The Arctic Patrol Mystery

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Who are you?” Tony demanded.

  “And your pals?” Joe added.

  But the captive would not talk.

  “We probably have a file on him,” Chief Collig said. He handcuffed the prisoner and turned him over to Riley. Then he went to his car and radioed headquarters. Returning, the police chief stated, “We’ll search for the other two men, don’t worry.”

  “Thanks,” Frank said, and the young people went back to their party.

  After refreshments, Frank and Joe dropped Callie off, then drove home. Mr. Hardy was not back yet, and Frank told their mother what had happened.

  He had just finished when the lights of the detective’s car swept the front windows as it pulled into the driveway. Mr. Hardy entered through the back door, looking serious.

  When he heard about the kidnapping attempt, he shook his head. “I’m sorry I got you involved in this whole nasty business.”

  “Don’t worry, Dad,” Joe said. “We can take care of ourselves.”

  Mr. Hardy seemed lost in thought for a moment, then asked, “Anyone telephone while I was gone?”

  “No, dear,” his wife replied, but added quickly, “Oh, yes, someone did call. Gertrude thought it was a joke.”

  Mr. Hardy glanced at her in alarm. “Where was the call from?”

  “The White House—at least that’s what the girl said.”

  The detective gave a low whistle and shook his head again.

  “What’s wrong, Dad?” Frank asked sympathetically. He had never seen his father so dejected.

  The detective managed a smile and looked at his sons. “I can’t tell you now,” he said. “Later, perhaps.” He gave each boy a pat on the back, then climbed the stairs to his study.

  Frank and Joe went to bed, wondering what it was all about. A little later they heard their father go to his bedroom and then make a telephone call on the upstairs hall extension. He spoke in low tones and they could not hear what he was saying.

  In the middle of the night, both boys were awakened by Mr. Hardy’s footsteps going downstairs. Joe leaped up and opened the door a crack. He heard his father greet two men in whispered tones. Then he led them upstairs to his study.

  “Holy crow!” Frank whispered. “This is regular cloak-and-dagger stuff, Joe!”

  “You can say that again!”

  They returned to bed and slept fitfully until morning. At breakfast no mention was made of the mysterious callers.

  Finally Mr. Hardy said, “Boys, I’m going on a special mission to Texas. There’s something I want to give you to take to Iceland.”

  Frank and Joe followed him to his study. He unlocked one of the drawers of his desk and pulled out what looked like a small transistor radio.

  “What’s that?” Joe asked.

  “It’s the latest in decoders,” Mr. Hardy replied, “and it works on the decibel principle.”

  He explained that the high peaks of sound in any conversation were the keys to the code. “Once you have established these,” he said, “the message can be decoded by using this special book.”

  He reached down again and handed Frank a small black codebook and a miniature tape recorder. “The recorder can be attached to a telephone or radio,” he concluded.

  Father and sons went over the principles of the decibel machine. When they had finished, the detective said, “Boys, you must guard this machine and the codebook carefully. These may be a lot more important on the second case I’m investigating.”

  “Is it connected with Iceland?” Joe asked.

  “Very possibly. I want you to leave on tonight’s Loftleidir flight to Reykjavik.”

  Frank made reservations immediately. After their father had left, Joe telephoned Chet.

  “We’re leaving for Kennedy International Airport at six,” he said. “So bring your gear over to the house at five o’clock.”

  By four all was ready at the Hardy home. As the boys were locking their suitcases, a call came from police headquarters. Frank talked to the chief, and when he had finished, relayed the information to his brother. The prisoner had been identified. He was from New York City, a thug for hire, and seemed fearful about mentioning his employer.

  “The other two made a getaway,” Frank said. “They’re probably in New York. Police there have been alerted.”

  Half an hour later Frank and Joe were amazed to see Chet’s car pull up in front quietly and without backfiring. “Oh, oh, there’s the reason,” Joe said with a big grin. Frank looked out the window to see Iola at the wheel with Callie Shaw sitting beside her.

