The Bombay Boomerang

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Joe snapped the radio off. “Is that stuff supposed to be groovy?” he growled.

  CHAPTER XI

  Patter in Code

  “I don’t think Blaze is trying to be groovy,” Frank responded with a thoughtful frown. “That kind of talk sounded to me more like a riddle.”

  “You mean a code? Secret information for listeners who know how to decipher it?”

  “Why not? Look, what do you make of Flatfoot and the Flunkies?”

  “Dad and ourselves!” Joe exclaimed. “I’ll bet that’s it! Balto must stand for Baltimore. He’s telling his confederates in Baltimore that you and I are suspicious about Dad’s disappearance!”

  Frank shifted gears and turned into their driveway. “That’s how I figure it. The rest fits in, too. When he mentions socking it to ’em in Bayport, that could be an order for his pals to deal with us!”

  “But we can’t be sure that’s his game after hearing him on the air only once. Let’s have his program monitored while we’re in Pittsburgh. Chet and the others will probably be glad to oblige. I’ll give them a ring.”

  Their friends were enthusiastic. They liked Blaze’s recordings. And they vowed to listen in turn to his patter in the hope of breaking the code, if there was one.

  That settled, the Hardys were preparing for their trip when Chet Morton’s car drew up in front of their house, wheezing and backfiring as usual.

  Joe was puzzled. “We just talked to him over the phone. Wonder why he’s coming to see us.”

  “He must have bounced over here as fast as his motorized tin can would travel,” Frank replied. “We’d better go out and see what’s bothering him.”

  Chet’s car was standing at the curb. The driver sat at the wheel, fiddling with the ignition.

  Joe called out, “Chet, what’s up?”

  “That’s not Chet!” Frank shouted the warning. “Duck, Joe!”

  Too late! A man hiding in the back of the car leaped out. Leveling a spray gun at them, he fired its contents into their faces. The liquid burned and stung. Frank and Joe staggered back, temporarily blinded by the assault.

  “There’s more where this came from,” snarled their assailant. “Pull out of the mere racket while you’ve got time! Stay on our backs, and you’ll go the way your old man went! We’re through fooling with you!”

  Before Frank and Joe could open their eyes to get a look at the pair, the car had roared off. The boys soon recovered, agreed that they had been the victims of a variety of tear gas, and returned to the house. After a thorough soap-and-water washing, they consulted their father about the incident.

  The phone rang during the conversation. Chet was calling. “You know what’s happened?” he queried glumly. “My car’s been stolen. My pride and joy is in the hands of thieves!”

  “We’ve just seen it,” Joe told him. “In fact, it was borrowed for a visit to Frank and me.” He described what had happened. “Report the theft to the police, Chet. They should be able to locate it easily. There aren’t many cars like it around. And tell them that it was used for shooting gas into our faces. I was just about to call Chief Collig myself.”

  Chet phoned later to say that his jalopy had been found. “The thieves abandoned it near the bay. The crime lab people examined it, but found nothing incriminating.”

  “No clues at all?” Frank questioned.

  “No. Chief Collig says the guys were pros who didn’t leave any calling cards. Not so much as a fingerprint. So he still has no lead to the mercury gang.”

  Mr. Hardy decided that leaving from Bayport for Pittsburgh might be too risky, so he and his sons drove to an airport several miles away. Jack Wayne had flown in to pick them up, and they were soon in the air.

  When the Golden Triangle at the confluence of the Allegheny and the Monongahela showed up in the distance, Jack cut his engines, made a big circle, and came down. for a landing on instructions from the control tower.

  Then he went into the administration building, while the Hardys rented a car. “We’re to rendezvous with our friend at the third motel right down this highway,” Mr. Hardy explained. “Place called Vacation Inn.”

  Frank made the turn at the neon sign. The motel was an oblong structure with rooms along three sides. They parked and went directly to the room where the admiral was waiting. It was in the middle of one section, so the get-together would be as inconspicuous as possible.

