Mystery of the Whale Tattoo

by Franklin W. Dixon

  The clerk shrugged. “He’s in room 2-D. Up the stairs and to your left. Second floor.”

  “Thanks,” Frank said.

  Grinning with excited anticipation, the three ascended the stairs, walked softly down the hall, and stopped in front of 2-D.

  Frank put an ear to the door and listened for a while. Someone was moving quietly about. Since there was no conversation, Frank assumed the person inside was alone. He stepped back and beckoned to the others.

  “We don’t know what to expect,” Frank whispered, “so let’s be ready for anything. Joe, you and Chet each get on one side of the door. I’ll knock. Ready?”

  Frank whispered, “Let’s be ready for anything!”

  Chet and Joe took up their positions and nodded. Frank tensed his muscles and prepared himself for instant action. He clenched his hand into a fist and rapped loudly upon the door.

  Silence. Frank knocked again, this time even louder.

  “Just a minute,” came the muffled reply.

  Footsteps approached, then the door was flung open. A well-built man stood before them.

  Frank’s eyes bulged and his jaw dropped. “Dad!” he gasped.

  CHAPTER XIV

  An Airport Snatch

  “FRANK!” exclaimed Mr. Hardy in astonishment. “What in the world are you doing here?”

  The detective was even more amazed when Chet and Joe stepped into view. He glanced up and down the hall to make sure no one had witnessed the meeting, then beckoned the boys inside.

  Mr. Hardy was dressed in old work clothes. His hair was dyed gray and his face made up to look old. Though the masquerade was effective, Frank and Joe would have recognized their father’s tall figure and handsome countenance anywhere.

  “Don’t tell us you got tattooed just to make your disguise authentic!” Frank said, looking at the blue anchor on the back of Fenton Hardy’s left hand.

  The sleuth laughed. “No, it’s only a semipermanent ink. It’ll wash out with a few good scrubbings.”

  “Spike Marlin, what a name!” Joe grinned. “Takes real talent to make that up!”

  “Don’t you know you’re looking at a genius?” his father quipped.

  When the boys made themselves comfortable, Frank asked what connection Whitey Meldrum had with the Ivory Idol.

  His father explained, “The back of the envelope in which the letter to R. R. Dunn was sent was sealed with cellophane tape. I managed to take a good thumbprint from the tape. It proved to be Meldrum’s. Now, may I ask what interest you boys have in our elusive Mr. Meldrum?”

  Joe told about the scrap of paper bearing Meldrum’s name which had been found in Boko’s wagon.

  “That links Meldrum pretty well with Boko,” Mr. Hardy said. “And probably a man named Tim Varney, too.”

  “Tim Varney!” Frank exclaimed. “How does he fit into your case?”

  “I’m not sure yet. All I know for certain is that Meldrum left here in a hurry after an argument with Tim Varney.”

  Excitedly the brothers filled their father in on all they knew about Tim Varney and his confederates.

  “It’s beginning to look more and more as if there’s only one case, and not two, as we thought at first,” Frank noted.

  “That’s a very strong possibility,” Fenton Hardy agreed.

  “Well, what do we do next?” Joe asked.

  Mr. Hardy smiled. “I think the most pressing matter at hand is to get some supper.”

  “Hear! Hear!” Chet said. The Hardys laughed and the quartet walked down the stairs.

  “Your friends found you okay—huh, Spike?” the clerk commented.

  “Yeah,” Mr. Hardy replied in a gruff voice. “Thanks for sendin’ ’em up.”

  “Sure thing.”

  A sallow-faced man appeared behind the clerk, a dirty duffel bag in his hands. “Hey,” he said, “what am I supposed to do with these old shirts of Meldrum’s?”

  “I don’t know,” the clerk answered. “Maybe we should dump ’em. We ain’t runnin’ a storehouse.”

  “Did you say that duffel belongs to Whitey?” Mr. Hardy asked.

  “Yeah. It’s full of dirty shirts.”

  “Look,” said the detective. “No sense in dumpin’ ‘em. I’ll keep ’em until ol’ Whitey comes back.”

  The clerk took the duffel and plopped it on the counter. “Help yourself.”

