The Sting of the Scorpion

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Aunt Gertrude described the peddler as a knobby-nosed man with sideburns, wearing a yellow knit sport shirt and checked summer slacks.

  “Neat description,” Frank said approvingly. “You make a good witness, Aunty.” He added with a slight frown, “Funny thing is, the guy sounds familiar, somehow.”

  Unfortunately, with no photographs of the Scorpio gang to go on, there was no way to identify the man as a member.

  The boys managed to corral the scorpion back into the plastic container and delivered it to the home of Thomas “Cap” Bailey, their science teacher and track coach at Bayport High, with whom they had once searched for fossils out West in a place called Wildcat Swamp. Cap verified Frank’s guess that the creature was a vinegaroon.

  “It’ll make a great specimen for our science collection,” he added. “Thanks, boys.”

  “Too bad we didn’t see those guys who ambushed us in the park yesterday,” Joe remarked as they drove home.

  “Or those creeps on Rocky Isle last night,” Frank said. “Then we might know for sure whether Aunt Gertrude’s phony peddler was one of the gang.”

  “I’ll bet anything he was,” Joe declared.

  “Likewise. But definite evidence would be better. Which reminds me, Joe, speaking of the park, we still haven’t checked out those two guys Pop Carter mentioned.”

  “You mean the ones who’ve been trying to buy him out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s call them as soon as we get home,” Joe suggested.

  After phoning, the boys made an appointment for an interview the following morning with Clyde Bohm at his real-estate office. The animal park magnate, Arthur Bixby, agreed to see them Thursday.

  After dinner that evening, the Hardys decided to find out whether or not there was anything in Joe’s notion that the mustached terrorist, Jemal Raman, might actually be the fired elephant trainer, Kassim Bey, who was believed to be dead.

  “I know it sounds far out,” Joe admitted, “but there must be some connection between these two cases we’re working on—the Scorpio gang causing the dirigible explosions and Pop’s trouble at Wild World. Take that pair who ambushed us in the woods. They warned us to keep out of the Safari Queen mystery, but the ambush happened at the park.”

  “Check. And that’s also where the hollow-tree code message was planted, along with the first scorpion,” Frank added. “And don’t forget the gang member who was hiding out on Rocky Isle. He was reading up on elephants!”

  “Right. Plus the fact that those green-light signals being flashed toward Rocky Isle came from the Ferris wheel at Wild World.”

  “I agree, Joe, there must be some connection; otherwise we’re up against too many coincidences. It won’t hurt to check out your hunch with Pop Carter.”

  As they drove down Elm Street, away from their house, Frank, who was at the wheel, suddenly muttered, “Oh-oh!”

  “What’s the matter?” Joe asked.

  “That parked car we just passed back there on the left. The guy in it had a mustache like Raman’s!”

  “Jumping catfish! You mean he’s got our house staked out?”

  “Could be. He’s not just sitting there for his health. But I didn’t want to slow down for a closer look. It might put him on guard, and then he’d take off before the police got here.”

  “Circle around the next block,” Joe proposed, “and come back on the same side he’s parked on.”

  “I intend to,” Frank said. “You give him a good once-over as we go by.”

  Much to the boys’ frustration, the car was gone by the time they returned.

  “He must have realized you spotted him,” Joe grumbled.

  When the Hardys arrived at Wild World, they were surprised to see Tony Prito and Phil Cohen on duty near the gate in the green-jacketed uniform of park attendants.

  “What are you fellows doing here?” Frank asked.

  “Three guesses.” Phil grinned.

  “We all got calls this morning,” Tony said.

  “What do you mean, ‘we all?’ ” Joe inquired.

  “Chet, Biff, Phil, and I, all four of us.”

  “Chet and Biff are here, too?” Joe asked, gazing around.

  Phil shook his head. “Not now. They work in the afternoon, while Tony and I have the evening shift. We each put in four hours a day.”

  “Nice going. Congratulations!” Frank said.

  “What about you?” Tony asked. “What brings you here? Just out for fun?”