  The Hardys ran out to greet them. Chet occupied the rear seat along with his suitcase, a flight bag, an extra heavy overcoat, and a small camera and a radio slung around his neck.

  “I thought I’d better drive,” Iola said with a dimpled smile, “because we wanted Chet to start his trip in good health.”

  “I just came along to say good-by,” said Callie, looping her arm through Frank’s.

  “Chet, bring the stuff over here,” Joe suggested. “We’ll put it all in our car. Iola can drive it back and pick up the jalopy here.”

  Perspiring under the load of all his equipment, Chet deposited his baggage beside the Hardys’ car.

  When good-bys had been said to Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude, he reached down to pick up a black box. “Here, Iola, take this home. I won’t need it. Frank and Joe have their short-wave radio.”

  Iola put the instrument aside, and the three boys loaded their belongings into the convertible.

  “Got everything?” Joe asked.

  “Yes,” Frank replied.

  The girls drove them to Bayport Airport in a matter of minutes. There they boarded a plane that arrived at Kennedy International Airport in ample time to sign in for the Icelandic trip.

  After they had checked in with Loftleidir, Chet asked the ticket clerk, “Do you serve dinner on this flight?”

  “Yes, sir. About an hour after you’re airborne.”

  Chet rolled his eyes with a pleased expression. They headed for Gate 18, where a sleek jetliner was taking on passengers. The boys entered through the front and walked toward the rear. Three seats were on either side of the aisle. Joe sat next to the window, while Chet slipped into the aisle seat, leaving Frank the place in the middle.

  Then the plane’s door was shut and it taxied to a runway. Buzzing like a bottled bumblebee, the huge craft lifted off and headed out across the sea toward the north.

  Soon seat belts were removed and the boys tilted their seats back to enjoy the flight. By this time darkness had settled over the ocean beneath them.

  The attractive stewardesses began bringing trays of food. Frank and Joe, being on the inside, were served first.

  “What, no more food left?” Chet asked with a worried expression.

  The stewardess smiled down at him. “I’ll be right back,” she said.

  When she returned, Chet started a conversation. “We’re going to Iceland to see the Eskimos.”

  “Oh, really?” The dark-haired girl repressed a laugh. “But there aren’t any Eskimos in Iceland.”

  “What?” Chet was perplexed.

  Touching her fingers one at a time, the stewardess explained, “There are no Eskimos, no frogs, and no snakes in Iceland.”

  Joe grinned. “Then what is there in Iceland, Miss—?”

  “Just call me Steina. You wouldn’t remember my last name, it’s too long.”

  The girl went on to say that there were glaciers and hidden people and night trolls—and, of course, ghosts. Then, before the boys could ask any other questions, she moved off to serve their fellow passengers.

  “Hey, this is going to be an interesting trip!” Chet remarked, slicing through a juicy piece of steak.

  “We’ll have to learn more about those ghosts and night trolls,” Frank said with a chuckle.

  Steina returned later to remove their trays, but could not tarry to chat.

  “She sure is good-looking,” Chet whispered to Frank. />
  But Frank’s mind was on the special equipment his father had supplied. He reached down into his flight bag tucked under the seat. The tape recorder was there in place. So was the codebook, slipped in tightly beside it. For no special reason, Frank pulled out the decibel counter. Suddenly a curious expression crossed his face.

  “Holy crow, Joe, what’s this?”

  His brother’s head was buried in a magazine. Now he turned to look at the object in Frank’s hand. “It’s the decibel counter Dad gave us to—” He stopped short and his eyes grew wide. “Wait a minute—it’s a radio!”

  “Sure, it’s mine,” Chet put in. “I wonder how it got into your bag. Just before we left I gave it to Iola!”

  CHAPTER III

  An Ancient Custom

  THE brothers stared at the radio they had brought by mistake. Without the decibel counter, the codebook was of no use! If Mr. Hardy had an urgent secret message, they could not receive it!

  Frank shook his head. “Whew! This Icelandic case is starting off like a disaster! First the attempted kidnapping and now this!”

