The Short-Wave Mystery

by Franklin W. Dixon

  With the opening large enough, Chet’s hands probed the entire length of the aardvark. He removed the excelsior, then shook the animal. Nothing more came out!

  “It’s empty!” Chet’s face was a picture of comical disappointment.

  “Never mind! Maybe the secret’s inside the bear!” Frank said hastily, fearing their stout chum might lose heart for the task.

  “Okay, but this had better not be a wild-goose chase!”

  “How can you chase a wild goose inside a stuffed bear?” piped up a boy named Jerry Gilroy.

  “You want me to use this scalpel on you?” Chet waved it menacingly as the girls giggled.

  Half an hour later the bear cub, too, had been thoroughly probed without result.

  “Of all the dopey ideas—!” Chet glared at the Hardys. “Just for that I ought to make you two brilliant Sherlocks sew up these specimens!”

  “We’d be glad to,” Joe said soothingly, “but don’t you see, doctor, we lack your professional —Oof!”

  Howls of laughter went up as a wad of excelsior caught Joe squarely in the face. But Chet’s good nature was soon restored, and the floor was cleared again for more dancing.

  Next day, over Sunday dinner, Frank and Joe discussed the baffling case with their father.

  “We know,” said Frank, “that the gang found nothing in the animals they stole from the auction or in the wolf’s head. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have taken the rest of the animals Friday night.”

  “And now we know Batter hid nothing in the aardvark or bear cub,” Joe added.

  “Right! Which leaves one possibility,” Frank went on. “That stuffed fox taken from Lektrex.”

  “But if Warner’s right, Batter never mounted that specimen,” said Mr. Hardy, frowning.

  “We can’t be sure, Dad,” Frank argued. “All he said was that he got it from a friend in New York. Since the gang stole the fox, they may have some reason for connecting it with Batter.”

  Were they on the verge of solving the mystery?

  Fenton Hardy nodded thoughtfully. “All right, that’s a reasonable assumption to work on.”

  “I think we should call Mr. Warner,” said Frank, “and check up on the person who gave him the fox.”

  Frank reached him by telephone at his home. “Mr. Warner, would you mind telling me the name of the friend who gave you the stuffed fox?” Frank asked.

  “A fellow named Nils Afron. He’s a wealthy interior decorator in New York City. Does office décor.” Warner said he did not know Afron well and had met him on a hunting trip in Canada.

  “Could you give me his address, please?”

  “Hmm. I don’t have it with me, but my secretary can look it up tomorrow and phone you.”

  “We’d appreciate that, sir.” After hanging up, Frank suggested to his father that someone should go to New York and interview Afron.

  “I agree, son, but this security check has me pretty well tied up for the next few days. How would you boys like to fly to New York tomorrow and see him? You could get excused from school early.”

  Joe gave a whoop. “Great idea, Dad!”

  The following afternoon Frank and Joe left school at one o’clock. They stopped at their house to get Afron’s address from Aunt Gertrude, then drove to the airport. Two hours later their plane was touching down at LaGuardia Field. After riding to the East Side Air Terminal in Manhattan, the brothers walked to Forty-second Street and caught a crosstown bus.

  “Wonder if we should have phoned first to make sure Afron’s in,” Joe murmured.

  Frank shook his head. “Better to catch him off-guard, I’d say. Then if he does know anything about Batter or the gang, he’ll have no time to cover up, or invent a story.”

  They got off the bus at the Avenue of the Americas and walked quickly to their destination in the West Forties. The address proved to be a small, grimy-looking office building.

  “Not a very classy place for a wealthy decorator to have his studio,” Joe said in surprise.

  Inside, they consulted the wall directory, listing the firms with offices in the building. Afron’s name was not among them. Frank turned to the uniformed elevator dispatcher who was standing nearby at his post in the lobby.

  “Could you tell us the office number of Afron Business Décor, please?”

  “Afron Business Décor?” The dispatcher frowned and shrugged. “Never heard of it. There’s no such outfit in this building.”

