The Twisted Claw (13 page)

“Where did you find it?” Frank asked, trying to suppress a grin.

“On the farm,” Chet replied.

“How old do you think it is?” Mr. Hardy queried.

“Probably dates back to the preglacial period,” Chet replied with a confident air. “A Carbon 14 test will determine its age more exactly.”

Aunt Gertrude appeared and stared at Chet's discovery curiously. “Oh, I see you've found it,” she said finally.

“Found what?”

“My little sugar bowl,” Miss Hardy answered. “Don't you remember? The boys borrowed it when they had a family picnic at your parents' farm.”

“I remember now,” Joe said. “That must've been two or three years ago. You were awfully upset when we told you it had been lost.”

“Impossible!” Chet shouted indignantly.

Aunt Gertrude hurried away, then reappeared with a bowl in her hand a moment later. It was almost identical in size and shape to Chet's. “You see, it was part of a set. Mercy! Imagine finding the bowl after all this time. But, of course, it's too weathered and cracked to be of use to me now.”

Chet's face turned a ruby red. “I—I don't feel too well,” he stammered.

The Hardys howled with laughter. Chet dashed out of the house and sped off in his jalopy before the boys could stop him.

“Poor Chet,” Joe said with regret. “He took it pretty hard.”

“We'll call him up later and apologize,” Frank suggested.

After supper the doorbell rang. Mrs. Hardy went to answer it and came back seconds later.

“Fenton, there's a man to see you,” she said. “Gertrude doesn't like his looks and is watching him from behind a drape.”

Mr. Hardy and the boys accompanied her to the door. Standing on the porch was a man of medium height and weight. He had removed his hat and was clutching it nervously.

“Mr. Hardy?” he quavered.

“That's right.”

“You gotta help me. I'm in serious trouble.”

The Hardys led the caller to the study and offered him a chair.

“Now suppose you tell me what kind of trouble you're in,” asked Mr. Hardy, “and how I can help you.”

“My name is Barney Egart,” the man started. He seemed reluctant to go on for a moment, but then continued. “I got myself into a terrible mess.”

“What mess?” Frank questioned.

“Going with those guys to the State Museum,” Egart replied. “You've got to believe me! It was my first job with the gang!”

His statement struck the Hardys like a thunder-bolt.

“You mean you were in on the robbery?” Joe exclaimed.

“Where's the rest of the gang?” Frank wanted to know.

“On their way to Canada. After the stuff was loaded inside the logs, we split up. Orders were to meet in Stormwell for the payoff.”

“Go on,” Mr. Hardy said quietly.

Egart shifted in his chair nervously. “When I saw all the news about the robbery, I chickened out of the Stormwell meeting. So I decided to come here.”

“Why?” Mr. Hardy inquired.

“I don't have any friends who can help me. No money. Nothing!” came the reply. “Your reputation is well known. You see that a guy gets a break. So when I read you were connected with the investigation, I decided to talk to you.”

“How did you get involved with the gang in the first place?” Joe asked.

“I was in Wilmington a few days ago looking for work,” Egart explained. “Things were pretty bleak. Then I ran into a guy I'd met in California once. Name is Starker.”

Frank turned to his father. “That's the big fellow who was employed at the museum in Philadelphia as a gardener!”

“I don't know anything about that,” Egart commented. “All I know is that the guy asked me if I wanted to make some easy money. Said his friends needed an extra man for a job coming up. I was too broke to turn it down.”

At Mr. Hardy's request, Egart gave him a description of six other men who made up the gang. He said that since it was his first meeting with them, he knew nothing about their operations, or if they had a permanent hideout.

“Do you know anything about two ships named the
Yellow Parrot
and the
Black Parrot?”
Frank queried.

The man appeared surprised by the question. “I overheard a couple of the guys talking about them,” he said. “They pick up the loot and make the payoffs. And I can tell you this. From what I've heard, the gang doesn't know any more about the ships than I do. They're hired to steal the stuff and deliver it, that's all.”

“It's a safe setup,” Frank said. “Whoever wants the DeGraw collection doesn't risk getting caught at the scene.”

When the questioning was over, Mr. Hardy said, “I promise to do whatever I can for you. But the first thing is to turn yourself in.”

“You—you mean to the police?” Egart stammered.

“Yes. Otherwise there's nothing I can do to help. Also, the fact that you surrendered on your own will be to your advantage.”

Reluctantly Egart agreed. The Hardys drove him to Bayport Police Headquarters, where he officially gave himself up. Chief Collig was off duty, but quickly appeared in response to a telephone call.

“I'll get this out on the teletype right away,” the chief said when Mr. Hardy gave him Egart's descriptions of the men.

When they returned home Frank elected to stand by the radio. He carefully tuned the receiver to the prearranged frequency, then settled back in his chair with a book.

It was almost midnight when a faint signal in Morse code crackled from the receiver. Frank sat bolt upright in his chair and copied down the dots and dashes. Deciphered, the message read:
Ellis 0200 GMT tomorrow.

Frank rushed to awaken his father and Joe. They gazed at the message excitedly.

“It must mean that Ellis is going to contact us at oh-two-hundred hours Greenwich Meridian Time tomorrow,” Joe concluded. “That would be nine o'clock our time.”

The following day dragged on slowly for the boys. Then, as the appointed hour arrived, the Hardys crowded around the radio receiver. Soon they began to hear:
dit dit-dah-dit-dit dit-dah-dit-dit dit-dit
...

