The Bombay Boomerang

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Frank and Joe watched as the lab man took impressions from the soft ground. “We’re not the only ones interested,” Frank said suddenly, cocking a thumb at a couple of sailors who seemed fascinated with the proceedings at the scene of the crime.

  The seamen were Indians, each dressed in a blue jacket with a red stocking cap on his head. Their dark eyes took in the scene, flickering from the Hardy boys to the policemen, and then down along the ground where tire ruts had corrugated the earth just off the pavement.

  “The Indian theme again,” Joe murmured. “Do they give you the impression of being spies, Frank?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind on that. Anyway, they have a perfect right to watch what we’re doing. No point in challenging them just yet. Better wait for them to tip their hand.”

  Captain Stein approached. “We’ve got clear impressions. Nothing more on the footprints than you mentioned before. They’re too shallow for men carrying heavy burdens.”

  Frank nodded. “I thought so.”

  “The tire impressions are something else. We know that the left rear tire of the truck is worn nearly bald, far down past the treads. The right has a deep slash that’s cut into the rubber almost to the inner tube. They’re sure headed for a super blowout.”

  “That might just be the break we need,” Frank said.

  “Right. We’re going to cruise around this part of Baltimore and look for the truck along the routes leading toward the city. Want to come along, boys?”

  “Sure!” was the instantaneous answer. They climbed into the back of the car, while the three officers occupied the front seat. Back and forth they cruised, up and down the truck routes, without sighting the vehicle that Frank and Joe had watched at Precious Metals.

  “Let’s try the service stations,” remarked the captain, “in case a blowout’s occurred already. They may have called for assistance.”

  He cut off the highway into the first gas station. Frank and Joe got out and asked whether the attendant had received a call concerning a truck with a flat tire, but the answer was negative. They had no more luck at the next half-dozen service stations. Then Captain Stein received a report on the radio that the license number was a phony.

  Finally the first break developed. One attendant told them about a call he had received from near Westminster Churchyard, at Fayette and Greene streets. A truck driver had reported that his right rear tire had gone completely. “He wanted us to give him a tow,” the man said. “I told him we’d be along whenever we could, but we’ve been tied up with an accident along the highway. Haven’t been out to Westminster yet.”

  “We’ll take care of it,” said Captain Stein, and stepped on the gas.

  One of his colleagues turned and glanced at the Hardys. “As detectives you should be interested in Westminster Churchyard. The writer who invented the detective story is buried there. Edgar Allan Poe himself.”

  Joe chuckled. “We sure could use him on this case. It’s as tough as the murders in the Rue Morgue any time!”

  The patrol car swung through the city up to the cemetery. “There he is.” The officer pointed to Poe monument, Baltimore’s salute to the master of mysteries. “And that appears to be the truck we’re looking for!”

  It was the one all right. The blowout had torn the one tire to shreds, but the second fitted the impression taken from the Precious Metals loading area.

  “No one inside,” Frank observed. “They must have been scared off while they were waiting for a tow.”

  “No load, either,” Joe added. “The mercury flasks are gone!”

  “The crooks probably carted them off by hand,” Frank went on. “If they transferred them to another truck, they wouldn’t have called the service station to fix the blowout. Joe, the flasks might be stashed away not far from here!”

  “The cemetery! We’d better give it a search!”

  Captain Stein agreed. “Let’s separate. You two go together, and if you see anything, give a yell!”

  “And don’t let the spooks get you,” one policeman said with a grin.

  “It’s spooky all right,” Frank muttered as they set out.

  In the moonlit graveyard leaves rustled in the wind. Tombstones cast eerie shadows. Off in the distance a dog howled.

  Frank and Joe began working down from the northwest corner where the Poe monument stood, stepping carefully around the graves as they searched.

  A cloud scudded across the face of the moon, leaving the cemetery in darkness. The boys waited for the brightness to return. To while away the time, Frank asked in an undertone, “Which of Poe’s characters does this situation remind you of?”

