The Missing Chums

by Franklin W. Dixon

“It’s a good guess.”

  The boys covered the mile of beach to their boat, quickly pulled off the improvised camouflage, and launched her. Frank headed down the coast toward Bayport and the Hardy boathouse. When the boys had debarked, they donned their street clothes again. Carrying their burlap bags, they emerged from the boathouse and mounted their motorcycles. It was well past midnight.

  When the Hardys reached police headquarters, they were amazed to see Chief Collig in his office. He looked tired and somewhat dejected.

  “I’ve been working night and day on the bank robbery case and the mystery of your friends,” he said. “I’m afraid that the boys have been kidnaped.”

  “That’s what we fear,” Frank said. He showed the gorilla head mask and sleeve of Chet’s costume and told of the boys’ run-in with Sutton.

  “I’ll send men out there to make a thorough search,” Collig said.

  “We’ll go with them!” Joe volunteered eagerly.

  “We’d better not,” Frank countered. “Once the men at Shantytown see us with the police, we won’t be able to work under cover there.”

  Regretfully, Joe agreed.

  Chief Collig rose, strode around the desk, and clapped each of the young sleuths on the shoulder. “Thanks, boys! You’ve brought in the first two leads I’ve had on this case,” he said. “If we find Chet and Biff, I’ll call you at once.”

  Frank and Joe hurried home through the silent streets. When they let themselves into the house, they saw a light in Fenton Hardy’s upstairs study. Frank knocked.

  “Come in,” called the detective. When his sons entered, he pushed aside some papers on his desk. “What did you find out today?”

  He leaned back in his big leather chair and listened carefully as his sons gave an account of their day’s progress.

  When it was finished, their father said, “If Collig doesn’t find Chet and Biff in Shantytown tonight, and they were kidnaped, their parents should receive ransom notes soon.”

  “Perhaps they will come tomorrow,” Frank suggested. He turned to his father. “Do you think Chet and Biff’s disappearance could have anything to do with the bank robbery?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “In that case, maybe you’d let us give you a hand on the bank robbery case, Dad.”

  “As a matter of fact,” the detective replied, “if Collig hadn’t offered you the Shantytown problem, I would have asked your help on this one.”

  Frank and Joe looked perplexed. “But the bank robbery hadn’t happened then!” Joe protested.

  Mr. Hardy smiled briefly. “For some time I have been working secretly to round up a certain ring of bank robbers who operate on a national scale.”

  “I see,” said Frank. “And they committed the Bayport holdup?”

  “I believe so. It looks like their work. I’ve learned that the gang is broken up into a number of teams,” Mr. Hardy explained. “Somewhere on the West Coast is the ringleader who assigns each ‘team’ to rob a local bank in a different part of the country. The scheme is very well organized.”

  The boys went to bed, hoping to be disturbed by a call from the police, telling them good news, but none came. In the morning Joe called headquarters, then relayed a disappointing report to his family. “The police didn’t find Chet and Biff, but they picked up pieces of their costumes on piles of half-charred paper trash in different parts of Shantytown. Someone didn’t know the outfits were fireproof and tried to burn them.”

  “Then our pals were taken there and later moved somewhere else,” Frank declared. “But where?”

  He and Joe were so upset they could hardly eat breakfast. The other Hardys, who also were fond of Chet and Biff, were greatly sobered.

  “Oh, I almost forgot something,” said Mrs. Hardy. “A letter came for you boys in this morning’s early mail.” She handed Frank a plain white envelope. “It’s postmarked Northport, yesterday.”

  Frank looked at it. “The writing is familiar,” he remarked, “but there’s no return address.”

  He tore open the envelope, took out a picture postcard, and scanned the message.

  Frank’s eyes widened. “Listen to this!” he exclaimed. “ ‘Having a wonderful time. Don’t worry about us.’ And it’s signed ‘Chet and Biff’!”

  The rest of the family stared in amazement. Aunt Gertrude snorted indignantly. “Having a wonderful time, indeed! Everyone worried sick, police searching all over the map for them, and they’re having a wonderful time!”

  “But what a relief!” Mrs. Hardy said warmly. “I’ll call Mrs. Morton and—”

  “Wait a minute,” Mr. Hardy cautioned. “It may not really be from the boys.”

