The Mark of the Blue Tattoo

by Franklin W. Dixon

  McCay looked flustered. He bit his lower lip, then said, “Oh, um . . . I wanted to get a start on my project before I told you about it. That way, you’d realize that I was making a serious proposition.” He added quickly, “Which I am.”

  “So you admit following us yesterday,” Joe said.

  “I just told you so,” McCay replied. “Look, this isn’t getting us anywhere. Do we have a deal?”

  Joe ignored his question and asked, “Those guys who were throwing bottles at us just now—could you identify them if you saw them again?”

  “Throwing bottles?” McCay looked down at his dashboard. “Sorry, fellows. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was just sitting here going through my notes. I didn’t see anything.”

  Joe put his head inside the car and scanned the front seat. There was no sign of any notes. The back of McCay’s neck turned red.

  “You don’t have to believe me,” McCay said belligerently.

  “That’s a good thing,” Joe replied. “If you weren’t watching those bottle throwers, what were you doing here?”

  “Working on a story,” McCay insisted. “And that’s all I’m going to say. Look, I’m offering to make you guys a household name. It’s a legitimate offer. But as they say on television, it’s a limited-time offer. If you don’t want to cooperate with me, too bad for you. Maybe I’ll find somebody else who’s more reasonable. There’s two sides to every story, you know. And I can tell it either way.”

  Joe looked over at Frank, who gave a thin smile and said, “We’ll keep that in mind, Mr. McCay. And if you happen to remember anything that might be helpful—about those bottle throwers, for instance—please let us know.”

  Joe and Frank stepped back. McCay slammed his door closed, started his engine, and drove off.

  “Come on,” Frank said. “We’d better make sure everybody’s okay.”

  The Hardys returned to the flagpole and their friends. Biff had a scratch on his cheek from a piece of flying glass, but neither Callie nor Iola was hurt.

  “What happened to you guys?” Callie asked. “You were gone so long, we were starting to worry.”

  Frank told them about their encounter with Aaron McCay.

  “Weird,” Biff commented. “How good a reporter could he be if he didn’t catch the bottle-throwing scene? He was practically in the middle of it.”

  “I wonder what he meant about every story having two sides and that he could tell it either way,” Iola said.

  “I have a hunch about that,” Joe told her. “I think he must be in touch with Marlon or some of the other Starz. If we don’t let him make us the heroes of his story, he’s planning to make them the heroes and us the bad guys.”

  “But that wouldn’t be honest!” Callie exclaimed.

  Frank laughed. “I guess we shouldn’t believe everything we read in the papers, then. But, you know,” he added, “McCay may have stumbled on some useful information. I wonder how we can find out.”

  “What if we pretend to go along with his scheme about a series of books?” Joe suggested. “We give him a few tiny facts about the case, then tell him it’s his turn.”

  “Good idea,” Frank said. “Maybe he’ll help us figure out what this case is about. The Starz are trying very hard to scare us away, but away from what?”

  “I’ll call Stephanie when I get home to see if we can get together. I’ll see what I can find out,” Callie offered.

  “I’ll do whatever needs doing,” Biff said. “But right now I have to split. I promised Mom I’d run some errands for her this afternoon.”

  After Biff left, the Hardys dropped off Callie and Iola, then headed home themselves. As they entered the kitchen, their mother, Laura Hardy, greeted them. “Someone called for you a few minutes ago,” she said. “A man. He wouldn’t leave his name, but he said something about seeing you in Jefferson Park. I hope that makes sense to you.”

  Joe met Frank’s eyes, then said, “Sort of.”

  “Another case?” Mrs. Hardy asked. “I don’t have to tell you to be careful. You may be nearly grown, but you’re still my little boys.”

  Red-faced, Joe mumbled, “Sure, Mom. We’ll be careful.”

  He and Frank made sandwiches, filled a bowl with chips, grabbed some sodas, then went to boot up the computer. A few minutes of on-line searching confirmed that Aaron McCay really was a writer. Apparently he had done everything from science fiction novels to a collection of traditional recipes from Nebraska. His most recent articles had appeared in a weekly paper that specialized in sensational stories about events in the Bayport area.

