Frank and Joe nodded. “Of course.”
“The fact is, Jarman Ventures is moving into the lighter-than-air field.”
“You’re building a dirigible yourself?” Joe asked with keen interest.
The businessman nodded. “My aircraft division has already laid the keel of one even larger than Quinn’s. It’ll be called the Globe Girdler to indicate its worldwide flight range. So naturally I’m pretty angry over what happened yesterday.”
“You mean,” Frank said, “the bad publicity?”
“Exactly. Anything harmful to his dirigible is bound to affect my project, too. That’s why I want to do anything I can to help nab these filthy terrorists. And that’s why I contacted you two.”
“Believe me, sir,” Frank declared, “we’re as anxious to round up the Scorpio gang as you are. And we’ll be happy to follow up any leads you can provide.”
“Good. Then I’ll instruct my security department to pass along any clues they uncover.”
“What got you interested in the lighter-than-air field, Mr. Jarman?” Joe inquired.
“The tremendous future I see for it. Matter of fact, we’ve been building blimps, which are non-rigid airships, for several years.”
The Hardys exchanged surprised grins.
“Those little ones we saw this morning wouldn’t be yours by any chance, would they?” Joe inquired.
“You bet they would!” Eustace Jarman replied with a pleased smile. “I keep them berthed right here on the roof of this skyscraper.”
He got up from his desk again and strolled across the room to gaze out the huge floor-to-ceiling window of his penthouse office.
“Here they come now!” he said.
Frank and Joe both joined the industrialist. Looking east, they could see the two little craft over Manhattan.
“I got the idea of sending them up on the spur of the moment, when the Safari Queen appeared over New York,” Jarman related proudly. “Then I had my public-relations department phone all the news agencies and TV networks.”
“It made a terrific spectacle,” Frank said, genuinely impressed.
“I knew it would,” the tycoon boasted. “Unless I miss my guess, that scene will show up in news photos clear across the country. I expect it to generate as much publicity as those dirigible explosions yesterday morning.”
Jarman glanced at his watch, and the boys got the impression they were politely being dismissed. “I wish I could have lunch with you fellows, but I’m booked with some European manufacturers. You’ll have to excuse me. This is a high-pressure schedule I work under.”
He strode to his desk and picked up a pen. “Let me write you a check, though, to cover your time in coming here today.”
When the Hardys declined, Jarman promised to take them for a ride personally in one of his baby blimps on Thursday, and asked them to meet him at Bayport Airport at noon.
“We’ll really enjoy that, Mr. Jarman,” Frank said, shaking hands.
After leaving the tycoon’s office, the Hardys went down to the lobby.
“There are phone booths up ahead.” Joe pointed. “Maybe we ought to call home and see if anything’s happened.”
“Good idea. I hope they’ve heard from Dad!” Frank found enough coins in his pocket to cover the call and dialed the Hardys’ area code and home number. After depositing the amount of money requested by the operator, he was put through.
Aunt Gertrude’s voice came on the line. “Hardy residence,” she said crisply.
“This is Frank, Aunt Gertrude. We’re still in New York.”
“Well, make it brief. These long-distance calls cost money!”
“You’re telling me.” Frank grinned as he looked at his depleted stock of coins. “We just wanted to find out if anything has come up while we were gone.”
“Yes. You had a call from Sam Radley. It sounded important. He wants you boys to phone him right away!”
CHAPTER X
Mole Mystery
“OKAY, Aunt Gertrude, I’ll ring Sam as soon as I hang up.” Frank hesitated uneasily before adding, “No word yet from Dad, I suppose?”
“No, indeed—we’ve heard nothing so far.” Miss Hardy’s voice reflected her own anxiety. Then she reverted to her usual tart tone, like a top sergeant bracing up recruits. “But I don’t want you boys to worry about him. Do you understand? Just mind your own p’s and q’s, especially in a city as big as New York. The streets are dangerous these days, from all I hear. As for Fenton, he can take care of himself!”