Frank jotted down the message:
Ellis need help. Urgent. Will transmit 200 KC 1700 CW to 2100 GMT daily. Should pick up at Cambrian. Must go.

“He's in trouble!” Joe exclaimed.

FRANK transmitted an immediate reply, but there was no response from Ellis.

“Maybe our equipment isn't powerful enough to reach his receiver,” Joe said. “We don't know how far away he is.”

Mr. Hardy studied the message. “Ellis will be transmitting on a frequency of two hundred kilocycles,” he observed. “But for what reason? And I've forgotten what the CW means.”

“Continuous
or
Carrier Wave,”
Frank explained. “It's the modulation of these waves that make it possible to transmit.”

“Quite right.”

“What it amounts to, Dad,” Joe put in, “is that Ellis will be transmitting a continuous signal on which we can take a directional bearing or home in with an aircraft radio compass.”

“And ‘Should pick up at Cambrian,' ” Mr. Hardy concluded, “must mean that you can begin receiving the signal in the vicinity of that island.”

“Exactly,” agreed Frank.

“Then there's no time to lose,” his father decided. “We must go there as soon as possible.”

“Shall we use your plane?” Joe asked.

“I've another idea,” Frank said. “Dan Tiller's amphibian is better suited for an over-the-water search. We can offer to hire his services when we get to Cambrian. If he's not available, there'll be other amphibians for charter.”

“Good,” Mr. Hardy said. “Right now, I'd better telephone the airline and make reservations. By the way, ask Chet if he wants to come along. We're going to need all the help we can get. I'll get a seat for him too.”

“Great!” Frank said. “I'll call him as soon as you're finished.”

Chet was still a bit miffed at the way they had laughed about the sugar bowl. But his attitude quickly changed when he heard of the proposed trip to Cambrian Island.

“When do we leave?” he shouted excitedly.

“We'll let you know just as soon as Dad has our reservations confirmed. It'll be tomorrow morning some time.”

Soon the phone rang and the boys hurried to Mr. Hardy's study. He was just putting down the phone. “Everything's set,” he said. “We'll depart tomorrow at eight A.M. from La Guardia. Jack can fly us there.”

The atmosphere at breakfast the next morning was charged with suspense. Although Mrs. Hardy did not share her family's excitement regarding the trip, she gallantly took it in stride.

Aunt Gertrude, however, could not restrain herself. “Mark my words!” she exclaimed brusquely. “Don't press your luck too far. Nothing good can come of this foolish trip!”

“Where's your spirit, Aunty?” Frank teased.

“Humph!” was her only answer.

After urging the two women not to worry, Fenton Hardy and his sons drove off to pick up Chet at the Morton farm, then hastened to Bayport Airport. Jack Wayne was already waiting, and soon they were in the air, heading for New York.

“There will be a slight delay because of heavy air traffic,” Jack announced as they neared their destination.

Upon landing, the Hardys and Chet hurried to the terminal building. Their flight to Miami was being announced over the public-address system. They checked in their luggage and boarded the jet.

“I didn't think we'd be seeing Cambrian again so soon,” Joe remarked as the aircraft lifted off the ground.

“Let's hope we'll find Tiller there,” Frank added.

In Miami, the four changed planes as scheduled and departed on the last leg of their journey.

It was midafternoon when the plane touched down on the runway at Cambrian. By telephone Mr. Hardy made arrangements for them to stay at a new hotel located near the airport.

“Dad,” Frank said, “Joe and I would like to go to the other side of the field to see if we can locate Tiller. We'll meet you at the hotel later.”

“Certainly. Go ahead. Chet can stay with me and help with the luggage.”

The boys dashed out of the terminal building and headed toward the south side of the field. It was in that area that Tiller had parked his amphibian after they had returned from Tambio.

“There he is!” Joe yelled, pointing.

“Boy, am I glad we found him,” Frank said and called hello to the pilot.

Tiller was surprised to see the Hardys.

“What are you fellows doing here?” he asked with a wide grin. “I thought you were back in Bayport hunting criminals!”

“We were,” Joe replied.

“Have any trouble repairing the engine?” Frank inquired.

“None at all,” the pilot assured him. “Spare crankcases are one thing I'm not short of. It was just a matter of replacing it.”

“That's great,” Joe put in, “because we'd like to hire your services.”

“I'm available. What is it you want me to do?”

The boys told him about Ellis's message and of the possibility of using his signal to locate the
Yellow Parrot.

“And you say he'll be transmitting on CW between the hours of 1700 and 2100 Greenwich Time?” Tiller queried.

“Right,” Frank answered. “What's the time zone difference here?”

“Cambrian is three hours earlier than Greenwich,” Tiller replied. “So that would make it two P.M. to six P.M. local time.” He glanced at his watch. “If your friend is keeping to his schedule, he should still be transmitting. Want to take a trial hop in my plane and see if we can pick up the signal?”

“Sure. That's a good idea,” Frank said.

“I'll go and give Dad a ring at the hotel,” Joe volunteered. “Be right back.”

Ten minutes later they were streaking down the runway on take-off in the amphibian.

Tiller climbed to five thousand feet, leveled off, then tuned his radio compass receiver to two hundred kilocycles. There was no response.

“If the ship's a great distance away,” Frank remarked, “the signal will be very weak.”

Tiller increased power and eased the nose of the plane upwards. “I'll climb to a higher altitude,” he said.

The amphibian was approaching ten thousand feet when the indicator needle on the radio compass began to flicker. A low, steady humming sound came from the speaker of the receiver.