The Bombay Boomerang

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “In other words, it’s time for us to see if anyone’s home!” Frank chuckled.

  The hall was empty. The Hardys walked quickly to the room next to theirs where the thugs were staying. Frank tapped on the door. He was sure no one had returned, but was prepared to ask for a fictitious person if anyone answered, and then pretend that he had made a mistake in the room number.

  The subterfuge was not necessary. No sound came from within. Frank tried the knob. “Locked, of course,” he stated.

  His father took a long needle-sharp gadget from his pocket to pick the lock. Meanwhile the boys stood guard on either side, looking up and down the hallway, keeping a nervous eye on the elevator, ready to give instant warning if anyone appeared.

  Mr. Hardy worked with deft speed. “This one’s a cinch compared to most I’ve opened in my career,” he said softly.

  Then he stood up, turned the knob, and pushed. The door swung inward, revealing an untidy scene. Bedclothes were piled up where they had been thrown aside, cigarette butts were scattered on the floor, an overturned coffee cup had spilled its contents on the table.

  Fenton Hardy did not have to explore the room. Quickly he walked to the closet, opened it, and felt carefully along the shelf. “Here it is!” He brought down the coil of wire with the metal sphere on one end and the receiver on the other.

  “Everything okay?” Frank queried anxiously, poking his head into the room.

  “Yes. They may have intended to use the bug themselves. If so, they’ll have to postpone that plan because we have a prior claim.”

  Mr. Hardy closed the closet. “Let’s get out of here!”

  As Frank looked around the room, his eyes rested on a newspaper on the table.

  “Dad,” he murmured, “over there—the Bayport Times!”

  Mr. Hardy picked it up. “That’s strange. I wonder why they brought it all the way to Baltimore.” He stuffed it inside his shirt. “We’ll take it along and catch up on the news back home.”

  They quickly left the room. Mr. Hardy closed the door, jiggled the knob to be sure the lock had slipped back into place, then led the way to the elevator.

  “Now where are we going?” Joe asked.

  “We haven’t much choice. I’d say the roof,” Mr. Hardy replied.

  They stepped out of the elevator on the top floor, climbed a narrow flight of stairs, and arrived at a skylight door. Frank pushed it open and they went onto the roof.

  “This seems our best hideout,” Mr. Hardy said, looking around.

  “Might as well get set for a long siege,” Frank added. “Our friends aren’t due back until this evening.”

  They found a corner where the projecting skylight cast a long shadow across the roof, agreed that this was a good vantage point, and sat down to rest and wait.

  Mr. Hardy pulled the Bayport newspaper from his shirt. Frank and Joe looked on from either side as he flattened it out.

  “Hm! Nothing on page one to interest us,” the detective commented. “Or have I overlooked something?”

  “Not as far as I can see,” Joe answered. “Maybe there’s a clue on the inside pages.”

  They carefully scanned the paper, remarking on stories of the Bayport scene, but found nothing that had even the remotest connection with the case.

  Mr. Hardy said, “It’s unlikely that there’s anything in the radio and TV section. But let’s check.”

  Joe whistled as he looked at the first page. “Hey, what have we here?” He placed a finger at the top of the program listings where somebody had drawn a red pencil circle.

  “That’s our local kilocycle number for Bayport radio,” Frank said. “The station plays hit tunes nearly round the clock as you can see from the program. What’s the name of the disk jockey again, Joe?”

  “Teddy Blaze. He’s only been with the network a short time, I believe.”

  “What do you make of this?” Mr. Hardy inquired.

  “Beats me,” Frank replied.

  “Why the thugs would be interested in popular music is a mystery to me,” Joe added.

  When darkness fell, they carried their electronic bug to the parapet. Mr. Hardy readied the receiver while Joe cautiously payed out the wire over the edge until the instrument dangled outside the thugs’ window.

  Soon it began picking up sounds of the gang congregating inside. Feet scuffled. Chairs creaked. Voices buzzed. Bits and pieces of conversation came through.

  “Now that Hardy is out of the way,” someone declared, “we can get on with the job of heisting the empties.”