“Thanks, Aunty, we’ll bear that in mind,” Frank said, comforted in spite of himself by her brisk, no-nonsense manner. “Tell Mother we’ll be home soon. ‘Bye now.”
He replaced the receiver in its cradle and shook his head in response to Joe’s questioning glance. “She says they haven’t heard from Dad. But we’re to call Sam Radley, which means I’d better get some more coins.”
After breaking a bill at a drugstore news counter, just off the lobby, Frank returned to the phone with his brother and rang his father’s long-time operative.
“Hi, Sam. This is Frank,” he said when the detective answered. “Aunt Gertrude gave us your message. Got something for us?”
“Sure have,” Radley replied. “I’ve traced Quinn’s ex-partner, Basil Embrow.”
“Nice going. What’s the scoop?”
“He’s now running a business called Embrow Exports in Manhattan. I figured you two might want to check him out while you were there.”
“Right. We’ll do that. What’s the address?”
The operative read it over the phone and Frank copied it down. “Thanks a lot, Sam,” he said and hung up.
“Lower Manhattan,” Joe noted, glancing at what Frank had written. “We can take the subway.”
Leaving the building, the boys were thrilled to see the two baby blimps directly overhead. The minicraft were just about to settle into their berths on the penthouse deck, high atop the skyscraper.
“Boy, I can hardly wait to ride in one of those things,” Joe said eagerly.
“Right. They’re tubby little cigars, but they do look like fun.”
The Hardys took a subway train downtown. Embrow Exports occupied a tenth-floor suite of offices in a dingy area, but the firm looked busy and prosperous.
“I’m not sure Mr. Embrow can see you,” a receptionist told the boys. “Have you an appointment?”
“No, but give him this, please,” Frank said. He wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to the young woman, who excused herself and took the message to her employer.
Joe shot his brother a quizzical glance. “What did you write?” he asked in a low voice.
“Just ‘Quinn Air Fleet.’ Let’s see if it works.”
Apparently it did. The receptionist soon returned and said that Mr. Embrow would see them.
The businessman wore a puzzled frown as the boys were ushered into his office. “What’s this supposed to mean?” he asked, flicking his finger. nail at the paper.
“Nothing in particular. It’s the only thing I could think of that might get us an interview,” Frank replied.
Embrow, a balding, raw-boned man, responded with a smile to Frank’s boyish grin. “Fair enough. At least you’re honest. Sit down and tell me what I can do for you. Am I mistaken in thinking you two are the sons of that famous detective?”
“No, sir, you guessed right,” Joe replied. “Fenton Hardy’s our father. In fact that’s why we’re here. We’re helping him on one of his cases.”
“Indeed? What sort of case?”
“It has to do with those dirigible explosions yesterday morning,” Frank replied.
Embrow sighed, nodded, and settled back in his chair. “I see. I thought there might be some connection.” He rolled a pencil back and forth between his palms for a moment and frowned. “Well, what would you like to know? Do I take it I’m under suspicion?”
“Why should you think that?” Frank inquired.
“Look! Let’s
not play games. I’m sure you’ve found out by this time that I used to be Lloyd Quinn’s partner and that we broke up after a quarrel. Why else would you be here?”
“Naturally we have to check out every angle,” Frank said.
“Sure, I understand that. But if you think I had anything to do with those explosions, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“Any comment you’d care to make about the case, Mr. Embrow?”
“Just one. No. Make that two. First, I hope you Hardys catch whoever’s responsible. And second, I wish Lloyd Quinn nothing but good luck.” Embrow grinned at the boys’ wary expressions and added, “Does that surprise you?”
Joe grinned back. “Well, it’s not exactly the sort of attitude we were led to expect.”
“I can imagine. Lloyd and I are both hot-tempered guys. We went at it hammer and tongs before we busted up. But that’s water over the dam. I’ve got too much going for me right here to waste any time harboring grudges.”
“How did you two meet?” Joe asked curiously.
“We served in the Navy together,” Embrow replied. “In blimps, on Atlantic-patrol duty. That’s what got us interested in dirigibles. We both made up our minds that someday we’d go into the field commercially.”