  Mr. Hardy picked up the bag and casually went back up the stairs. The boys followed. Once back inside 2-D, they locked the door and took the durfel over to the bed.

  “Cross your fingers, boys,” Mr. Hardy said. “If we’re lucky, we might pick up a clue or two.” He spilled the shirts onto the spread. There were a dozen of them, several stained and torn. Mr. Hardy and the boys began going through the pockets.

  “Here’s something!” Chet said. He handed an old faded piece of paper to Mr. Hardy.

  The detective studied it and read aloud: “ ‘It’s getting worse every day. Don’t know what will happen to Jonah. The Hong Kong job turned out to be a real flop. I’ll let you know what happens. J. Kane.’ ”

  “Wow!” said Joe. “We know now that Kane was one of the thieves who stole the Ivory Idol. But we can’t get anything from him. He’s dead.”

  Mr. Hardy was surprised to hear this and continued to search through the rest of the shirts, with negative results. Then, leaving no stone unturned, Frank pulled the duffel bag inside out and examined it. Close to the bottom seam he spotted a line of words in small letters, printed with India ink. “Listen to this!” he said. “‘Society of the Whale Tattoo: Blackright, Beluga, Blue, Bottlenose, and Pygmy.”’

  “That’s great, Frank,” Mr. Hardy said. “From the thumbprint we know that Meldrum is Blackright, but who are the others? Tim Varney? Maybe Boko?”

  “And is this really a society?” Joe asked. “Or an old gang?”

  Mr. Hardy became silent. After thinking for a while, he said, “Frank and Joe, how would you like to take a fast trip to Los Angeles?”

  “Sure,” Joe said. “What for?”

  “To nail down this Society of the Whale Tattoo. The Los Angeles Police Department has the most extensive file on tattoos in the world of criminology. They arrest more than two hundred thousand persons each year, and every tattoo they find is recorded. Their file has been indispensable in breaking several difficult cases.”

  “Okay,” Frank said. “We can catch a plane tonight and grab some sleep during the flight.”

  “What about me?” Chet asked.

  “If you don’t mind,” Mr. Hardy said, “I’d like you to stay here and lend me a hand.”

  “All right,” Chet said. “But as long as we have the details settled, what about that food we were going out for?”

  They went to a small Italian restaurant, and after dinner walked back to the Seamen’s Haven.

  While Frank and Joe looked for a taxi, Mr. Hardy conferred briefly with Chet. The chubby boy accompanied the brothers to the parking lot where they had left their car. Next, Frank and Joe dropped Chet and his suitcase off at Seamen’s Haven, then headed for Kennedy Airport.

  They parked and took their luggage from the trunk of the car. “I sure hope we can find some answers,” Joe said as they walked to the terminal.

  “So do I,” Frank answered. “Blackright won’t be wasting much more time on R. R. Dunn. There are a great many wealthy art collectors in this country, and unfortunately, not all of them are as scrupulous as Mr. Dunn. If Blackright contacts one of them, the Ivory Idol may disappear forever!”

  They checked in at the ticket counter and were told that the next flight to Los Angeles did not leave for another hour and a half. Frank bought tickets, had their luggage tagged and put on the conveyor belt, then walked with Joe into the main lobby, where they bought two magazines at a newsstand. They found an isolated grouping of chairs and sat down to read.

  Soon they were engrossed in their magazines. There was a rustle in the chair next to Frank but the boy did not look up. He was turning
a page when a gruff voice said:

  “Hello, brats!”

  Startled, Frank discovered Mug sitting beside him! A quick glance revealed that Joe was flanked by Baby Face. Joe started to move, but Frank waved him back, realizing that if Mug and Baby Face were confronting them in the open, the two thugs must have a pretty good trick up their sleeves.

  “That’s good thinkin’,” Mug said. “You guys don’t want to make a scene here.”

  “Yeah,” Baby Face gloated. “Get up nice and quiet and take a little walk to our car.”

  “Why?” Frank’s voice was cool.

  “One, so your old man with his dopey dyed hair and his fake tattoo won’t get hurt—and two, so your fat buddy stays just as healthy as when you dropped him off at Seamen’s Haven.”

  “You see,” Mug said with a sardonic smile, “our men are holding both of them. If anything happens to us, or if we don’t come back with you two, then nobody’ll see Daddy and Fatso again!”

