The Flickering Torch Mystery
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER I - Mysterious Accidents
CHAPTER II - Engine Trouble
CHAPTER III - Frank Springs a Trap
CHAPTER IV - Boat Crash
CHAPTER V - Fire in the Night
CHAPTER VI - The Stolen Fuselage
CHAPTER VII - Down the Cliff
CHAPTER VIII - The Emergency Exit
CHAPTER IX - Callie Plays a Trick
CHAPTER X - Shots in the Dark
CHAPTER XI - No More Rocks
CHAPTER XII - Jam Session
CHAPTER XIII - Lefty the Squealer
CHAPTER XIV - Sky Chase
CHAPTER XV - Dangerous Contraband
CHAPTER XVI - False Alarm
CHAPTER XVII - The Payoff
CHAPTER XVIII - Diamond Dust
CHAPTER XIX - Needle Man
CHAPTER XX - Airport Ambush
THE FLICKERING TORCH MYSTERY
TWO unexplainable plane crashes near an airport on the East Coast plunge Frank and Joe Hardy into a bizarre case.
When their famous detective father is called to New York City by a group of insurance companies to investigate air freight thefts at Kennedy International Airport, Mr. Hardy asks Frank and Joe to take over his current case of the suspicious plane accidents.
From the moment Frank and Joe find a radioactive engine in an airplane junkyard, unexpected dangers strike like lightning. Despite the repeated attempts on their lives, the teen-age detectives pursue their investigation and make a second startling discovery involving contraband uranium isotopes. These two vital clues and others that Frank and Joe unearth provide the solution to one of the most baffling mysteries the boys and Mr. Hardy have ever encountered.
The force of the man’s blow caused Joe to lose his balance!
Copyright © 1971, 1943, by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.
Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset
Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.
THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.
eISBN : 978-1-101-07636-1
http://us.penguingroup.com
CHAPTER I
Mysterious Accidents
“BOYS, I’m on a new case and I’ve run into a problem,” Fenton Hardy said. He had walked into his sons’ second-floor bedroom, which was vibrating from the sounds of Joe’s guitar.
“Sorry, Dad,” said the seventeen-year-old blond boy. “Didn’t hear you come in. Frank and I were testing this new amplifier.” He set down the guitar as Mr. Hardy took a seat.
“What’s the matter?” asked Frank, dark-haired and a year older than his brother. “Can we help in any way?”
“I think so,” his father replied. “This case has me up a tree. It’s a baffling mystery. In fact, two of them. A couple of light planes crashed recently near Marlin Crag Airport outside Beemerville. They were coming in from the sea for a landing and hit the cliffs. Both pilots died.”
“What a shame,” Frank said. Both he and Joe were licensed pilots and shared the comradery of fliers.
“Any theories?” Joe asked.
“Weather conditions were bad in both cases. Heavy fog. But the two men, Jack Scott and Martin Weiss, were experienced and could have come in on instruments.”
“I take it the Federal Aviation Agency has investigated?” Frank said.
“Right. Now Scott’s family has asked me to look into it. Sam Radley’s done some preliminary work.”
Fenton Hardy was world-renowned as a sleuth. Trained in the New York City Police Department, he had resigned to become a private investigator in Bayport, a medium-sized town on the East Coast.
His sons were following in his footsteps. Starting with the mystery of The Tower Treasure, Frank and Joe had proved their detective ability. Most recently they had cracked a tough case, The Clue of the Broken Blade.
Sam Radley was Fenton Hardy’s assistant. A skillful operative, he could be relied on to stick to a case till it was solved.
“Sam obtained taped interviews with the Scott family,” Mr. Hardy continued. “I’d like you boys to listen to them when he returns to Bayport in a few days.”
“Meanwhile our assignment is to snoop around Marlin Crag Airport,” Frank concluded.
“Exactly. Ask questions. Talk to the manager and find out if anyone knows any details about the crashes. You can fly up in our plane.”