  Frank and Joe looked blankly at their father as if asking, “What empties?”

  He shrugged, indicating that he was as mystified as they were. Nothing in the talk going on down below enlightened them. Obviously the gang understood the reference without having the details spelled out.

  The discussion shifted to topics that the Hardys already knew about. They were beginning to doubt that they were going to hear anything useful, when suddenly an authoritative voice issued a warning that made them prick up their ears.

  “I want you guys to get this through your heads! Button up your lips about the Bombay Boomerang! We’re too close to the big play to let anything go wrong now! The whole deal could be ruined if the cops get wise to what we’re up to.”

  Breathlessly the Hardys waited for him to continue. Were they finally going to learn about the Bombay Boomerang?

  So intent were they on the conversation down below that they failed to notice the rising breeze. It caught their wire, with the tiny bug dangling on the end, and wafted it against the windowpane in a series of sharp taps!

  The window went up with a thump. A head peered upward. “Someone’s on the roof!” a voice yelled. “Get up there quick!” Chairs scraped and fell over as the entire gang jumped up and pounded through the door.

  Joe cautiously payed out the wire

  There was no time to lose. Desperately the Hardys sprang to close the skylight door. What could they use as a barricade? Only a master TV antenna was on the otherwise empty roof. Frank and Joe ripped it down, jamming its metal rod against the solid tin door, using the parapet to anchor the other end.

  Just in time! The first gangster up the stairway was banging against the door with his fist. Those behind cursed and shouted, telling him to keep going.

  The Hardys were trapped! No sense trying to climb down the fire escape with the thugs so close behind. There was only one desperate chance. They would have to leap across the alley to the building next door!

  Mr. Hardy went first. Gathering speed as he ran he leaped onto the parapet and sprang into space. The boys gasped in relief as he landed squarely on the other side.

  Frank followed, using the same technique. Then came Joe. But when his foot touched the parapet, seeking leverage for the jump, it slipped. He could not stop himself and knew he would never clear the distance. Below him lay a solid six-story drop and the hard pavement of the alley!

  CHAPTER X

  The Disk Jockey’s Dog

  DESPERATELY Joe threw his arms forward! His fingertips clutched at the edge of the roof, and he hung there, straining every muscle. He knew he could not last for more than a few seconds. Already his grip was beginning to weaken. He slid back toward destruction!

  “Hold on, Joe,” Frank yelled.

  Rushing to where Joe dangled helplessly, Mr. Hardy and Frank grabbed him by the wrists. Hauling frantically, they got him safely up on the roof.

  “Thanks,” Joe panted. “I hope that’s my last cliff-hanger!”

  “We’d better get out of here before we have company,” Frank warned, pointing toward the opposite building, where by now the barricaded door started to give.

  They hastened to a skylight door leading downstairs. Luckily it was unlocked. With Mr. Hardy in the lead, they lost no time in getting to the elevator.

  “I hope it doesn’t stop on the way,” Joe said nervously.

  “If we’re delayed, we might have to hide out in the building,” his
father remarked. But the elevator went straight down and they hurried to the front door.

  “Keep your cool,” Mr. Hardy warned under his breath. “We don’t want to arouse suspicion.”

  Frank peered outside. “The coast is clear,” he reported. “And—wow! We’ve got help! Jack Wayne is just getting out of a red Ford over there!”

  “What timing!” his father exclaimed. “Let’s make for Jack’s car!”

  Walking briskly across the street, the fugitives reached the Ford, jumped in, and crouched down on the floor. Frank peeked through the rear window.

  “I don’t see the hounds yet. The elevator next door must have stopped on every floor,” he said.

  “What about Jack?” his father queried.

  “He went into the hotel. Probably got worried about us.”

  Joe rose slightly to get a view of the hotel entrance. “Oh, here they come!” he warned. “Duck low!”

  Four men barreled out of the door. Two ran in opposite directions. The other two plunged into the alley and continued right around the building.

  They met again, shrugging in obvious disappointment, and began to argue furiously. Finally they dashed into the building where the Hardys had just been.