  “I’m to blame for the whole thing,” Chet muttered, crestfallen.

  “No you’re not,” Joe said. He tried to console his friend. “It could have happened to anybody. The two cases look very much alike.”

  Frank realized that they had to get a message back home as soon as possible. He beckoned to the stewardess, who hastened up the aisle and bent over the seat.

  “Steina,” Frank said, “we have an emergency on our hands. We must get a radio message back home.”

  “Emergency?”

  “Yes,” Joe added. “This is serious.”

  “All right. Come with me. We’ll go to the captain.”

  Frank followed the pretty stewardess down the long aisle. When they reached the door of the crew’s cabin, Steina knocked lightly and they entered. In the dim glow Frank saw four men who seemed to blend into the console of dials and instruments, which reached clear to the roof of the pilot’s cabin.

  The captain turned his eyes from the windshield and spoke to Steina in Icelandic. Then he switched to English and addressed Frank. “So you have an emergency, young man? ... Yes, I can send a message by radio. What is it?”

  The copilot handed Frank a pad and pencil. Quickly he printed the message to be delivered to his home in Bayport. He asked his parents to please get the black box from Iola Morton and send it to them at Keflavik Airport on the same flight next day.

  Then Frank thanked the captain and the stewardess and returned to his seat. Soon the cabin’s main lights were switched off and the passengers settled back for a short nap before the early dawn which would come about two o’clock.

  The boys dozed fitfully until the lights came on again and stewardesses busily went up and down the aisles serving breakfast. Frank looked out the window and gasped in amazement.

  “Joe, Chet! Look at that!”

  On the portside, rising out of the sea like a strange white world, loomed the snow-covered mountains of Greenland.

  “Wow! That gives you the chills, doesn’t it?” said Chet.

  As the view of the great peaks inched by the wing tip, the boys talked about the huge island of Greenland, which seemed to spell adventure. Frank knew it was owned by Denmark, populated by Eskimos, and that there were several air bases on its shores.

  “There’s a Danish one called Narssarssuaq,” he stated. He pulled a map from the seat pocket in front of him and opened it. “Here it is, look!”

  “Boy, I’m glad I’m not an Eskimo,” said Chet. “I could never spell a word like that!”

  Their banter was interrupted by Steina, who brought them breakfast. Not long after they had eaten, the captain’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker.

  “We are on our descent to Keflavik. Please fasten your seat belts.”

  As the plane glided lower, the boys craned for a look at the country below. It had been born of volcanoes, and much of its surface was covered with lava and volcanic ash. Steaming hot springs lay next to its glaciers, and geysers spouted steam high into the air.

  When the huge aircraft touched down, Frank swallowed hard to release the pressure in his ears.

  “Exit through the front,” Steina said. “Good-by, and have a good time in Iceland.”

  “We’re on business,” Chet said importantly. “But we’ll try to have fun.”

  Lugging their hand baggage, Frank, Joe, and Chet climbed down the steps, breathing deeply of the crisp fresh air. Snow covered the airfield.

  “Pretty bleak,” Joe remarked as they hastened into a long, low building to be checked through customs.

  An official stamped their passports and directed them to the back of the building, where a bus and taxis were waiting.

  Frank talked to the driver standing beside the bus, and learned that Reykjavik was approximately thirty miles away. The bus would leave in twenty minutes.

  The trio put their bags by the side of the building, then looked about the unusual landscape. A wide, black, barren valley swept off into the distance before rising abruptly to a bald, snow-clad mountain ridge.

  “That’s probably all made of lava,” Joe declared, moving off a few paces to get a better look. Not far away an open jeep was parked on the side of the roadway, its hood lifted. A boy about their own age was tinkering with the motor.

  Frank, Joe, and Chet casually walked over to him. “Find the trouble?” Frank asked.

  The youth smiled at them. With a slight accent he replied, “Something’s wrong with the carburetor.”

  “Let’s take a look,” Joe said. “Maybe we can help.”

  “Sure, be my guest.”