  CHAPTER XV

  Mystery Scrambler

  No decorating firm on the premises!

  “The owner’s name is Nils Afron,” Joe told the elevator dispatcher. “You’re sure he’s not located at this address?”

  “Not since I’ve been here, Bud. You can see for yourself—his name’s not on the board.”

  “How long have you been working here?” Frank spoke up.

  “About a month and a half.”

  “Then it’s possible Afron might have had an office here before you came and moved out?”

  “Can’t prove it by me.” The dispatcher gestured toward a door at the far end of the lobby. “Try Mr. Smith, the manager, over there. He’d know.”

  “Thanks, we will,” said Frank.

  The boys knocked on the door and were told to come in. A stout, bald, elderly man was seated at a desk inside. He listened patiently to their query, then nodded.

  “There was an Afron Business Décor on the third floor. Closed up a couple of months ago.”

  “Did Mr. Afron leave any forwarding address?” Joe asked.

  “No. Just went out of business, I guess.” The manager removed his glasses, breathed on the lenses, and polished them briskly. “Can’t say I was surprised. Only a small setup. Never seemed to have any customers.”

  “Can you tell us anything about him?” Frank persisted. “Anything that might help us locate him?”

  Mr. Smith peered at the boys suspiciously, “Didn’t he pay his bills? Are you skip tracers or something?”

  Frank said, “No, but we think Afron may have information that would help solve a robbery.”

  “Hmm. Well, I’m afraid I can’t tell you much. Like I say, he had only a small suite here. A few office furnishings on display. I don’t believe he even had a secretary.”

  “What did he look like?” Joe asked curiously.

  “Big blond fellow, about forty, I’d say. Close-cut curly hair and sort of a pug nose. Always dressed and talked like a million bucks, though.”

  “Well, thanks very much.” Frank took out one of Fenton Hardy’s business cards. “If Afron shows up here again for mail or any other reason, will you please call us collect?”

  Mr. Smith looked impressed when he saw the famous detective’s name. “You bet I will, son.”

  Frank and Joe flew back to Bayport, eager to report on their trip. Both felt there was something odd about the circumstances surrounding Nils Afron which might bear looking into.

  It was past six o’clock in the evening when their convertible pulled into the driveway. Aunt Gertrude, whom they had phoned from the airport, was setting the table for dinner.

  “Where’s Dad?” Joe asked eagerly.

  “He was called over to the Lektrex Company an hour ago, and with the roast already in the oven. Something urgent, it seems.” Aunt Gertrude sniffed audibly as she smoothed the tablecloth. “These big businessmen seem to think they’re the only people with problems. Never occurs to them that cooking a meal entails a few problems, too!”

  Frank asked, “Any idea what it was about?”

  “Not the slightest.”

  Frank and Joe went upstairs to get ready for dinner. Later, as they were eating, Joe asked Frank, “Do you think we should wait until Dad gets home to tell him about Afron or should we call him?”

  Frank frowned uncertainly. “I’ve been wondering that myself. If something new has come up on the plant robbery, our information on Afron might be an important lead.”

  “Then let’s call him right after dinner.”
<
br />   As soon as they finished dessert, Frank dialed the Lektrex number. He asked the plant operator to locate his father and was switched to Jason Warner’s office.

  Fenton Hardy was very much interested in their news. “I’d certainly like to know more about this fellow Afron,” he commented. “I have a feeling that stuffed fox may be the key to this whole mystery.”

  The detective paused. “Tell you what. You and Joe have been mixed up in this Lektrex case from the outset. Suppose you boys drop over here and sit in on this meeting.”

  “We’ll leave right away,” Frank promised.

  When they arrived at the plant, the young sleuths were conducted to the conference room adjoining Mr. Warner’s office. Mr. Hardy was seated at the conference table with the president and several other key executives of the company. Places were made for Frank and Joe.

  “We’re no longer dealing with a simple case of robbery,” Jason Warner informed them. “Our latest technical development has been pirated by a foreign electronics firm in Hong Kong.”