  “Do you think he was the one who called and talked to Mom?” Joe asked.

  “He was watching us yesterday at Jefferson Park,” Frank pointed out. “Who else saw us there?”

  “Wait a minute,” Joe said. “Maybe whoever left the message didn’t mean that he had seen us there. What if he meant that he wants to see us there?”

  Frank shrugged. “Then why didn’t he say so? And even if he did, I don’t feel like running all over town just because that guy says jump.”

  “I think we should go take a look,” Joe said.

  Frank shook his head. “You go if you want. I’m going to take the information everybody gathered about the Starz and try to put it into some kind of order.”

  Frank picked up his sheaf of notes and turned back to the computer. Joe hesitated for a moment, then said, “Okay. I’ll see you later.”

  As Joe left the house, he noticed his mountain bike leaning against the wall in the garage. He loved to ride it, but what with the van, he never got around to it. Why not now, he decided? It wouldn’t take him much longer to get to Jefferson Park than if he drove the van. He strapped on his helmet, hopped onto the bike, and took off.

  Joe was enjoying the ride across town so much that as he neared the park, he had to remind himself that this was business. He scanned the parked cars for a red compact and checked out the few pedestrians for any sign of McCay or anyone who looked familiar.

  Joe circled the park twice, then cut across it on each of the diagonal walks. The park was peaceful and quiet, except near the playground, where half a dozen kids were playing tag. Joe paused to watch a little girl throwing a Frisbee to her cocker spaniel. The dog was adept at catching the Frisbee in midair.

  It was getting on toward dinnertime. Joe finally admitted that, from the point of view of the case, his ride to the park had turned out to be a bust. Still, he’d gotten some fresh air and a good workout, so it hadn’t been a total waste, he concluded.

  He rode across the sidewalk onto the street and turned toward home. He had gone a little over half a block when, from behind him, he heard a familiar tinkling melody. A Freddy Frost truck was coming. Grinning, Joe glanced over his shoulder, hoping to see Chet.

  The ice-cream truck was a couple of dozen yards behind him. The sun visor hid the driver’s face. Joe realized that the truck was picking up speed and heading straight at him. The grin froze on his face. He began pedaling hard as the truck bore down on him.

  8 Danger on Wheels

  * * *

  The Freddy Frost truck was only yards behind Joe now. Joe swerved sharply to the right, pulled up on the handlebars, and jumped the curb. The mountain bike wobbled as the front tire skidded on the grass. Joe gave the pedals a hard push to straighten up. He raced onto the sidewalk, then risked another hasty glance over his shoulder.

  The Freddy Frost truck lurched over the curb onto the sidewalk behind Joe. The glare of the sun on the windshield kept Joe from seeing the driver’s face, but he had no doubt about the driver’s purpose. As he put all his strength into a desperate sprint, Joe looked around quickly for refuge.

  The front yard of the house just ahead of him sloped gently up to the front door. The lawn was smooth and wide. He would have no trouble riding up the lawn, but the Freddy Frost truck could follow just as easily, he realized.

  Joe let out a grunt of relief when he saw the next house down. A thick chest-hi
gh hedge bordered the driveway. On the far side of the hedge was the massive trunk of an oak tree. Let the truck driver try to get past that, Joe thought triumphantly!

  He knew surprise was essential. Pedaling rapidly, Joe waited until he was even with the driveway. Then he jerked the handlebars around and threw his weight to the right. Unbalanced, the bike went into a full power slide, turning ninety degrees in less than two feet of forward motion.

  As the tip of the right pedal dug into the grass, Joe flung himself off the bike, did a forward tuck-and-roll, and ended up crouched in the shelter of the tree trunk. Only moments later the Freddy Frost truck sideswiped the hedge, slowed for an instant, then careered back into the street and roared away.

  From the nearest house, a man in khaki work clothes came rushing out. “Hey, what’s going on?” he shouted, staring at the deep ruts from the truck tires. “Look what that idiot did to my lawn!”