  CHAPTER XV

  Tattling Tattoos

  “Now, I want you to walk real slow and calm between me and Baby Face. Remember, any funny business and you’ll be responsible for what happens.” Mug stood up. “Come on.”

  Frank and Joe left their chairs and began walking with Mug and Baby Face toward the exit.

  “You’re going to pay for this,” Joe said through clenched teeth.

  “Wrong!” Mug answered. “We’re going to get paid for this.”

  “That’s for certain,” Frank said. “But not the way you expect.”

  “Shut up!” Mug growled. “You guys have been a pain in the neck long enough and I don’t want to hear no more out of you.”

  The two thugs directed the boys through the parking lot to a large green sedan. Baby Face opened the door in the rear and told Frank to get in. Baby Face followed the dark-haired youth, then ordered Joe to enter.

  Mug went around the other side of the car and slid in behind the wheel. The big man lit a cigarette and stared idly out the window, smoking, as Baby Face quickly bound Frank’s and Joe’s wrists and ankles with stout rope.

  “On the floor!” he said when he had finished. “Quick, move!” He pushed the boys down and threw a blanket over them. “Okay, Mug. Let’s go!”

  The car started off with Frank and Joe cramped, hot, and uncomfortable. “We really botched this one,” Joe whispered. “We should have slugged it out with them right in the terminal.”

  “You know we couldn’t, Joe.”

  “I guess you’re right. But what if it was just a ruse? What if Dad and Chet are really all right?”

  A shoe slammed down on Frank’s back. “Shut up, you punks!” Baby Face grumbled.

  “Aw, let ‘em talk,” Mug said. “It ain’t gonna hurt nothin’. Besides, they won’t be talkin’ much longer!”

  Baby Face seemed to find this statement hilarious. His laughter sounded like a high-pitched whinny.

  “Frank,” Joe said desperately, “if we don’t think of something quick, we’re going to end up on the bottom of a river!”

  From the sounds of traffic, Frank guessed they were on an expressway. Mug drove at a steady speed for some ten minutes.

  “There’s the turnoff on the right,” Baby Face said.

  The car veered and a few moments later the sound of heavy traffic had been left behind. “That country road’s only two miles from here, Mug,” Baby Face directed. “Watch for an old scarred oak tree.”

  Frank and Joe had scraped their wrists raw trying to loosen their bonds, but to no avail.

  “Here we are,” Mug announced. “I’ll go right past that deserted farmhouse, and if there’s no one else on the road, I’ll turn around, come back, and park.”

  “Good.” Baby Face prodded Frank and Joe with his foot. “Say your prayers, punks, you’ve come to the end of the line!”

  The boys were sweating. “Joe,” Frank whispered, “we’ve got to hit them like wild demons when they drag us out of the car. Tied or untied. It’s our last chance!”

  “Right. We have nothing to lose.”

  Mug shouted suddenly, “Hey! What’s that crazy cab doin ’?”

  “Look out!” Baby Face yelled. “He’s gonna run you off the road!”

  There was the tearing sound of wrenching metal, and the car came to an abrupt halt. Frank and Joe heard car doors opening. Noises of a scuffle followed swiftly and Baby Face was dragged cursing from the rear seat.

  “Frank! Joe!” called a familiar voice.

  “Chet!” Frank yelled.

  The blanket was stripped away, and Chet Morton’s anxious face peered down at them. “Boy, what would you do without me to get you out of scrapes?” he said, pulling his pals from the sedan.

  Frank saw Baby Face shaking his head and trying to rise from the ground. Mug was wrestling with the driver of the taxi.

  “Get us untied, quick!” Frank said.

  Baby Face regained his feet and stood looking around groggily. Mug picked up a rock and hit the taxi driver on the head, stunning him. “Let’s get out of here!” he shouted.

  Baby Face needed no further urging. The two leaped into the car, and before Chet could untie the Hardys, it roared off.

  “Man!” said the taxi driver, rubbing his head. “You told me it’d be rough, but I didn’t think you meant getting clobbered!” He slowly scrambled to his feet.