  “Nope.”

  “I didn’t think so. What cooks?”

  Frank took out the photographs of Jemal Raman and explained Joe’s idea. “Even if Joe’s wrong, the guy might turn up in Bayport. In fact, he may be here already, so watch out for him. Dad spotted him in St. Louis and thinks there’s an outside chance he may be working with the Scorpio gang.”

  “We’ll keep our eyes peeled,” Phil promised.

  Pop Carter was glad to see the Hardy boys, but after glancing at Raman’s picture, he shook his head. “No. This fellow looks nothing at all like Kassim Bey.”

  The elderly park owner sighed and fingered his thinning white hair. “Anyhow, I’m sure Kassim’s dead.”

  Nevertheless, he thanked Frank and Joe for their efforts and was glad to hear that they would be checking on Clyde Bohm and Arthur Bixby.

  Next morning the boys went to keep their appointment at Bohm’s real-estate office. Joe backed the car out of the garage and started down the drive. But as he was turning into the street, Frank suddenly exclaimed, “Hey, hold it!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Look at those white marks on the front door!”

  Joe frowned. “Somebody scribbled something in chalk.” He stopped at the curb, and both boys hurried up the porch steps to inspect the strange marks.

  “These aren’t just scribbles,” Frank declared. “It looks to me like some kind of Oriental script. This must mean something!”

  “True.” Joe nodded. “And something tells me the meaning’s not pleasant!”

  CHAPTER XII

  Green Shadow

  FRANK had the same foreboding as his brother about the strange inscription chalked on the door. “Who do you suppose wrote it?” he wondered aloud.

  “That’s easy,” Joe said. “It’s got to be that mustached guy you spotted in the parked car last night.”

  “I think so, too, which makes me more certain he must’ve been Raman. He could have sneaked back here after we left for Wild World.”

  “Right. It was dark when we got home, and we went in the back door after you pulled into the garage, so we wouldn’t have noticed.”

  “Maybe we can find some professor at Ardvor College who can translate it for us,” the older Hardy boy suggested.

  “Smart thinking, Frank. Here—I’ve got some paper. Let’s copy it down.”

  It was nine fifteen when they arrived at the downtown offices of the real-estate firm of which Clyde Bohm was the local manager. He eyed them suspiciously as they were shown into his office, and, without rising, gestured curtly for the boys to sit down.

  “What is it you want to see me about?”

  Frank decided blunt frankness was the best policy. “About the Wild World animal park,” he said in a clear, firm voice.

  His words seemed to take Bohm by surprise. The manager snuffled nervously and retorted, “What about it?”

  “We’d like to know why you’ve tried so hard to buy Mr. Carter out.”

  “What business is that of yours?” Bohm demanded, blinking and squinting rapidly through his steel-rimmed glasses.

  “Mr. Carter’s been having certain troubles at Wild World,” Frank replied. “We’re investigating them for him, and we’re trying to get an overall picture of the situation. You seem to be part of the picture.”

  Bohm fiddled with his glasses and squinted at the boys more suspiciously than ever. “Exactly what is that remark supposed to mean?”

  “You’ve tried desperately to buy Wil
d World. Do you mind telling us why?”

  “Certainly not. I’ve made no secret of that. My company believes that land could be more profitably developed into an industrial site, or perhaps a shopping plaza.”

  Bohm suddenly rose to his feet and sniffed again. “You’ll have to excuse me a moment,” he said and went abruptly out the door.

  The Hardys looked at each other. Joe rolled his eyes, and, pointing to his head, twirled his forefinger rapidly. Frank grinned.

  Presently Clyde Bohm returned, still squinting and snuffling. He made no move to sit down, as if to make it clear to the boys that the interview was over. “Now then, I’m a busy man,” he said. “If you’ve nothing more important to talk about, I’m afraid I have other things to do.”

  “Just one more question, Mr. Bohm,” Frank persisted. He was determined to apply more pressure in the hope of extracting a possible clue from Bohm’s reaction. “Can you suggest any reason why someone might harass Pop Carter and try to drive him out of business?”