“It would be easier to go by car,” Joe said.
“I know. But with the plane you can take the same approach as those pilots did and perhaps learn something as to why they crashed.”
Mr. Hardy showed his sons a piece of paper with the flight route of the two planes.
“Now all we need to start out are the aircraft and engine numbers,” Frank said.
“I’ve got them right here,” Mr. Hardy said and handed him another piece of paper. The numbers were neatly typed in two columns.
“What about you, Dad?” Frank inquired. “Will we see you in Beemerville?”
“No. I’ll be in New York working on a case for some insurance companies. They’re worried about a ring of freight thieves who have been hitting the airports. Millions of dollars are involved.”
“So we’ll be on our own,” Joe commented.
Fenton Hardy nodded. “Play it by ear, and I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I can.”
He rose from the chair and slapped Frank on the shoulder. “Continue your guitar practice. You both can drive me to the airport in a couple of hours and start your case tomorrow.”
As their father went down the stairs, Frank said, “Okay, let’s try the amp again.”
Joe started playing a folk rock number. The amplifier picked up the sound and sent it reverberating through the house.
Frank and Joe were getting ready for a rock festival at the local park. They had a combo, in which Joe played the lead guitar. Frank handled the rhythm guitar. Three of their friends were on the other instruments—Biff Hooper bass guitar, Phil Cohen at the portable organ, and Tony Prito on the drums.
Moments later, above the sound of the twanging strings, the boys heard the rackety cough of a back-firing motor. A battered jalopy bucked along and jolted to a stop in front of the Hardy house. A plump youth with a freckled face eased out from behind the wheel.
Joe went to the window and chuckled. “Chet’s music doesn’t turn me on, Frank. I wish he’d trade the ancient heap in for a later model—like 1950, perhaps.”
The Hardys ran downstairs and met their friend on the porch. Chet Morton, who lived on a farm outside of Bayport, was bubbling with excitement.
“What’s up?” Frank inquired.
“Up is right! Up in the air! I’m building me a flying machine!”
Frank and Joe knew all about Chet’s mania for hobbies. Almost every time they saw their chum he was involved in a new project.
“Okay, let’s try the amp again!” Frank said
“It’ll take a jumbo jet to lift you off the ground,” Joe needled their hefty visitor.
“Aw, cut it out,” Chet protested. “I’m serious. Look. You know Beemerville?”
The Hardys exchanged glances. “Sure, it’s sixty miles up the coast from here,” Frank replied. “What about it?”
“It has an airplane junkyard. Mountains of old motors, fuselages, wheels—everything. Just the place for me to collect the parts for my plane. But I need your help.”
“Why?” Frank queried.
“Well, you guys are licensed pilots, right? You even fly your father’s pl
ane. I want you to come along and help me pick out what I need.”
“We’ve got a few weeks before the rock festival,” Joe mused and gave his brother a knowing wink.
Frank clapped Chet on the shoulder. “All right, we’ll go with you.”
“You will? Terrific!”
“See you at the airport tomorrow morning at eight,” Frank said.
“You want to fly? But it’s only a little over an hour by car!”
“Well, we’re combining the trip with a little assignment for Dad,” Joe said and explained their mission to Chet.
“Oh, I see. I’m only second fiddle,” Chet said with a grin. “Well, I don’t mind. See you tomorrow!”
The next day was Saturday. Chet was waiting when the Hardys arrived at the airport. Frank, at the controls of their single-engine aircraft, took off smoothly and the shoreline flashed past beneath their wings. The sixty miles passed quickly. When they came in sight of Marlin Crag Airport, Frank swung out to sea in a big arc.
Then he turned back inland again toward the airport about two miles ahead. “This is the approach Scott and Weiss took,” he said to Joe.
“Boy, these cliffs are for real!” Chet exclaimed. “They’re like an accordion, the way the rocks wave in and out.”