  The officer was dressed in civilian clothes when he opened the door. “Another precaution,” he informed the Hardys. “My naval uniform would stick out like a sore thumb in this place.”

  He motioned Frank and Joe to sit down on the sofa, while Mr. Hardy made a quick search for hidden microphones. Then the admiral went right to the heart of the matter.

  “This Bombay Boomerang angle has me stumped. At the Pentagon, we’ve played the tape from Commander Wenn’s office over and over. With regard to that phrase, we literally don’t know anything yet.”

  He glanced at the two boys. “I hear you fellows are experimenting with boomerangs, so maybe you have a theory.”

  Frank shook his head. “Nothing yet, sir.”

  “My secretary did some research, and she said the weapon is native to India as well as Australia. Does that tidbit lead us anywhere?”

  Frank shrugged. “Where it leads—if it leads anywhere—I don’t know. But your secretary is right, Admiral. The Indian boomerang isn’t as famous as the Australian version, but many Indian families cherish their boomerangs as heirlooms and even as sacred relics.”

  “Our expert, Chet Morton of Bayport, says that in olden times Bombay was the metropolis of the southern India boomerang country,” Joe put in.

  “India keeps popping up in this case,” Frank noted. “Remember that Indian desk clerk in Baltimore. He’s been one of our suspects ever since we saw him. And—”

  Mr. Hardy held up a warning hand. “Sh! Someone’s outside the door!”

  A key eased into the keyhole. The individual trying the lock twisted it gently at first, then with greater force as it stuck. He was determined to get into the room.

  Admiral Rodgers strode to the door. Flinging it open, he surprised a man bending over and fumbling with the key.

  “What do you want?” the admiral barked.

  “I want to get into my room. What are you guys doing here? This is number 69, isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s 89!” The admiral’s tone showed his annoyance at the interruption.

  The man was plainly embarrassed. “Sorry,” he stammered apologetically. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” He retreated toward number 69.

  “An honest mistake, I believe,” Rodgers said, rejoining the circle. “But it’s enough to give one the jitters when strangers crash into a conference like this.”

  “We can arrange to keep them away,” Joe declared with a grin. “At least honest ones!” Stepping over to the door, he hung a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the outer knob.

  Mr. Hardy picked up the thread of the conversation. “I believe the vital question concerns the relation between the mercury case and the missing missile. What can they possibly have in common? If we knew that, we’d have the solution.”

  “There’s another mystery that might link the two, although right now I don’t see how,” Frank said. He and Joe reported their suspicion of Teddy Blaze, the artist of the disks.

  They stressed their belief that his patter contained coded messages for his confederates.

  “Anyway,” Frank continued, “we may soon have a break on this angle. Joe took a thumbprint from one of Blaze’s records. We left it with Chief Collig to be checked out.”

  Admiral Rodgers was impressed by the news.

  “It’s a lead worth running down,” Mr. Hardy stated emphatically. “There’s got to be a Baltimore-Bayport connection in all this. What do you think, Admiral?”

  “I agree with you. But the Indian angle also has to be considered. I’ve been looking into it myself. A freighter from India is docking at Baltimore day
after tomorrow. The Nanda Kailash.”

  “You think she warrants investigation?” Frank asked.

  “Yes. Find out what cargo she carries, what crew is handling her, and if there is anything suspicious about her voyage.”

  “We’ll be glad to check her out, sir,” Joe said.

  “Fine. But I don’t want everyone on the ship to get wind that an official investigation is underway. I’ll arrange with the captain for you to go aboard without arousing suspicion. And you’re both good detectives. Is that all right with you, Mr. Hardy?”

  “Frank and Joe can take care of themselves,” the detective replied. “I have every confidence that they can give the freighter the once-over, and bring back the facts.”

  “Okay, then.” Rodgers wound up the conference. “We’ll leave it at that until something breaks. You can report to me at my office. If I’m not there, call my home any time of the day or night and we can get together. This case must be solved, and judging from the Hardy record, you could be the ones to do it.”