  “That new thin-film circuitry?” Frank asked.

  “Exactly. We just learned this Hong Kong firm is exporting a similar product.” Warner added angrily, “The details of their circuitry are identical with ours—it can’t be a coincidence!”

  “What about technical journals?” put in Fenton Hardy. “Could they have picked up clues from scientific papers your staff has written?”

  “Not a chance,” snapped the chief engineer. “The main feature depends on a new high-vacuum technique for vaporizing metals, and we’ve kept that under tight wraps.”

  The boys learned that all blueprints, research data, and other written material had been checked and that no copies were missing.

  “Then the only possible answer seems to be a disloyal employee,” Mr. Hardy said. “Before we go into that angle, though, you might like to hear what my sons discovered in New York today.”

  Frank and Joe told about Afron’s business setup and how he had moved out, leaving no forwarding address.

  “Did you try the telephone company?” Mr. Hardy asked.

  “Yes, Dad, we called from the airport,” Frank replied. “The operator checked all the New York boroughs. Neither Afron nor his decorating company are listed anywhere.”

  Jason Warner frowned. “Seems odd, I’ll agree, but I still don’t see how it ties in with a security leak here at Lektrex.”

  “You said you met Afron on a hunting trip?” Joe asked.

  “Yes. We stayed at the same place—the Lachine Hunting Lodge on Lake Okemow in Ontario. It caters to wealthy businessmen. There were only a few other guests at the lodge. Naturally we got acquainted.”

  “How did he happen to give you the stuffed fox?” Frank asked.

  “Afron came through Bayport on a business trip a couple of weeks later,” Warner explained. “He stopped in my office for a chat and that’s when he presented it to me. Just a sales gimmick for getting his foot in the door, I suppose. He was evidently hoping to wangle a contract to redecorate our executive offices.”

  Mr. Hardy said with a faint smile, “But you didn’t fall for his sales approach?”

  Warner shrugged. “He pussyfooted around and suggested redoing my suite and the conference room in an outdoor sportsman’s style. But he was barking up the wrong tree. We had no plans to redecorate. I left the fox on the shelf where he placed it and forgot the whole thing.”

  The Lektrex sales manager proposed that all technical employees be given a lie-detector test. Fenton Hardy promised to arrange one the next morning. Presently Frank and Joe excused themselves from the meeting and left the plant.

  Before tackling their homework that evening, the boys cross-checked their father’s criminal file for likely suspects. They could find no one who seemed to fit Afron’s description.

  By ten o’clock Mr. Hardy still had not returned from the Lektrex Company. Frank and Joe went up to their attic radio shack for some ham transmission before going to bed. They were monitoring the 2-meter band when a sudden burst of gibberish came from the speaker.

  “Hold it!” Joe exclaimed, and Frank’s fingers froze on the tuning knob. The garbled, voicelike sounds continued in a jerky staccato sequence. “It’s that scrambler again—the same one we heard the night Chet pulled his apeman stunt!”

  Frank nodded, listening intently. “Let’s hang on till they sign off so we can get their call letters.”

  For several minutes the gibberish continued. Then abruptly the speaker became silent. The transmission had ended with no identification!

  Frank cried out, “That was definitely an illegal broadcast, Joe!”

  “Right! And we know the Aardvark gang uses radio in their operations!”

  The brothers were excited by the same thought: Had they stumbled on another secret broadcast by the industrial spy ring?

  CHAPTER XVI

  On the Beam!

  “ONE thing doesn’t add up, Joe,” Frank pointed out. “If the gang sends messages in that code we cracked, why would they need a scrambler?”

  “Maybe they’re wise to the fact that we’ve solved the code—or anyhow they think we’ve solved it, from the way we showed up at Lektrex Saturday night. So now they’re switching to a scrambler.”

  Frank shook his head. “Can’t be. We picked up the other scrambler broadcast before we ever heard them talk in code.”

  “That’s right. I forgot.” Joe scowled and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “Okay, how about this? Maybe the newspaper code is for long-range messages—such as orders from the boss of the gang in some other city.”