  The American colloquialism surprised the Hardys. “Oh, you’ve been in the States?” asked Frank.

  “Yes, just got back a couple of days ago. My name is Gudmundur Bergsson.” The boy wiped his hands on a piece of cloth and shook hands with the three. “Just call me Gummi.” He told them that he was a student at a flying school in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and was learning to be a mechanic. “Now I’m home for spring vacation,” he concluded.

  Before Frank and Joe could examine the stalled motor, the loudspeaker blared: “Paging Frank and Joe Hardy!”

  The boys looked up in surprise.

  “Paging Frank and Joe Hardy,” the announcer said again.

  Joe started into the building, but Frank restrained him. “Not so fast, Joe. Nobody was to meet us here. Maybe it’s another kidnapping attempt!”

  “That’s right,” Chet chimed in. “We can’t be too careful.”

  Gummi looked on, bewildered by the unusual conversation. “Somebody is trying to catch you guys?” he asked.

  Frank nodded and said to Chet, “Just stroll inside and see who’s paging us.”

  Chet left, returning a few minutes later. “A short, heavy-set guy with long blond hair and a mustache. Look, here he comes now!”

  A square-looking man, his hair flowing, walked from the building. Frank and Joe ducked behind the jeep. The fellow looked right and left before climbing into a small foreign car. Then he drove off.

  Frank glanced around for a taxi, but they had all gone. “I wish we could have followed him,” he said disappointedly.

  Gummi looked at the boys dubiously. “Hey, what’s all this? Are you a couple of spies or something?”

  Frank grinned. “We’re detectives.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Look, it’s a long story. We’ll tell you later.”

  Gummi went to his tool kit without asking further questions, and before long, he and Frank had disassembled the carburetor.

  “There’s your trouble,” Frank said, and wiped a piece of sludge from the intake.

  Gummi laughed. “I can get you a mechanic’s job in Reykjavik any time you want,” he said and started the engine. “Where are you fellows staying?”

  “The Saga Hotel in Reykjavik,” Joe replied.

  “Want a ride into town?”

  “Great!”

&nbs
p; The boys got their bags and climbed into the jeep. On the way, they told Gummi about their search for Rex Hallbjornsson.

  “Seems like looking for a needle in a haystack,” the Icelandic boy commented. “There are two hundred thousand people on this island.”

  “How big is it?” Frank wanted to know.

  “East to west about three hundred miles. Larger than Ireland, but we have not nearly as many inhabitants.”

  “What do people do for a living here?” Joe asked.

  “Most of our income is derived from fishing,” Gummi explained as he drove along a curving road hugging the rugged coastline. Not a tree was in sight. Only black lava formations.

  Frank pointed to small piles of stone along the road. “What are these for?”

  “They guided winter travelers in the olden days,” Gummi replied. “And that village over there to the left is Hafnarfjordur.”

  As they entered the outskirts of Reykjavik, Gummi said, “When the first settlers came to this harbor, called a ‘vik,’ they saw steam coming from the ground in the distance. Thinking it was smoke, or ‘reykja,’ they called the place Reykjavik.”

  Gummi drove along a wide street lined with buildings which were faced with corrugated iron. The roofs were gaily painted in apple green, white, blue, or yellow.

  “Quite a colorful place,” Chet commented as he banged the side of the car with his right hand.

  “Are you practicing karate, too?” Gummi asked. “It’s the craze in our school right now. But Icelanders like wrestling better.”

  Finally they reached the center of town, where a small plaza was decorated with red-white-and blue bunting and American flags.

  Joe grinned. “Boy, they must have known we were coming!”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d believe it.” Gummi chuckled. “This is in honor of three U.S. astronauts who came here to study our lava surface, which is very similar to the terrain on the moon.” He rounded a corner and pulled up in front of a modern white hotel located at the hub of three radiating roads. “Here you are.”

  The boys jumped out, unloaded their baggage, and thanked Gummi. He gave them his address and phone number. “Call me any time if you need help,” he said. “I’ll take you around in my jeep.”