  “I’ve no idea,” snapped the real-estate man. “But you’d better not make any such charges against this company, if that’s what you’re implying, or you may find yourself facing legal action!”

  Frank rose from his chair calmly. “Mr. Carter may also have to consider taking legal action, if the harassment continues,” he said, leaving Bohm gaping open-mouthed at the Hardy boys as they walked out of his office.

  Outside, Joe chuckled. “You really took the wind out of his sails with that last crack, Frank!”

  “I hope so. He strikes me as a first-class creep!”

  “What do we do next?”

  “See what we can find out about Bohm and his real-estate company.”

  The boys got into their car and Frank drove several blocks through the business section to the Bayport Bank and Trust Company, where Fenton Hardy kept his professional accounts. In the lobby, he asked to speak to Henry Dollinger, the vice-president, who knew all the Hardys.

  “Howdy, boys.” Mr. Dollinger, a shrewd-eyed man with a gold watch chain across a slight paunch, greeted the brothers with a friendly smile and handshakes in his office a few moments later. “Can I help you?”

  “Hope so, sir,” Frank said. “We’re working on a case that involves a tract of land outside of town. We’ve just been talking to a real-estate man named Clyde Bohm. Is that name familiar to you?”

  Mr. Dollinger nodded. “Bohm, eh? Yes, I know him.”

  “Can you tell us anything about him? Is he an honest, reputable businessman?”

  The banker pursed his lips and frowned thoughtfully. “Well, let’s say I’ve never heard anything against him. But suppose I check with our credit department.”

  Lifting the phone, he dialed a number and carried on a low-voiced conversation for several minutes. Finally he hung up and turned to the Hardy boys again. “The real-estate company Bohm works for is a fairly large firm. He simply manages their local office, which was opened recently. From all reports, it’s a profitable, well-run business with no black marks on its record.”

  “What about Mr. Bohm himself?” Joe inquired.

  “That’s a little harder to say,” the banker replied. “He came to Bayport a month or two ago to take charge of the company’s new office here, so we have nothing on him before that. However, he does have a private account at our bank. So far none of his checks have bounced, and he hasn’t run up any bad debts that we know of.”

  The last words were spoken with a slight waving gesture and an offhand smile.

  Frank grinned back. “Thanks a lot, sir. We appreciate what you’ve told us.”

  As they drove off, Joe remarked, “Bohm may be a creep, but apparently he operates inside the law.”

  “So far, anyhow,” Frank agreed, “or at least so far as the bank knows. But that doesn’t clear him completely. It doesn’t prove he didn’t have some kind of sneaky part in causing Pop Carter’s troubles, like the stink bomb or the phony rumors about the park animals being rabid.”

  “You mean, trying to ruin attendance at Wild World so Pop would have to sell out?”

  “Right.”

  Joe nodded thoughtfully and scratched his head. “I guess it’s a mistake to judge a person’s character from the way he acts the first time you see him, but Bohm sure looks the part. I wouldn’t put it past him. What’s next on the schedule?”

  “How about running out to Ardvor College?”

  “Suits me.” Joe noticed his brother watching the rearview mirror. “Anything wrong?” he asked.

  “Don’t look now,” Frank said, “but I think we’ve got a tail.”

  “Since when?”

  “A green sedan with a radio antenna on its right front fender was behind us all the way from the real-estate company to the bank. Now it’s following us again.”

  “I’d say that’s no coincidence.”

  “So would I.”

  Frank pulled to the curb sharply and braked to a stop. As the green sedan went by, the boys caught a fleeting glimpse of a driver with a crew cut.

  Frank hastily started up, turned into an alley, emerged onto a residential block, then zigzagged through several side streets. When he finally headed for Ardvor College via a different route, there was no further sign of their shadow.

  “Looks as if you’ve shaken him,” Joe said, with a glance out the back window.

  “For the time being, anyhow.”