  “The black cat.” Joe grimaced.

  The cloud swept past. They resumed their search under the light of the moon. “What’s that?” Frank pointed to an object, shaped like a milk bottle, near a large mausoleum.

  “A mercury flask!”

  They hastened around behind the mausoleum and found a pile of containers, heaped up as if they had been thrown there in a hurry.

  Frank picked one up. “Hey, Joe! This sure doesn’t weigh a hundred and thirty-five pounds. In fact, it’s empty!”

  Joe examined a number of others and whistled softly. “So are they all. The mercury is gone!”

  CHAPTER XIII

  Aboard the Indian Freighter

  JoE held one of the flasks upside down and waited to see if any last drops of mercury would drip out. None did. He tried the same experiment on several more containers with the same negative results.

  “If it had been a quick-change operation and the thieves had poured the mercury into their own containers, we’d be almost certain to find a trace in each flask. Yet these are all bone-dry.”

  “Of course they are. They were empty to begin with,” Frank said, “which helps us to fit together two pieces of this jigsaw puzzle. First, we heard one of the gang mention ‘heisting the empties.’ That makes sense now. And second, the footprints at the Precious Metals loading yard were too shallow for men carrying one-hundred-and-thirty-five-pound flasks. Now we know why. There was no mercury in them.”

  “It must have been stolen earlier,” Joe agreed. “Probably on the dock where the cargo was landed, or maybe aboard ship. The empty flasks might have been taken to throw us off the track.”

  “So,” Frank said, “it’s just as well we have an appointment with an Indian freighter. Right now we’d better tell Captain Stein of our discovery. And we’ll call Dad early tomorrow morning.”

  The police investigated the place where the flasks had been discarded. After that, they drove Frank and Joe to a hotel, where the boys took a room for the night. Next morning they telephoned their father through a Bayport neighbor, since they were afraid their own phone was still being tapped. Mr. Hardy was puzzled by the empty mercury flasks. He said he would query other companies that handled mercury and call back.

  An hour later the boys were still batting the mystery back and forth when the phone rang. Their father said that several companies reported finding empty mercury flasks. “They’re baffled about the method used by this gang. You could be right in suspecting thievery on the dock or the ships. See what you can find out aboard the Nanda Kailash and keep your eyes open for any connection between the disappearing mercury and the Bombay Boomerang, Frank!”

  “Okay, Dad. We’ll go to the ship right away.”

  Frank and Joe took a taxi to the harbor. They drove along a narrow street lined by large warehouses and heavy trucks to an open area dominated by the Indian freighter tied up at the dock. She was painted black, with a white band high above the waterline amidships. Derricks, slings, and lifts rose over the hold from which the cargo was being unloaded. The stern, riding high out of the water as it became lighter, bore the name Nanda Kailash, and underneath her home port, Bombay.

  The taxi stopped at a gate where the guard told the boys they would have to proceed on foot. They saw mobile cranes handling massive bales of jute. Piles of debris covered much of the dock—bro
ken crates, empty barrels, lumber, and other fallout of unloading activity. A big red barge, rocking at the dockside behind the freighter, was receiving part of the cargo for transportation across the harbor.

  “Plenty of action around here,” Joe observed.

  Dark-skinned workmen from the Nanda Kailash, wearing navy-blue sweaters, bustled between the deck and the dock. Frank asked one how to get aboard. The man, giving them a suspicious stare, pointed to a steep metal stairway extending up the side of the ship.

  “Climb we must,” Frank quipped. He took hold of the white rope railings on either side and started up the steps, feeling them sway under his weight. Joe followed close behind.

  They were halfway up the stairs, with a steep drop to the dock beneath them, when Frank suddenly jerked to one side and yelled, “Duck, Joe!”

  His brother swung out on one railing in a reflex action. A huge bale of jute came hurtling down, barely missing them and landing on the dock with a heavy thud.