“Do you regret leaving?”
“Frankly, sometimes I do. It’s an exciting field with a great future. On the other hand, my export business has been highly successful, and I must say, I don’t envy Lloyd any of his present headaches.”
Joe nodded at a framed desk photograph that Embrow had been toying with as he spoke. It showed a youth in an academic cap and gown. “Is that your son?”
“Yup, it’s his high-school graduation picture.” Basil Embrow smiled proudly. “Quite a lad if I do say so, though I don’t see much of him these days.” He moved the photograph aside with a brisk back-to-business gesture and said, “Well, is there anything else I can tell you fellows?”
“No, sir. You’ve answered all our questions,” Frank replied, rising. “We appreciate your frankness.”
“And thanks for your time,” Joe added.
The boys shook hands with Embrow and left. Outside the building, they headed back to the subway entrance, a couple of blocks away.
“What do you think?” Joe asked his brother.
Frank shrugged. “Hard to say, but he seems a decent enough guy.”
“I agree. He’s not my idea of a sneaky saboteur.”
“By the way, why did you ask him about that high-school picture?”
Joe’s eyes twinkled. “Don’t tell me you didn’t spot it?”
“Spot what?”
“That mole next to the boy’s left eye.”
Frank stopped short with a gasp. “Now I get it! Just like that Quinn air crewman you photographed who was giving us the once-over!”
“Check. I snapped a shot of Embrow’s desk photo, too, with my pocket camera.”
“Good work!”
As soon as the boys arrived in Bayport, Joe developed his roll of film. Then he enlarged the picture of the youth in the desk photo and compared it with his shot of the air crewman.
“Hmm. The mole’s in the same place,” Frank mused, “and their faces are similar, but I’d hate to bet they’re the same person.”
“Ditto,” Joe agreed. “Besides, there’s at least five or six years’ difference in ages, and neither one of these blowups is ideal for identification purposes. Also, the name stenciled on the crewman’s coveralls isn’t Embrow. It’s H. Maris.”
“Which could be phony,” Frank pointed out. “He’d hardly apply for a job under his own name if there were enmity between his father and Quinn, especially if he were planning to sabotage the Safari Queen.”
“True, but it’s not that easy to get the kind of fake ID he’d need, like a social-security number and maybe a birth certificate and so on. Unless—wait a minute!” Joe snapped his fingers. “Do you suppose there might have been someone else filling in yesterday, doing some temporary maintenance work, and wearing Maris’s coveralls?”
“Let’s find out.” Frank picked up the phone, dialed the Quinn Air Fleet number, and was soon talking to Lloyd Quinn himself. But the air-fleet owner said no temporary help was ever employed, partly for security reasons and partly because of the high degree of specialized training needed for dirigible work.
“I had a call this morning from that pipeline company,” Quinn added glumly. “The one my next airship was supposed to haul supplies for. Needless to say, they heard about the midair explosions yesterday, and the way they’re talking now, they may cancel our contract, just as I feared.”
“At least it hasn’t happened yet,” Frank said, refusing to be discouraged. “We’ll do our best to crack the case before it does happen.”
He hung up without mentioning his family’s fears for his father’s safety.
Meanwhile, Joe was studying the computer printout data on the crew.
“Look. It says here Maris attended Ardvor College,” he remarked after listening to Frank’s report. “Why don’t we drop over there tomorrow and see what we can find out about the guy?”
“Good idea.”
Just then the phone rang. Frank picked up the handset and answered. His face burst into a happy smile as he heard the voice at the other end of the line.
“Dad! We’ve been worried about you. Are you all right?”
“Yes, son. I’m calling from Cleveland. Sorry I had to end our last conversation so abruptly.”
“What happened, Dad?” Joe put in. He had realized that Frank was speaking to their father and now he eagerly crowded close to the receiver.
“I discovered I was being watched,” Mr. Hardy replied.
“By whom?”
“A known terrorist. At least that’s who he looked like. I was calling on an airport phone. When he saw I’d spotted him, he snatched a traveler’s bag and hurled it at me, and then got away in the confusion.”