  “This is Chet’s handwriting,” Frank said.

  Joe had jumped from his chair to examine the card. “Yes, it is,” he affirmed. “The picture is of Waterfront Street in Northport. Looks like an old card,” he added, passing it to his father.

  “Why do you think it was mailed in an envelope?” Mrs. Hardy asked, puzzled.

  “So no one would read the message until it got here,” suggested Joe.

  “Why didn’t they telephone?” Aunt Gertrude asked tartly. “It’s even quicker.”

  “I think they would if they could, Auntie,” Frank replied. “Chet and Biff know better than to worry everybody this way. They’re prisoners!”

  “Anyway, we know they’re alive,” said his mother. “That in itself is good news.”

  “Will you call Mrs. Hooper and Mrs. Morton and tell them?” Frank requested his mother. She nodded.

  “And I’ll notify the police,” Mr. Hardy added. “By the way, they looked for the thieves’ fingerprints on Chet’s jalopy and your motorboat, but didn’t find any.”

  “I suppose the robbers wore gloves,” Frank remarked.

  As Joe went back to his chair, he said, “I think we ought to run up to Northport and see if we can trace this card.”

  Mr. Hardy looked thoughtful. “The bank robbers stole their getaway car in Northport.”

  “And the fellow who tried to ram the Sleuth,” Frank added, “may have come down from there after watching the regatta.”

  “Don’t forget,” said Joe, “he’s a pal of Sutton’s.”

  “Northport might provide clues to Chet and Biff, the bank robbery, and the Shantytown trouble,” Frank concluded.

  The boys finished their breakfast and rode to the Hardy boathouse. As Joe stepped into the Sleuth, he kicked off his moccasins. The next moment he cried, “Ouch—hey! Broken glass!” He lifted the floor rack. “There’s a whole mess of it in the bottom. Looks like a soda bottle.”

  “That’s funny,” said Frank. “We didn’t notice any yesterday.”

  “That’s because the glass was all hidden under the rack,” Joe pointed out. “This piece was forced up between the slats overnight by the rocking of the boat.”

  While he gingerly extracted a sliver of glass from his toe, Frank picked up the jagged fragments. “These weren’t here the day before the robbery,” he broke in excitedly. “We took out the rack and emptied the boat completely. It’s a clue, Joe! We’ll put these pieces together at home.”

  He found some cheesecloth in the dashboard compartment, gathered all the glass fragments into it, and put the little bundle in his pocket. Joe, meanwhile, stuck a small bandage on his foot and put on his shoes.

  After filling the tank with fuel, the boys headed for Northport. The motorboat streaked across the bay, with Frank at the wheel. Skillfully he throttled down a bit as his craft moved into the long, dark swells of the Atlantic.

  Steadily the Sleuth plowed northward. Joe shaded his eyes with his hand as dots of land appeared off the coast ahead. “There are the islands where Chet and Biff wanted to camp,” he noted. “Say! They’re pretty isolated—and would be likely spots for hiding kidnap victims! We ought to search them if we don’t find some clue to the boys in Northport.”

  “I’ll pass them as close as I can,” Frank offered. “Maybe we’ll see something.
”

  One by one the line of islets could be seen. Though the Hardys watched carefully, they saw only sand, pines, and huge stone formations. Some of the islands were surrounded by dangerous half-submerged rocks.

  “We’re getting close to Jagged Reef,” Joe reminded his brother. “Better take her out. Those rocky teeth can bite the bottom of a boat!”

  Frank turned the Sleuth’s prow seaward. As he revved up the engine, however, he was startled by a shout from Joe.

  “Hold it! There—submerged just off those rocks—” Joe pointed to a little island. “It looks like the wreck of a motorboat!”

  Immediately Frank throttled down and headed toward the spot. Finally he let the engine idle. “I don’t dare go any closer,” he said. “Can you see her from here?”

  “Only the outline,” reported Joe, who was standing up now with one foot on the gunwale. “Looks as if she hit a rock close to shore and sank. She’s a good size.”

  “Those fragments on the rock look black,” Joe noticed. “So does the outline. Say, do you suppose it’s the boat that nearly hit us—the Black Cat?”