  Joe used the tree trunk to help pull himself to his feet. His left knee hurt, his T-shirt had a new rip in it, and he had banged his wrist on the handlebars. Not good, but a lot better than going under a speeding truck, he thought grimly.

  “Are you all right?” the man in khaki said as he noticed Joe.

  “I’ll be okay,” Joe told him, though he knew he’d be limping slightly for a few days.

  “I’m going to report that truck to the police,” the man declared. “Talk about reckless driving—he could have hit you!”

  “Yeah, I know,” Joe said. He picked up his bike and checked it for damage, adding to himself under his breath, “He sure tried his best to.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” the man repeated as Joe mounted his bicycle and prepared to ride off.

  “I’ll be fine, thanks,” Joe said, and pushed off. He wanted to get home as quickly as possible. Wait until Frank hears about this! Joe thought.

  • • •

  Frank listened intently to Joe’s account of his narrow escape. When Joe finished, he asked, “Did you get a look at the driver?”

  Joe shook his head. “Afraid not. But I got something almost as good. I saw the truck’s registration number. It was one-seven-four.”

  “Good going!” Frank said. He checked the directory, then reached for the telephone. He cleared his throat as the phone rang, then in his best adult voice he said, “Hello, is this the Freddy Frost Company? A little while ago I bought an ice cream from one of your trucks, and I’d like to write a note to the driver telling him what a good job he’s doing. Can you tell me his name, please? It was number one-seven-four . . . Oh, really? You’re sure? Okay, thanks.”

  Frank hung up the phone and turned back to Joe. “Truck one-seven-four is assigned to Chet Morton,” he reported.

  Joe’s jaw dropped. “Chet?” he repeated. “That’s impossible? He’d never pull a dangerous stunt like that. Maybe I read the number wrong.”

  “Or maybe it was Chet’s truck, but somebody else was at the wheel,” Frank said. “It’s too bad you didn’t see the driver. I wouldn’t mind knowing if he happened to be wearing a ski mask.”

  Joe jumped up and reached for his jacket. “Let’s go over to the plant to see if we can find the truck,” he said. “Maybe there’ll be some clue to the person who was driving it.”

  The Freddy Frost factory was an old two-story building in an industrial park on the west side of Bayport. Its neighbors included a gasoline bulk plant, a furniture warehouse, and a plumbing company. A high chain-link fence encircled the asphalt parking lot, where a couple of dozen icecream trucks stood in neat rows.

  The guard booth at the main gate was empty. “Tight security,” Joe remarked as he drove through and parked near the waiting trucks.

  The Hardys climbed out of the van and walked down between the rows of trucks. The fourth on the left was number 174. It looked newer and shinier than most of the others.

  “Which side of the truck hit the hedge?” Frank asked.

  “The right,” Joe replied. “That’s funny—I don’t see any scratches. Do you?”

  “Nope,” Frank said. “But look at the one next to it—number two-one-three. There’s a bunch of horizontal scratches on the right front fender. They look fresh, too.”

  Joe joined Frank in examining the other truck. He knelt down on the pavement and peered at the underside of the front bumper. “Look at this,” he said, straightening up. In his hand was a tiny sprig of green leaves. “This was caught in the bumper mount.”

  Frank examined the leaves. Then he walked to the rear of the truck and stared at the number painted there from several angles. Finally he said, “If you catch the light just right, you can see two thin lines of adhesive, just above and below the number.”

  “You see what that means, don’t you?” Joe replied. “Somebody must have taped a fake number over the real one. Now all we need to do is find out who was driving this truck.”

  Frank made a wry face. “I don’t think I can pull the phone-call trick again,” he said. “How many calls do you think they get from satisfied customers on a normal day?”

  “They must keep a duty roster or something,” Joe pointed out. “All we need is a look at it.”

  The Hardys walked across the parking lot to the plant entrance. They went inside through a pair of big sliding doors and entered a glassed-in office. A man with thinning black hair was standing by the desk, looking down at a clipboard. He heard the Hardys’ footsteps and looked up. His droopy cheeks, downturned mouth, and bags under his eyes reminded Frank of a basset hound. All he lacked were the long ears.