“You think the guy’s a member of the Scorpio gang?”
“It’s possible. The odd thing is, he was reported to have fled this country over a year ago. He’s a Hindu named Jemal Raman, and at that time I was investigating him for acts of terrorism against his own government’s embassies over here.”
Fenton Hardy explained that he had gathered enough evidence against Raman so that the U. S. Immigration Service was preparing to deport him. But before a hearing could be held, the Hindu escaped aboard a freighter, evidently fearing arrest.
After listening to the boys’ report of their own activities, the detective advised them to keep an eye out for Raman. “He could be vengeful and dangerous. Better check him out in my files.”
“Will do, Dad,” Frank promised. After hanging up, he got Jemal Raman’s dossier from the crime file in his father’s office so he and Joe could study its contents. These included three long-range telephotos, snapped without the subject’s awareness. They showed Raman to be dark-skinned, with a drooping mustache.
“Do you suppose this could be the snoop we spotted at our boathouse this morning?” Frank asked, with a glance at his brother.
“Sure looks like him.” Joe was startled as he examined the photos closely. “Jumping catfish! Notice how his mustache curves down on each side of his mouth?”
“What about it?”
“With a black chin-beard, this guy might even fit Pop Carter’s description of that elephant trainer, Kassim Bey!”
Before Frank could reply, a scream rang through the house!
CHAPTER XI
The Knobby-Nosed Peddler
“THAT’S mother!” Frank cried.
Joe dropped the photos and both boys dashed into the kitchen. They found their mother backing away from a huge scorpion!
The horrid-looking creature, now poised on the kitchen counter, was brown and hairy and about six inches long. Mrs. Hardy, pale, stared at it with a shocked expression, holding one hand over her mouth. In her other hand she held a wide-mouthed plastic container.
&nbs
p; “Out of the way! I’ll swat the nasty thing!” exclaimed Aunt Gertrude as she burst in from the dining room. Brandishing a fly swatter, she advanced on the scorpion with lethal intent.
“No. Don’t kill it!” Frank protested. “It’s an interesting specimen.”
“Interesting, my hat!” sniffed Aunt Gertrude. “That creature may be deadly!”
“I’m not so sure. Where did it come from?”
“Out of here,” Mrs. Hardy replied in a shaky voice, holding up the plastic container.
Frank and Joe examined the label, which bore the name Vinegareen. But no manufacturer’s name or address was shown.
Joe glanced at his mother, puzzled. “Where’d you get this, Mom? At the supermarket?”
“Certainly not!” Aunt Gertrude cut in, in a scandalized voice. “I got it this morning from a door-to-door peddler.”
“Some phony!” said Joe angrily. “What did he tell you?”
“That he was handing out free samples of a new food product. Said it was highly condensed, and mixed with water, it would give a particularly rich, flavorful form of vinegar.”
The spinster paused to examine the plastic container. “Hmph. Empty, is it?”
“It is now,” Frank said drily.
“I might have known there was something wrong with such an offer. I thought at the time the fellow looked suspicious. ‘That man’s got a criminal type of face,’ I said to myself. ‘He’ll come to no good end!”’
Miss Hardy seemed as annoyed about being cheated out of the expected free sample as she was about the sinister trick that had been played.
The boys smothered grins, then Frank turned anxiously back to their mother. “It didn’t sting you, did it?”
“No, but it frightened me out of my wits.”
“I don’t blame you. That thing really looks scary.”
With a shudder, Mrs. Hardy went on, “When I opened the container, it crawled out on my hand! I had to shake it off in the sink.”
“It’s a wonder it didn’t sting you,” Joe said.
“From what I read in the encyclopedia,” Frank said, “I’ve a hunch this is a whip scorpion called a vinegaroon, a kind that’s found in the southwestern United States and Mexico. It’s called that because it emits a vinegary odor when aroused, just as this one’s doing. Many people think they’re highly venomous, but the scientists who study scorpions say they are not.”
The Sting of the Scorpion Page 6