  Joe took a deep breath. “Wow! Was that, or was it not accidental?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Frank said. “Anyway, let’s get up on deck before we’re treated to an encore.”

  The long deck extended toward the bow on the right, to the stern on the left. The boys had paused to inspect a bulletin board where the names of the ship’s officers were posted when a steward asked what business they had on board. After listening to their explanation, he led them down a narrow corridor to a large cabin.

  “This is the chief officer’s quarters,” he said in a soft Indian accent. “Please sit down. I will inform him of your arrival. Would you prefer tea or coffee? ... Coffee? ... A few moments, please.”

  Frank and Joe glanced around the room. They were surprised at the degree of comfort it reflected. The paneled walls and furniture seemed to be mahogany. A couch, three chairs, and a table were covered in a gay multicolored print. One cabinet held a radio and record player.

  On the opposite side of the cabin was a built-in bunk with a drawer in its base, flanked by a desk on which lay a volume entitled Rough Logbook. Nautical pictures hung on the wall opposite the porthole.

  “Nice pad,” Joe murmured. “Life at sea must have its compensations.”

  The door opened. A dark, good-looking man came in. Shaking hands with the boys, he introduced himself in excellent English as Chief Officer Jal Agopal, substituting for the captain, who was ashore.

  The steward appeared holding a tray with a white coffeepot, three cups, milk and sugar. Deftly setting a cup and napkin at three places on the table, he withdrew.

  Jal Agopal took a sip of coffee, then inquired what he could do for his visitors. “Naturally I am anxious to aid Admiral Rodgers in every possible way,” he said.

  “Perhaps the first thing I should mention,” Frank replied, “is an incident that happened when we were coming aboard.” He described the bale of jute that nearly knocked them off the ladder.

  The chief officer expressed his apologies, adding that he was as mystified as they were. “You must have noted that the cranes swing cargo over that part of the ship. But I’ve never known that kind of thing to happen before. I will make an investigation.”

  “Duck, Joe!” Frank yelled

  Joe asked about the crew.

  “We carry fourteen officers and thirty-six men,” Agopal replied. “I’m not familiar with the personal background of each one of them. All I can say is that every man is skillful at his particular job on the freighter. If there is anything wrong, it hasn’t come to my attention.”

  “Perhaps the cargo might give us a clue,” Frank put in. “What are you carrying this trip?”

  “The usual things. Tea, curios, jute, burlap, carpets—”

  “Mercury, too?”

  “Yes, also mercury. We loaded the flasks at the Spanish port of Cadiz.”

  “Where do you keep them during the voyage from Spain to the United States?”

  “In the hold with the rest of the cargo. Come. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  Jal Agopal led the Hardys out of the cabin, along the narrow corridor, and back on deck. As they walked toward the hold, Joe nudged Frank and nodded toward a sailor slinking along on the opposite side of the deck.

  He was a rough-looking character in a plaid work shirt, who ducked behind a pile of crates when he realized that he had been spotted. When the boys pretended to have lost interest in him, he promptly reappeared.

  “Our bodyguard,” Joe whispered to his brother. “Services rendered free of charge.”

  They reached the hold, a yawning cavern that looked to be two or three stories deep. The men working at the bottom were shifting carpets onto hooks attached to cables that carried them in swinging arcs up to the deck and across the side onto the dock.

  “Quite a lot of activity,” Frank said to the chief officer.

  “We have only a limited time to unload, load, turn around and meet our timetable for the trip back to India,” he replied. “To you it must seem very confused. Actually, every step is precisely planned.”

  “I don’t see any mercury flasks,” Joe said.

  “You will. They come aboard on trays, fifty at a time. You undoubtedly know that they are heavy, and are fastened with screw-type steel caps. As a sling lowers a tray into the hold, members of the crew lift the flasks off one by one and store them together in the hold space provided for them.