  “We can find out,” Frank said promptly. “Our underwater equipment is in the locker. Take the wheel. I want to get a look.”

  Quickly Frank donned a face mask with a wide glass plate. Leaning over, he put his head in the water and strained to see the wreck more clearly.

  Lifting his face, he exclaimed, “It is black! I can’t tell if it’s the Black Cat at this distance. Keep her in close, Joe. Why are we drifting away?”

  “Can’t help it.” Desperately Joe yanked at the wheel. “We’re caught in the current!” he exclaimed frantically.

  While the boys had been intent on the sunken hull, the swift, strong current had caught their craft. The Sleuth was being rushed toward the deadly rocks of Jagged Reef!

  CHAPTER IX

  The Old Salt’s Story

  BUFFETED by the current, the Sleuth plunged out of control toward the line of white exploding spray, where the sea’s swell smacked against the barrier reef.

  Joe bore down hard on the wheel as the churned-up waters, falling back from the rocks, seethed underneath. The din of crashing waves was terrific, but above it could be heard the powerful throb of the Sleuth’s engine.

  “If I could only turn her!” Joe thought.

  For an instant the motorboat seemed to stand still in the midst of the boiling waters. The engine and treacherous current pulled with equal strength in a fierce tug of war. Then, slowly, the sturdy craft inched her way seaward under Joe’s guidance.

  “She did it!” Frank whooped in relief. “What a boat! And nice piloting, Joe!”

  The Sleuth gathered speed and Joe took the boat out a safe distance from the reef.

  “Too bad we couldn’t find out if that sunken boat was the Black Cat,” he remarked. “But maybe we can learn something about the wreck when we get to Northport.”

  “First we should trace the postcard,” Frank said. He pulled it from his pocket and looked at it again carefully. “This is so old, it probably was bought in a place that doesn’t sell many,” he commented.

  “The edges are yellow and the picture is out of date. There haven’t been trolleys on Waterfront Street for years. As soon as we get there, let’s look for a little hole-in-the-wall store.”

  Frank studied the card from all angles. “Joe, look!” he exclaimed, and pointed to the thin edge. There was a blue stain. “Ink,” Frank judged. “If it was spilled on the whole batch of cards, the others will have similar blots. We’ll look for that.”

  It was well past noon when the boys sighted Northport on their left. Passing between a pair of entrance buoys, the Sleuth came off the swelling ocean onto the calm surface of a small, well-protected harbor.

  On one side a forest of thick masts rose from a fleet of sturdy fishing boats. At the far end of the bay, bright-colored pleasure craft rode at anchor. Slender, pencillike masts marked the sailboats. On the shore nearby were the yellow wooden skeletons of boats under construction.

  Joe guided the Sleuth toward a large dock with gasoline pumps, which extended into the water from the boatyard.

  “This must be the yard that sponsored the regatta,” Frank commented. “Bring her in, Joe.”

  Within minutes the young detectives had made their craft secure and scrambled onto the dock. They hurried down the wooden planking and turned onto Waterfront Street. There were restaurants, souvenir shops, and boat-supply stores. All of them were well kept and busy. The boys stopped in a luncheonette for a snack, then hurried on. They paused to look down the first intersecting street. It was narrow and shabby.

  “Let’s try the stores on this street,” Joe suggested.

  Halfway down the block, they found a small confectionery squeezed between a junk shop and an empty store. There was a sign HARRY’S on the window.

  As the boys went in, a musty smell hit them. When their eyes adjusted from bright sunlight to the dark interior, they saw a glass case of candy and a soda fountain with a broken stool. There was no one in the store.

  “Look!” Frank said, pointing to a rack of postcards on a shelf behind the candy case.

  As Joe stepped behind the counter to peer at them, a door opened in the rear of the store.

  “Don’t touch!” said a deep voice.

  The boys turned to see a big man lumbering toward them. He had a swarthy face with huge dark eyes and a heavy black mustache.

  “You want a postcard?” he asked shortly.

  “Yes, please,” Joe replied. The shopkeeper took the card rack from the shelf and placed it on the counter. “Pick out,” he ordered.

  Frank showed the man Chet’s postcard. “We want one like this. Some friends of ours bought it here yesterday, we think.”

