank said. “Do you mind if I copy the signature?” Using a piece of plain paper and a carbon from the back of the driver's book he made a tracing.

“What did the man look like?” Joe asked.

“He was about forty, beady-eyed, with a low forehead. Had a scar high up on his right cheek. A three-cornered scar, like a triangle.”

Mr. Phillips looked grim. “I'd like to meet this guy and find out what he was doing here. I'll bet he set my barn on fire!”

Joe spoke up. “If Johnson got the wrong carton, maybe he'll go to the express office to pick up the right one. Suppose we ask the police to question him if he does?”

“Good idea,” Phillips agreed.

“Well, I don't want any more trouble,” said the driver. “There's enough already.” Turning to the Hardys, he added, “I'll take this carton along.”

As Frank and Joe drove back to Bayport, they discussed the mysterious affair of the two boxes. What had happened to Aunt Gertrude's? Had the man with the scar taken it away? Or had it been destroyed in the fire? In any case, Frank thought, the man probably had not given his real name, and would not show up at the express office to claim his property.

“I wonder how Aunt Gertrude will take the news,” Joe said glumly.

“I hate to tell her,” said Frank. “She made it plain that she didn't want anyone to see the contents of the carton.”

As they passed through the downtown section of Bayport, Joe suggested that since it was past lunchtime they have a quick bite to eat and then call on Mr. McClintock. Frank telephoned home, asking that the strawberry shortcake be saved until later, but refrained from mentioning the carton.

“I'm glad you called,” Mrs. Hardy said. “I have a chore for you.” She asked if the boys would stop at a haberdashery and buy socks and handkerchiefs for their father.

“Okay, Mother,” Frank promised.

When they entered the Bayport Hotel half an hour later, Joe said, “I hope Mr. McClintock is back.”

The clerk nodded as they approached the desk. “Just in time,” he said. “Your man returned a while ago. He's waiting for you. Room 201.”

McClintock was slightly stoop-shouldered. He had sharp, fidgety eyes and a nervous habit of snapping his fingers when he talked. He greeted the boys affably and asked them to sit down.

“I've heard interesting things about you Hardys,” he said. “Now I'll come right to the point. My doctor has advised me that I need a complete change in my way of living. Says I brood too much.”

With that the man bounded from his chair and started pacing back and forth. His face was grim. Then he stopped and continued bitterly, “The doctor would brood, too, if his lifework had been completely—Well, that's beside the point. Anyway, here's my proposition:

“I want to go on a trip. A long trip. And I'd like you to go with me. You must plan it and make all the arrangements.”

After a moment of astonished silence, Joe gasped, “You—want—us to go?”

“Exactly. You're what the doctor ordered, Young people. To cheer me up. After I see how clever you are at planning the trip, I may even give you a mystery to solve.”

Frank and Joe glanced at each other. Was this man a nut? Did McClintock really have a mystery to solve? Or was he just trying to interest the boys in going with him?

“Where do you want to travel?” Frank asked.

“How should I know?” rasped McClintock. “That's up to you.”

“But you say you want to go on a long trip ...”

“Exactly. And I don't care where. I just want to get away. And I want company. And not be troubled with making arrangements.”

“But what kind of vacation do you like best, sir?” Joe inquired. “A motor trip, a hike, a sea voyage? Do you think your health could stand a long tour?”

“Do I look
that
sick?” McClintock demanded. He glanced narrowly at the two boys. “You seem mighty doubtful about it. Don't make up your minds right away. Go home and talk it over. Maybe you think I'm crazy and you don't want to have anything to do with me.

“Well, I'm not crazy and I'm not really sick,” he went on. “Just need a change. After you mull it over, maybe you'll decide to accept my proposition. I'll pay all the expenses, and when the trip is over, you'll be paid. Money, if you like. Or something else.”

“For example?” Frank said.

Mr. McClintock shook his head. “I'm not saying. But I'm a man of my word and I guarantee you won't be disappointed.”

The boys did not know what to make of the extraordinary offer. They were convinced that the man was perfectly sane, although undoubtedly eccentric.

“We'll be glad to think it over,” said Frank. “It isn't the sort of thing we can decide right off. Not quite our line, you know.”

“I told you you'd be paid,” McClintock replied shrewdly. “You name a figure. If it's too high, I'll say so. If it's too low, I won't open my mouth.”

“It's not the money,” Joe objected. “As a matter of fact, we'd probably be more interested in—”

“Hah! The other reward!” McClintock interrupted. “I promise you! It's more valuable than money!”

“IT won't be easy to make plans unless we know how you want to travel,” said Joe. “How about a motor trip?”

McClintock scowled and shook his head. “I said that I'd leave the arrangements to you. But I should have told you I don't like cars, A motor trip is out.”

“A train trip, then?” Frank suggested.

McClintock wrinkled his nose. “I can't sleep on trains.”

“How about a plane? Maybe a visit to Europe?” Joe ventured.

“They go too fast. Get over there too soon. I want a long trip.”

“Ocean liner?” Frank said.

“No sir! Too many people. I'd have to dress up. Too fancy. That's not the sort of thing I mean at all.”

The boys sighed. Mr. McClintock certainly was hard to please!

“Fact of the matter is,” he went on, “I know what kind of trip I
don't
like. But I don't know what I do like. That's your job. Figure something out.”

Frank and Joe got up to leave. “We'll think about it,” said Frank. “As soon as we've decided, we'll let you know.”

As they left the hotel, Frank said, “For a guy who just wants a vacation and doesn't care where he goes, he seems mighty particular. I'm stumped.”

“We forgot a bicycle tour,” Joe quipped. He added quickly, “Look! Here comes Chet!”

Down the street trudged their friend, round-faced, stocky Chet Morton. He lived on a farm outside of Bayport. Usually Chet was the picture of irresponsible bliss, but today his brows were knit in a frown, and when he greeted the Hardys his voice sounded gloomy.

“Hi,” he mumbled.

“Going fishing?” Joe asked, indicating a case Chet was carrying under his arm.

“No,” he replied. “But maybe you'd like to. I'll sell this rod cheap. Genuine bamboo. I bought it for my father.”

“Didn't he like it?”

Chet shook his head. “It was on sale, too. Forty-five dollars.”

Frank whistled. “How did you ever save that much money?”