  “That’s a compliment, Admiral,” said Mr. Hardy, “and I hope we can make it stand up. This is about as tough an assignment as I’ve ever been on.”

  Frank and Joe echoed the words of their father. “We’ll do our best to beat this gang,” Frank said.

  Admiral Rodgers went immediately to the airport to fly back to Washington. The Hardys spent the night at the motel. Early Friday morning they left for Baltimore. They took turns driving the rented car.

  Frank looked at his watch as they neared their destination. “This is one of the hours when Teddy Blaze is on the air. We might as well listen to his program, Dad. It’ll give you some idea of what we’re talking about. And you might pick up a clue that would get by us.”

  Joe flipped the radio to the Bayport station. The disk jockey was playing a popular recording, and the rhythmic beat filled the car.

  “Nothing to pick up there,” Mr. Hardy declared. “That music isn’t my cup of tea. Guess I’m too old and far away from the younger generation to appreciate it.”

  The piece ended. Blaze came on with his breezy patter. At first everything seemed in order. He was talking the jargon of the trade, using the slang of the new generation to hold the attention of his audience.

  Suddenly his tone changed, and so did his patter. Through the radio came the words, “Balto says tonight is the night for a new record album ”Steal My Heart Away,” and it’s strictly for you, precious.”

  “Now there’s a nonsense line if I ever heard one,” Joe volunteered. “That is, if it really is nonsense. You see, Dad, that’s why we think there may be more to it than meets the ear.”

  Frank had been musing over Blaze’s announcement. “Assuming that he’s in with the mercury thieves, he could be telling them that a new assignment is on the agenda. He might be ordering them into action tonight. But where?”

  The three discussed the possibilities in this interpretation. They were baffled when they came to the word “precious” in the disk jockey’s talk.

  Suddenly Mr. Hardy sat bolt upright. “I know a company in Baltimore named Precious Metals!” he exclaimed. “Can it be next on the gang’s list? Will Precious Metals discover tomorrow that a shipment of mercury has been stolen?”

  CHAPTER XII

  Cemetery Search

  “IF those thugs are planning to hit Precious Metals,” Fenton Hardy mused, “then I’d better warn the company. We can’t just sit on this information while they make off with the mercury.”

  “Well, we certainly have to do something,” Frank agreed. “But suppose an employee of the firm belongs to the gang. If you phone he might get wind of what’s up and sound the alarm. And he could be in management. Even if you went there in person—”

  “That’s right!” Joe interrupted. “They could call off the heist at the last moment and reschedule the operation for a later date.”

  His father mulled over the problem. “You’re probably right. In any case, we should be able to keep the factory under surveillance. Pull into that service station over there, Frank. I want to phone a friend of mine.”

  After making the call, Mr. Hardy explained that his friend had an office in a high-rise building across from the Precious Metals company.

  “He’s invited us to use his premises in any way we see fit. As there’s some distance between the two buildings, my idea is to rig up a telescope and watch events in the factory yard. We can buy a ten-magnification model on our way downtown.”

  Soon they had reached their destination. With Frank carrying the black barrel of the instrument, and Joe the tripod, they went to the top floor. Mr. Hardy’s friend, who was on his way out of town, had telephoned the superintendent to unlock his office and let them in. Without wasting a minute they set the telescope up at an open window.

  Training it on the rear of the factory, Mr. Hardy scrutinized the area. “This will do nicely. We’ll be able to spot a single flask of mercury, and even the label. Have a look!”

  Frank peered through the eyepiece. The magnifying power of the instrument made every object look enormous. Swiveling it from left to right, he took in the panorama of office buildings, warehouses, and trucking areas.

  “A lot of movement going on,” he said. “And a row of mercury flasks in one corner. Could they be what the gang is after?”

  Joe took his turn at the telescope. “Wonder if anybody we know is working down there. Guess not, but we seem near enough to strike up a conversation. Wouldn’t that driver in the green truck be surprised to learn that we’ve met by way of a telescopic lens!”