  “The boss being Aardvark himself?”

  “Right. The scrambler is used for local stuff— you know, like fast two-way conversations they don’t have time to put in code.”

  “That might be the answer,” Frank conceded. “We still don’t know, though, if both broadcasts were by the gang. But it’s a cinch that whoever is using the scrambler is up to something crooked.”

  “Sure! They’re using it illegally on a ham band and they’re giving no call letters—which makes a double violation of FCC rules. No honest ham would dare risk losing his license.”

  The boys brooded silently for a few moments. Then Frank looked up at his brother.

  “You know, Joe, I think you just put your finger on something.”

  “Such as?”

  “Using that scrambler could be risky for the gang. It might get the FCC on their tail.”

  “It sure could,” Joe agreed dryly. “But so what?”

  “So if they have any brains, they’re probably using this only for short-range communication at very low power.”

  Joe’s eyes suddenly lit up as he realized what Frank was thinking. “But we were receiving it loud and clear—which may mean they’re transmitting right in our area!”

  “Check! We’ve been meaning to run a field-strength test on our transmitter,” Frank went on. “Why don’t we do it tomorrow after school, and while we’re at it, we can listen in for the scram bier again. With luck, we might even get some notion from what direction it’s coming.”

  Joe nodded enthusiastically. “Good idea. We can get Chet to operate our rig here at the house.”

  Tuesday morning, when they broached the matter to Chet at school, he agreed willingly to help out in the test. “I usually get hungry about that time of day, though,” the stout boy warned. “Do any rations go with the job?”

  Frank chuckled. “I guess Aunt Gertrude won’t mind fixing a few sandwiches.”

  That afternoon Chet manned the attic transmitter while Frank and Joe cruised around the outskirts of Bayport in their convertible.

  “Where are you now?” Chet called from the house.

  “Rockcrest Drive near the foot of Mound Road,” Joe radioed.

  “How’s my signal?”

  “You’re S-9,” Joe said, indicating that Chet was coming through at maximum signal strength.

  “Okay, keep going around those western hills,” Chet replie
d. “Give me another reading when you get down by Surprise Lake.”

  Minutes later Joe reported, “Now your signal’s dropped off to S-4.”

  “Roger. Try me again when you get near Highway 10.”

  The test continued. Between their reports to Chet, Joe switched their car transceiver to the frequency on the 2-meter band over which they had heard the scrambler the previous night. Nothing suspicious came over the speaker until they had circled the northern outskirts of town and were heading back toward the bay on a route that paralleled the Willow River. Then, suddenly, the voice gibberish crackled in strongly!

  “It’s peaking right along here!” Joe exclaimed as he watched the meter needle swing sharply toward maximum strength.

  As they drove along, however, the scrambler sounds soon faded and the needle dropped again.

  “That’s funny,” Joe said. “Something must be cutting it off.” He glanced around, but could see no obvious obstruction in the terrain that might have interfered with the signal.

  “Wait a second. Let’s go back and try it again.” Frank turned the convertible and retraced the stretch of road over which they had just traveled.

  Again the gibberish burst in loud and clear!

  “The signal must be coming in a fairly narrow beam,” Frank deduced.

  “But what direction?”

  Frank pulled over to the side of the road and asked Joe to hand him the Bayport map from the glove compartment. “We know we picked up the signal pretty clearly at home,” Frank said, indicating with a pencil the position of their house on Elm Street, “and we know we’re receiving it good right here.”

  “I get it,” Joe put in eagerly. “If they’re transmitting between fixed points, the beam must run roughly—let’s see—about east-southeast to west-northwest.”

  “Check.” Frank ruled an approximate line to indicate the beam. “Let’s weave back and forth on some of the dirt roads east of here, and see if we keep picking up the signal on the same line.”

  As Frank started the car again, Joe switched back to their previous test frequency and told Chet what they intended to do. For the next twenty minutes, their convertible rambled to and fro over several roads and country lanes while the Hardys listened carefully for the gibberish sounds.