  The man looked at them stonily. “Could be!” He pointed at the rack to some faded cards identical to the one Frank held. Joe lifted them out, held them up together, and squinted at the edges. There was the blue inkstain!

  “Do you remember the fellows who bought this one?” Frank asked casually, holding out the card from Chet and Biff.

  “You buying or asking questions?” the man inquired.

  “Both,” Frank told him with a smile.

  “I guess you don’t recall,” Joe said. “Two boys our age—one of them pretty chubby?”

  The man looked annoyed. “I remember who comes in my place,” he said hotly. “No kids. It was a big, bald fellow with a loud voice. He bought a lot of Fizzle soda. Second time in a week.”

  Frank and Joe exchanged glances. Both had the same recollection: the huge, bald-headed man in the Black Cat. Could he be the postcard purchaser ?

  Unable to learn more, the boys thanked the proprietor and purchased three postcards. Outside, they turned toward Waterfront Street.

  “Just as we suspected!” Joe burst out. “The postcard’s a phony. Somebody forced Chet and Biff to write it!”

  “And that somebody may be the bald man. But what’s his game? And is his buddy who piloted the Black Cat in on it too? What’s their connection with Shantytown, anyway?”

  “I’d sure like to get my hands on those two guys!” Joe declared. “They must know where Biff and Chet are.”

  The Hardys stopped at a nearby restaurant, where Frank telephoned Bayport police headquarters. He gave a report of their findings to Chief Collig.

  “Good lead,” said the officer. “That bald fellow might have a connection with your pals’ disappearance. I’ll send out a description of him. Keep up the good work.”

  The Hardys then went to the boatyard where they had left the Sleuth. “Maybe someone here knows about the Black Cat,” Joe said. “Let’s ask.”

  As the boys walked out on the docks, a wiry man bustled up to greet them. He had a lively, ruddy face and unruly black hair.

  “Hello, mates!” he called out. “I’m William Caine—I manage this dock. Need any gas? Repairs?”

  Frank spoke up. “What we really want, Mr. Caine, is some informat
ion.”

  The manager smiled. “We’ve got plenty of that, too. Come along.”

  The friendly man led the Hardys to his office, an old deck cabin, at one end of his dock. Inside, Frank and Joe looked about them curiously. The room was filled with all sorts of old sea articles—a barometer, a binnacle, and a huge pilot wheeL In addition, there were a desk, a filing cabinet, a typewriter, and a telephone.

  “Pretty snug, eh?” Mr. Caine chuckled. “It’s my little bit of sea on shore, now that my sailing days are over.”

  While Joe grinned appreciatively, Frank noted a limp object lying on top of the filing cabinet. “Excuse me, Mr. Caine,” he said. “What’s that?”

  The seafaring man followed Frank’s gaze. “Oh, that!” Carelessly he tossed it over.

  “A mask!” Frank exclaimed.

  “A gorilla mask!” Joe added. “Where did you get this, Mr. Caine?”

  “Kind of scary, ain’t he?” The old-timer chuckled. “We had a big masquerade party the last night of the regatta. I went as a gorilla.”

  The young sleuths studied the rubber face intently. “Coincidence,” Joe murmured.

  “Sure was a big regatta,” the manager went on. “People came from all over.”

  Joe nodded. “What we want to ask you about, Mr. Caine, is a good-sized inboard, painted all black, named the Black Cat.”

  “The Black Cat?” Caine raised his eyebrows. “Why, I own her!”

  “You do?” Frank exclaimed.

  “Sure. Nice fast boat, too. Where’d you see her?”

  “At Bayport, day before yesterday,” Joe replied. “She tried to ram us.”

  Caine looked astonished. “What happened?”

  “We pulled away from her.”

  “You fellows must have a pretty good boat yourselves!”

  “Who was piloting the Black Cat, Mr. Caine?” Frank asked. “Did he wreck her?”

  “I should say not! She’s tied up to the dock right this minute.”

  “We saw the sunken hull of a black boat off one of the islands,” Joe explained.

  “Oh, yes, the poor old Queen of Spades,” Mr. Caine replied. “Too bad she was wrecked. Like to have a look at my boat?”