“And that oil refinery to the right looks like a beacon,” Joe said. “You can’t miss the high pipe burning off gas.”
Glancing down, they saw the surf breaking over a rugged headland studded with huge boulders. The high escarpment fell in a sheer drop to the rocks below.
“Frank, watch it,” Joe cried suddenly.
A light plane zoomed up under their left wing. They could see the face of the pilot, a square-jawed fellow with a long scar along his left cheek. Frank veered to the right to let the other pilot swish past under his left wing with little room to spare!
“Some nerve that guy’s got!” Chet exploded.
“He just wasn’t paying any attention,” said Frank. Wiping some beads of perspiration from his face, he added, “At least I hope it was just negligence and he didn’t do it on purpose!”
“He’s going into Marlin Crag,” Joe observed. “Maybe we can have a little talk with him when we land.”
“I’ll talk to him all right!” Chet said, flexing his muscles. “I’ll show him—Hey, there’s the airplane junkyard!”
Excitedly he pointed below to a large enclosed area with piles of plane parts strewn about.
“Okay, Chet, we’ll check it out as soon as we’re finished at the airport,” Frank promised and radioed the tower for permission to land.
Soon they were in the office of Airport Manager Steve Holmes, a short, slender man with a high forehead. He identified the reckless pilot as Dale Nettleton. “But he’s left already,” Holmes added, “so I’m afraid you won’t be able to speak to him.”
“Too bad,” Frank said, then changed the subject. “Mr. Holmes, can you give us any information on the Scott and Weiss crashes?”
“Both flights originated in Morrisville, New Jersey. The reason for the accidents must have been bad weather conditions.”
“Where are the wrecks now?”
“I have no idea.”
A man came into the room and was introduced as Bill Zinn, the assistant manager. Of average build, he walked with a rolling gait, and his manner was breezy.
“Why are you interested in those two accidents?” he asked with a quick smile.
“We might be using this airport in the future,” Frank said casually. “So we’d like to know if there’s any danger.”
“Like hitting the cliffs,” Joe said.
“No danger at all,” Zinn said affably. “Not if you know how to fly.” He turned and left the office seconds before a teen-age youth entered.
“Hi, Hal,” Holmes greeted him. “We were just speaking about the crashes.” He turned to his visitors. “Boys, this is Hal McGuirk. He’s an airport buff and hangs around here all the time.”
“What do you know about the accidents?” Joe asked Hal.
“Really nothing. Except about a week before he crashed, I saw Scott spin down out of an overcast. He pulled up in time, but I wondered what caused it.”
Holmes looked surprised. “Did you tell the FAA investigators?”
Hal shook his head. “Nobody asked me.”
Frank said, “That definitely sounds like instrument trouble.”
“Well, fellows,” Chet pleaded, “let’s get on to the airplane junkyard.”
“Okay, flyboy,” Joe said.
“Have you got enough energy to walk over there? It’s at least a couple of miles,” Frank teased their chubby friend.
“Oh,” Hal said, “you flew in. I can drive you in my car, if you want.”
“Hey, that’s great. Thanks a lot!” Chet grinned.
As the Hardys were saying good-by to the airport manager, Chet, impatient to get to the junkyard, opened the door and strode out. He nearly collided wth Zinn, who mumbled something and hurried off.
When Frank, Joe, and Hal came out of the office, Chet whispered to the Hardys, “That guy Zinn was eavesdropping on us!”
CHAPTER II
Engine Trouble
FRANK and Joe were dumbfounded. As they walked through the lobby, they saw Zinn enter a telephone booth at the other end of the long hall.
“I wonder what he’s up to,” Frank mumbled to Joe.
They stopped for a quick sandwich, then continued on to the junkyard. It was located on gently sloping land surrounded by a sheet-metal fence. The place was crammed with fuselages, wings, engines and other parts from planes that had either been wrecked or retired because of old age. In one corner stood a boxlike structure, obviously the office. A giant crane was moving parts from one spot to another.