  Jack Wayne emerged from the hotel accompa nied by the desk clerk. They, too, were in the midst of a heated dispute, the pilot insisting that the Hardys must be there, the clerk just as certain they were not.

  “If Frank and Joe cleared out, they’d certainly have let me know,” Wayne stated vehemently. Getting nowhere, he broke off the discussion, returned to the car and jumped in.

  Frank tapped him lightly on the shoulder. Startled, Jack wheeled around.

  “Easy, Jack,” Fenton Hardy whispered. “All three of us are here. Act as if nothing has happened and make tracks for the airport, quick!”

  Catching on, the pilot whipped the car out of the parking spot and maneuvered it skillfully through the traffic.

  The Hardys relaxed. “That was simply beautiful, Jack,” Frank said. “Where’d you get the car?”

  “Borrowed it from a fellow I know at the airport,” Jack replied. “Since you didn’t call, I thought I’d better check up on you. What happened?”

  “Nothing, really,” Joe said. “We just had to make a rather unorthodox exit. Our friends at the hotel didn’t want to let us go!”

  Soon the airport came into view. Mr. Hardy’s plane stood on a side runway. He went straight to it.

  “We’ll wait inside,” he said. “Gives us more privacy than the lobby. Jack, do me a favor. Call Captain Stein at police headquarters and have him come out here if possible.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Hardy.” Jack strode into the administration building. Only ten minutes after his return the captain arrived.

  Fenton Hardy briefed his colleague on the current status of the mercury case. The captain whistled.

  “We had no idea the affair was that big! Murder, eh? We’ll have to look into that!”

  “I’d like to see two steps taken right away,” Mr. Hardy replied in grave tones. “To begin with, the hotel should be placed under surveillance at once. At least three or four plainclothesmen, considering the size of this gang. We don’t know who the leader is yet, but one of his henchmen might lead us to him.”

  “Right.” Captain Stein scribbled a few lines in his notebook. “And then?”

  “If you could spread the word to the news media that Penton Hardy of Bayport has disappeared under mysterions circumstances it would help. Add that no clues have turned up, and that the case appears to be running into a dead end.”

  “I get you,” the captain declared, snapping his notebook shut. “When those guys read the story in the Baltimore papers, they’ll be more sure than ever that they’re safe. You’ll have a better chance to find out what they’re up to, since they won’t be looking for you!”

  “That’s the idea, Captain. I’m glad you approve of it. Makes me feel more secure.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Hardy. We like to have you on our side, too.”

  “Well,” Mr. Hardy said, “I’m flying back to Bayport with Frank and Joe. We have some clues to follow up.”

  It was the middle of the night when Jack Wayne set the plane down at the Bayport airport.

  “Before we go home, I want to make a call,” Mr. Hardy said. “It’s not the best hour to phone Admiral Rodgers, but I have to talk to him.”

  The admiral brushed aside an apology for waking him up. “My sleep is of no consequence when national security is concerned,” he said. “What have you to report?”

  Fenton Hardy said as much as he could over the phone and proposed a secret meeting in Pittsburgh the following evening. Admiral Rodgers agreed.

  Then the Hardys returned home to an affectionate welcome from Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude.

  The next morning Frank and Joe held a get-together with their friends. Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred at the Hardy house during their absence, the boys reported.

  “If anything had happened,” Joe said, laughing, “I’m sure Aunt Gertrude would have informed us the moment we stepped in the door.”

  “We’ve come up with another problem,” Frank said. “What do you know about that disk jockey Teddy Blaze?”

  “He’s considered a groovy character,” Biff related. “Puts on platters with a real beat. The kids at school are wild about his program.”

  “One thing bugs me about him,” Chet offered. “He’s forever chattering about his dog. Tells us his canine companion is named Balto, and then talks to him over the air. Weird kind of nonsense you can’t make out.”

  “Chet, you may just have given us a vital clue,” Frank said. “Balto—it’s worth checking out. Come on, Joe! Let’s see what we can find out at the newspaper office!”