  Ardvor College was located in a nearby town. The Hardys drove to the administration building in the midst of a pleasant, tree-shaded campus. A secretary told the boys the dean was busy, but would see them in a few minutes.

  While they were waiting, Frank slipped out to the corridor on a sudden impulse and called Sam Radley from a phone booth.

  “What can I do for you?” the operative responded good-naturedly when he heard who was calling.

  “Does the name Clyde Bohm ring any bells?” Frank asked.

  “Not offhand,” Sam replied. “Who is he?”

  “A real-estate man who keeps pressuring the owner of Wild World to sell out. A middle-sized guy with glasses. Very ordinary-looking, except that he has this nervous tic—he keeps snuffling and squinting at you when you talk to him.”

  “Wait a minute,” Radley said in a slow, thoughtful voice. “That tic does ring a bell.”

  “Somebody in a case you and Dad have worked on?”

  “No. I doubt if you’d find him in Fenton’s crime files. But I recall some crook with a snuffling, squinting tic who was wanted a few years back on an out-of-state fugitive warrant. Let me check with the FBI and get back to you later.”

  “Thanks, Sam. I’d appreciate it.”

  When Frank returned to the office, the boys were told that the dean would see them. He was a tall, distinguished-looking man with a thick mop of silvering hair and a brisk, friendly manner. The Hardys had consulted him more than once before.

  “Another mystery?” he asked with a twinkle in his eyes as they shook hands.

  “You’ve guessed it, sir,” said Frank. “It has something to do with those dirigible explosions Monday morning. One of the crew is named Maris, Hector Maris, and according to the personnel records, he went to Ardvor College. We wondered if you could tell us anything about him.”

  “Maris, hmm.” The dean frowned briefly. “Oh, yes, Hector Maris. I recall him now. Very nice young chap. Graduated a year ago. He’s not under suspicion of anything, I hope?”

  “Not exactly,” Joe said. “In fact we’re wondering if there may be a mixup in identities.”

  “I see. Well, the Hector Maris who attended Ardvor got very good marks as I recall. He was a pre-med student. Also on the swim team.”

  “A pre-med student?” Frank echoed and exchanged a puzzled glance with Joe. “Why would a pre-med student apply for a job on a dirigible crew?”

  “Good question,” said the dean, pinching his upper lip thoughtfully. “Maybe he couldn’t raise the money to continue his education. Or perhaps he wasn’t accepted at an
y medical school. There’s intense competition among applicants, you know. But let me just check our files.”

  The dean pressed a switch on his intercom and spoke to his secretary. A few moments later, she brought in a folder bearing the name Hector Maris.

  “Now then, let’s see what we have on him,” said the dean, opening the folder. “Ah, perhaps this picture of him would help to clear up any confusion. All students here at Ardvor are required to include a photo with their entrance application.”

  Frank and Joe were startled as they looked at the form the dean handed them. The young man shown in the attached photo was blond and stocky. But the Hector Maris Joe had photographed aboard the Safari Queen was dark and slender!

  Frank scanned the application data hastily before handing the form back to the dean. “Thanks, sir. You’ve cleared up one question, at least. This isn’t the fellow we’re investigating.”

  “He’s the only Hector Maris who attended Ardvor,” the dean reported after having his secretary double-check the files.

  Frank nodded. “Which means either someone’s goofed in the Quinn Air Fleet personnel department, or somebody’s trying to pull a fast one.”

  “There’s one other thing you might be able to help us on, sir,” Joe put in, handing the dean the piece of paper on which he had copied the inscription chalked on the Hardys’ front door. “We think this may be some kind of Oriental script.”

  The dean studied the odd markings. “Yes, I agree.”

  “Could someone please translate it for us?”

  “Hm. Yes. I think our professor of Oriental studies may be able to help.” Picking up the phone, the dean arranged for the boys to meet Professor Meister, who proved to be an elderly, pipe-smoking man with bushy eyebrows. He needed only a brief look at the markings to translate them.

  “These are three words in Hindi, a language spoken in India and written in the Devanagari script. Hoshiar! Bura kismet!”