“Boy, this place is cool!” Chet exulted.
“The owner’s name is O. K. Mudd,” Hal said. “Here he comes now.”
Approaching was a thick-set man in work clothes with a bullethead and bushy black brows. His slit eyes took in the visitors with quick movements. Then he flashed a wide smile.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
When Chet expressed an interest in buying airplane parts, Mudd invited them to look around while he went over to talk to the crane operator.
As Chet examined some fuselages, Joe poked through a pile of small engines. Suddenly Joe straightened up and gestured to Frank.
“Know what this is?” he asked, running a finger across the number of an engine.
Frank gasped. “Scott’s engine. What do you—?” He broke off when he saw Mudd approaching.
“Have you found anything that interests you?” he asked. “This engine here’s no good, but if you want to look over there, you’ll see a few in pretty decent shape.”
He pointed to a corner of the enclosure, where a mound of parts was covered with a heavy tarpaulin. As Frank and Joe walked toward the heap, Chet suddenly screamed, “Watch out!”
The giant crane had swung up over their heads with an airplane wing. The jaws opened, and the wing came hurtling down at the Hardys!
Frank threw himself to one side in a judo roll. Joe lunged in the opposite direction, but slipped in a patch of oil and hit the ground face down. Instinctively he clasped his arms over his head for protection.
The heavy plane wing smashed between the Hardys, sending up a cloud of dust.
Frank got up. “Are you all right, Joe?” he called out.
Chet and Frank pulled Joe shakily to his feet. He flexed the fingers of his left hand before replying, “I got a pretty good bang on the arm from the wing tip, but I’ll live.”
They looked around. The crane had stopped. The operator was scowling at them from his cab and Mudd rushed over. “What do you guys mean getting in the way?” he stormed. “You might have been killed!”
The boys were flabbergasted. Joe exclaimed, “It wasn’t our fault!” He pointed to the crane. “It was that stupid—”
The junkyard proprietor flushed angrily. “Do
n’t give me any of your lip, wise guy! Now beat it!”
Frank was suspicious of Mudd’s unreasonable behavior, but decided that further argument would be futile.
“Let’s go,” he muttered to his companions.
Hal, who had watched the whole thing in a state of frozen shock, led the way back to the car. “I don’t know what got into old Mudd,” he said. “He’s usually a pretty agreeable guy. He should have apologized instead of yelling at you. If I were you, I’d sue him for negligence!”
“He might have been afraid of just that,” Frank said, “and therefore wanted to shift the blame on us. By the way, what time is it? My watch stopped.”
“Four-thirty,” Joe replied.
“Five o‘clock,” Chet said.
“That’s funny,” Joe observed. “Mine stopped too!”
“And at the same time as mine,” Frank stated.
“Maybe it was the shock when you hit the ground,” Hal suggested.
“Possible. We’ll have to take them to the watchmaker Monday.”
The Hardys thanked Hal. “We’ll be back here soon,” Joe said. “See you then.”
“I won’t be around for a while,” the boy replied. “Going to California to visit my aunt for two weeks.”
Joe grinned. “Lucky you. Have fun!”
Early Monday morning the Hardys took their electric watches to the jeweler. He examined their interior mechanisms and whistled in disbelief.
“The quartz crystal oscillators have been damaged,” he said. “Have you been fooling around with any radioactive material?”
“Not that we know of,” Frank replied.
“Maybe there was some in that junkyard,” Joe said.
The watchmaker was curious. “What junkyard has fissionable material? That could be quite dangerous.”
Frank evaded the question and said, “Can you fix the watches?”
“Yes. But it will take a couple of weeks.”
He took their names and address promising to send a postcard when the timepieces were ready.
As the Hardys drove home, Joe mulled over the jeweler’s theory concerning the cause of the trouble with their watches. “We didn’t get much chance to case Mudd’s place,” he said. “He could have an atom smasher hidden somewhere for all we know.”