  They located the radio and TV critic in his cubicle writing a review of a Bayport jazz concert.

  “What do I know about Teddy Blaze?” he replied to their question. “Not much. He’s new around here. Comes from somewhere in the South. Maryland, I think. Anyway, the kids go for him in a big way. If you’re after personal information, you’d better go see Teddy himself. He’ll be at the studio now.”

  Frank and Joe thanked him and had no difficulty getting into the studio when they announced they were fans of Teddy Blaze. The disk jockey had left orders that his fans were to be admitted.

  “Good publicity,” said the doorman with a wink.

  The boys found Blaze in top form, or as Joe put it, “flip and insufferable!”

  “You fellows look like refugees from the Bach brigade,” he gibed. “Are you beginning to see the light? Does my music provide you with spiritual sustenance?”

  Frank was nonplused. “That’s not the kind of patter I expected,” he thought. “Hardly the lingo of the hep generation.”

  Joe took up the disk jockey’s line. “We’ve switched. But I imagine we’re not the only ones in these parts. You must have a lot of fans.”

  “You’re coming through loud and clear,” Blaze boasted. “But modesty forbids me to tell you the size of my listening audience. Ask my press agent. He’ll be less humble about it.”

  The man gave the visitors a sidelong glance and asked slyly, “How’s your famous father? I’d have given him the big hello if he’d come with you. I dig his detective methods!”

  Joe put on a long face and said glumly, “Haven’t you heard? Dad’s disappeared. Took a trip to Baltimore and hasn’t been seen since. Very mysterious!”

  Blaze seemed hardly distressed to hear it. “Any suspicions?” he inquired in a somewhat mocking tone. “Any idea of what could have happened to Bayport’s celebrated sleuth?”

  “Plenty of suspicions,” Frank answered, “but they don’t seem to lead anywhere. Perhaps we’ll have news about him later. I don’t really want to talk about it. Let’s get to the music!”

  “We came down to the studio to discuss your program,” Joe added. “It’s for a paper we have to write in school. How do you pick the platters yo
u play on the air? Intuition?”

  “Not entirely,” Blaze replied smugly. “Intelligence might be a better word. Look here. This is a list of the disks that are selling best around the country. I know what my millions of fans are going for each week, and I give it to them.”

  While Frank deliberately kept the disk jockey engrossed in his own cleverness, Joe walked around the room, looking at pictures and records. Then he leaned behind a filing cabinet, holding a record from the stock lying on the table. He removed an envelope from his pocket. Making sure that Blaze’s back was toward him, he scattered some fine powder over the center of the record where the man had braced his thumbs to avoid smudging the grooves.

  He blew the powder aside, revealing a perfect thumbprint. Guardedly he brought out his miniature camera and snapped a picture of the print. “If there’s anything on Blaze in the police files, this should do the trick,” he thought.

  Replacing the record, he rejoined his brother and Blaze, who were debating the merits of two combos that had recently performed in Bayport.

  As the Hardys took their leave, Blaze remarked maliciously, “I hope you find your father. It wouldn’t do for his brilliant sons to be foxed on a case where the missing person happened to be the famous man himself!”

  Frank and Joe pretended to be downcast at the thought. They hurried from the studio as the disk jockey returned to his records and his fans.

  The boys went straight to the office of Chief Collig, where Joe brought out the film of the thumbprint from Teddy Blaze’s disk.

  “I’ll have it developed right away,” Collig agreed, “and do an immediate check to see whether it matches one in our files.”

  Driving home, Frank suggested that they listen to Blaze’s program. Joe fiddled with the knob until he got the right kilocycle. A pop tune came bouncing through the radio. As it ended, they heard Blaze’s voice:

  “Hello, out there! Ready for an afternoon of the sweet and cool with a dash of hot syncopation? That’s what you want, and that’s what I’ve got for you. And now to my dog Balto. Are you listening? The next number is dedicated to Flatfoot and the Flunkies. You don’t believe it? How suspicious can you get? Plenty. Sock it to ’em! Right up here in Bayport. That’s the ticket!”