  “If you’re looking for work, we’re full up for now,” the man said. “You can leave your applications if you want. We’ll call you if something opens up.”

  Frank took a chance and said, “Are you Mr. Vitello?”

  “That’s me,” the man responded. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Frank Hardy, and this is my brother, Joe,” Frank said. He offered Vitello his hand. As they shook, he moved a little to the left. Vitello moved with him. That left him with his back mostly to the desk. “Did Chet Morton mention us to you?”

  Vitello looked puzzled. “Morton? Oh, yeah—the kid who started yesterday. Nope, he didn’t say a word. What’s up?”

  Frank started a long rambling explanation about a project for the Economics Club at Bay-port High. He and his brother were going to make an in-depth report on a successful local business, and they wanted to do Freddy Frost.

  As he spoke, he continued to inch to his left. Vitello moved to continue facing him. Meanwhile, Joe wandered aimlessly around the office, looking at the posters on the walls, the bowling team trophies on the bookcase, and the truck assignment sheet that was sitting on the desk. Finally he gave Frank a thumbs-up sign.

  “Anyway, that’s what we’d like to do,” Frank concluded. “You don’t have to decide now. We’re just getting under way.”

  “You’d better give me something in writing,” Vitello said. “It’s not my decision, anyway. I’d have to check it with my boss.”

  “Oh, we understand that,” Frank assured him. He noticed a file on the desk marked Flavor Contest. He pointed to it. “Hey, Chet told us about the contest. Is it too late to enter?”

  “Tomorrow’s the last day,” Vitello said. “The boss is going to look over the entries tomorrow night and pick the winner. But he’s already talking about running another contest, maybe even next month.”

  “Neat,” Frank said. “Well, thanks for your time. We’ll be in touch.”

  He and Joe left the building and walked quickly to their van.

  “Well?” Frank asked, as they pulled out of the parking lot.

  Joe looked over and gave him a satisfied smile. “Truck two-one-three was signed out by Gus French,” he said. “That call Mom got about Jefferson Park must have been part of a trap set by the Starz.”

  Frank thought about that. It was the phone call that had drawn Joe to Jefferson Park. Once there, he was nearly run over by a Freddy Frost truck that had been deliberately disguis
ed to implicate Chet. So far, so good, he thought, but something didn’t quite fit.

  “Joe?” Frank said. “Gus couldn’t have known when one of us would show up at the park. And he certainly couldn’t have known that you’d show up on your bike. And let’s face it—a Freddy Frost truck is pretty conspicuous. You can’t just park it somewhere and wait. People would notice and wonder about it.”

  “Okay,” Joe said. “But where does that take us?”

  “You said the attack came quite a while after you got to the park,” Frank explained. “In fact, when you were on your way back home. Why not earlier? Because Gus had to find out that you had gone there, then get there himself. In other words, he had an accomplice who watched our house, tailed you to the park, and then let him know you were there. You didn’t happen to notice any red cars hanging around, did you, when you left our house?”

  Joe bit his lower lip angrily. “I checked when I got to the park, but I didn’t check at our house or along the way to the park,” he confessed. “When I’m driving, I usually keep an eye on who’s behind me. It’s second nature. But on a bike? I could have had a whole circus parade on my tail and not noticed it. You think McCay is in league with the Starz, then?”

  “I don’t know,” Frank said. “But I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s up to something, that’s clear.”

  They reached home as night was falling. Joe parked the van at the curb in front of the Hardys’ house. The phone was ringing as they opened the front door. From the living room, Mrs. Hardy called, “That’s probably for you, Frank. Callie has been trying to reach you.”

  Frank raced for the phone and picked it up on the fourth ring.

  “Frank, listen,” Callie said. “I spoke to Stephanie. She agreed to meet and talk to me. We made an appointment for eight o’clock, at the Starlight Diner on Route Thirty-five. You know the place, don’t you?”

  “Sure,” Frank replied. The Starlight was one of the last old-fashioned diners in the Bayport area.