  “Because of their weight, they need special attention when they reach the hold. We shore them up with wood to prevent slipping. And we do not pile any other type of cargo on top of them.”

  “How safe are the flasks in the hold?” Frank asked. “I mean, can the crew get at them either during the voyage or in port?”

  “Oh, yes. The hold itself is open. These particular flasks have not been unloaded yet. But there is no rule that prevents the members of the crew from going down into the hold and inspecting them, as long as no one gets in the way of the men working on the docks.”

  The boys leaned over the edge for a better look. Men called back and forth in their native tongue. Those below signaled to the men above when to haul away. Winches, tackle, and cables strained under the weight of their burdens.

  Joe stepped onto a pile of rope, paying little attention to the events on deck. Suddenly the rope tightened with a tremendous jerk as someone yanked the other end. Joe tumbled head over heels into the hold, hurtling down toward the bottom far below!

  CHAPTER XIV

  Down the Hatch

  HORRIFIED, Frank saw his brother topple head over heels into the hold. The chief officer gasped. Crewmen shouted excitedly in Hindustani and English. But no one could do a thing to help!

  Flailing his arms wildly, Joe fell like a stone. Then, in mid-air, his toe hit something. Throwing out a hand, he grabbed hold of a cable and swung himself onto a rolled carpet that was being hoisted up onto the deck of the Nanda Kailash.

  Joe stood up shakily when the carpet hit the deck. “This kind of trip I could have done without,” he muttered, managing a weak smile.

  Frank was ghastly pale. “I thought we’d be picking you up in little pieces at the bottom!”

  “Someone on this ship doesn’t like us,” Joe said, his face grim. He looked straight at the chief officer.

  Jal Agopal plucked a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “Thank God we were unloading carpets when you fell,” he said with a sigh.

  Then his gaze traveled beyond the boys to the crew. “This is an outrage!” he declared, and there were both anger and fear in his voice. “I intend to find out at once who pulled the rope that tripped this boy! If it was deliberate, he is a murderer! I want him identified!”

  He ordered the entire crew to be mustered on deck. The men lined up along the railing towering over the dock. Agopal addressed them.

  “Most of you must know by now of the near-fatal accident that just occurred. For those of you who haven’t heard, I will simply say that one of our American g
uests fell into the hold because someone pulled a rope from under his feet. He managed to seize one of the cables, which is the only reason he is alive to tell the tale. If any of you have any information on this, speak up!”

  A dead silence greeted the announcement. Jal Agopal spoke to a number of the men assigned to the unloading, but they all insisted that they were hard at work at the time. Even the eyewitnesses had no idea how it had happened.

  Frank and Joe conversed in low tones with the chief officer, describing the individual who had been following them around the ship. Agopal invited them to inspect those on the deck, and to see if they could identify their shadow.

  The boys went down the line, peering sharply into each face. At the end, they declared positively that the man in question was not there.

  “He must have sneaked aboard,” Frank suggested to the chief officer.

  “That may well be correct,” he replied with a worried frown. “This is the whole crew. Any additional personnel would be strictly unauthorized. As long as we remain in port, I will post special guards to catch this stranger if he tries to slip on or off the ship. But why would he deliberately try to harm you?”

  “Perhaps he mistook us for someone else,” Frank said casually. Soon after that, he and Joe went ashore. They shook hands with Jal Agopal, climbed down the swaying stairs from which they had almost been swept while boarding the ship, and made their way back to the hotel.

  Soon they were sitting in their room munching sandwiches and discussing the recent events. Frank scratched his head. “The mystifying thing is how this character knew enough to follow us aboard. We didn’t broadcast the news of our arrival.”

  “I’m with you on that. But don’t forget that the mercury gang has a lot of operatives, including several who can identify us on sight. They must have tailed us, learned of our plan, and detailed an agent to arrange a rousing welcome for us on the freighter.”