  In the taxi on the way back to the airport, Chet explained that the first job Mr. Hardy had given him was to shadow Frank and Joe to make sure they got off all right. Chet had seen Mug and Baby Face take his buddies to the car and tie them.

  Afraid the criminals would be gone by the time he could get to a phone, Chet had jumped into a taxi and followed the sedan. He and the driver hoped to find a police car, but when they did not, Chet decided he had to go into action. He promised the driver that Mr. Hardy would pay him a reward for rescuing Frank and Joe.

  “Great going!” Frank praised.

  “Then Mug and Baby Face really were bluffing about holding you and Dad prisoners!” Joe said. “Were we ever fooled!”

  Having only ten minutes to catch their plane, the Hardys thanked their pal and the taxi driver as he drove into the airport. They raced to the departure gate and made it with seconds to spare. After the plane was airborne, both boys fell into a deep sleep, awakening when the captain announced that they were landing at Los Angeles.

  The Hardys spent the rest of the night at an airport motel, then went directly to the central offices of the Los Angeles Police Department, where they explained their mission to Sergeant Bill Thompson.

  “Come with me,” the officer said. “I’ll take you to the files.”

  On the way through the corridors, the sergeant told them that most tattooing was a form of exhibitionism. Originally, tattooing had been done for purposes of adornment and beauty. It was an ancient craft—practiced by the Egyptians nearly three and a half thousand years ago.

  Some people, like the Burmese and Maoris, had brought tattooing to the status of a very refined art. Tattoos, said the sergeant, could not be removed without leaving telltale scars and thus they were a good means by which to identify suspects.

  The sergeant muttered to himself as he went through the card file. “Whale ... whale ... whale ... Hundreds of ’em here.” Then his eyes lit up. “Wow! Are you in luck!” He handed Frank a card marked:

  WHALE, SOCIETY OF

  Only a glance was needed to tell the Hardys this was what they were looking for. The society had been founded by a high-wire artist known as J. Kane. He was only five-feet-three and weighed a hundred and five pounds.

  The names on the list found in the pocket of Meldrum’s shirt, Frank recalled, were Pygmy, Blackright, Beluga, Blue, and Bottlenose.

  “I think we can assume that Kane was Pygmy,” Frank said. “Look here. The other known members of the society are listed as Tim Varney and Whitey Meldrum.”

  “Meldrum is Blackright,” Joe remarked.

  “Right. And Tim Varney, because of the po
stcard from Mystic signed Beluga, is our best candidate for Beluga.”

  “That leaves us Blue and Bottlenose,” Joe went on. “Boko could be one or the other.”

  Thompson said he would have a photostatic copy made and took the boys to the police laboratory. Joe stopped short as they rounded a corner. He pointed to a Wanted poster on a bulletin board and exclaimed, “Baby Face!”

  Quickly they told Sergeant Thompson of their encounters with Baby Face. He took down the poster and let the Hardys examine it. Baby Face’s real name was Vinny Merks. His features were deceptive, for in reality he was in his late twenties.

  Merks, who had served time in a Federal penitentiary, often posed as a juvenile. He was wanted in California on a variety of charges, and at last report was suspected of working with a former cellmate named Mug Stine.

  The Hardys were exuberant over their discovery. When the copy of the file card was ready, they thanked the sergeant and left the police station. Since their return flight was not scheduled until the afternoon, Frank and Joe decided to go sight-seeing.

  “Where shall we start?” Joe asked, hailing a taxi outside police headquarters.

  “Where the action is,” Frank replied with a grin. “In Hollywood, of course. Maybe we can see some famous movie stars, too.”

  They asked to be let off at Hollywood and Vine. The world-famous intersection lived up to everything the boys had ever read about it, including two large groups of youths who took up positions on opposite sides of the street and began hurling insults at each other.

  “At the rate they’re going,” Frank noted, “they’ll be using fists before very long.”

  Joe was about to answer when he was seized from behind and dragged to a spot masked from public view by a truck that was backed up to a loading platform. As Frank spun to help Joe, a burly forearm choked off his windpipe.

  Their captors were Baby Face and Mug Stine! Baby Face flashed a long, wicked knife. “Tell us where the Ivory Idol is!” he demanded. “Or else!”

  CHAPTER XVI