  The Hardys had a clear view of Precious Metals until evening when rain started to fall heavily.

  “No use staring into that deluge,” Fenton Hardy muttered in disgust. “Our rig will be useless until it stops.”

  About an hour later the rain slackened off, then petered out. The three observers trained their telescope back on the factory yard, which was now empty.

  “The afternoon shift has gone home,” Frank observed. “The only guy left is the guard at the gate.”

  “Anything suspicious we should report to the police?” his father inquired.

  “Maybe!” Frank answered with suppressed excitement after a short pause. “The guard is letting a truck through. It’s pulling up to the mercury flasks! The men in the truck are too furtive to be legitimate. I think the robbery must be on, although the truck is blocking our view! Take a look at that, Dad!”

  Meanwhile, Joe called Captain Stein. “We’ll have reinforcements in a few minutes,” he said as he put down the phone. “The police are on their way.”

  “Those flasks are heavy,” Frank added. “Stealing that many should keep them occupied long enough for the U. S. Cavalry to come riding to the rescue!”

  “Wrong!” his father exclaimed in startled tones. “The truck is moving already! There it goes, right through the gate! And the flasks are all gone!”

  The Hardys rushed down to the street to meet the police. A rapid inspection of Precious Metals showed that the detective had been right. The thieves had gotten clean away with the mercury. There was no sign of the guard, either.

  “An inside job,” Mr. Hardy explained to the two police officers who had arrived with Captain Stein. “The guard at the gate was in on it. Obviously the thieves waited for him to give them the high sign. All they had to do was drive in, load the truck, and drive out. He probably went with them.”

  “The mystifying thing is the timing of the job,” Frank declared. “Even with inside help, it should have taken much longer to steal a shipment of mercury. No one can juggle one-hundred-and-thirty-five-pound flasks as if they were empty beer cans!”

  The captain shook his head. “Something mighty strange is going on here. Did you get the license number of the truck?”

  “Yes.” Frank handed him a slip of paper on which he had written it down.

  “We’ll check it out, even though I’m afraid it’s a phony.” Captain Stein went to his car and reported the
number over his radiotelephone. Then he rejoined the Hardys.

  “Frank and Joe, suppose you get to work on this problem with Captain Stein right away,” Mr. Hardy suggested. “I’ll have to get back to Bayport before morning.”

  “Okay,” said Frank. “Let’s take our rig down at the office and be on our way.”

  Upstairs, while the boys disassembled the telescope, Mr. Hardy donned one of his numerous disguises. “Can’t go back into the lion’s den any other way.” He grinned. A thick black wig covered his head and he pulled a matching beard and mustache out of his brief case. By the time he was finished, even his sons did not recognize him.

  “One more point,” he said, before departing. “Since I’ll be in Bayport, I’ll see what I can find out about Teddy Blaze, beginning with a visit to headquarters. The thumbprint report should be on the chief’s desk by now.”

  Frank and Joe joined the police in searching the Precious Metals property for clues to the robbery.

  “Footprints first?” Joe inquired. “After the cloudburst, the thieves couldn’t have tramped across the yard without leaving some pretty good prints.”

  “We have a clear set right here,” an officer grunted with satisfaction. He was pointing to the spot where the men had lifted the flasks into the truck. “The guy who made them was big. Size thirteen shoe, probably. Otherwise, I can’t see that they tell us anything we didn’t know before.”

  Frank was squatting down, giving the footprints a thorough inspection. “Look closer, Officer. What do you make of the depth of these marks?”

  “Depth? Oh, I see what you mean. They’re shallow. Those guys don’t seem to have been carrying much more than their own weight.”

  “Yet,” Frank pursued the point, “they’re supposed to have been toting flasks weighing a hundred and thirty-five pounds. One flask is enough to make a man sink flat-footed in the mud!”

  The policeman frowned. “Perhaps we’ll have the answer when Jack here from the crime lab takes impressions. Footprints and tire marks both,” he added to his colleague, who was getting out his equipment.