The Flickering Torch Mystery

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Maybe it fell out during the crash,” Tony theorized.

  “Could be,” Joe admitted. “But why is the housing radioactive? That’s the real puzzler. Anyway, we might find some answers when we put the engine through the lab test.”

  “How are we going to get it home, by boat or car?” Tony asked.

  “I think it’d be easier by car,” Joe said. “It might be rather heavy on the boat, especially if we hit rough water.”

  He called up the cliff to Frank and Biff, announced the discovery of the engine, and told them to drop a rope.

  Biff did so, attaching the other end of the rope to the bumper of the station wagon.

  The boys below wrapped the rope around the engine, fastened it securely, then signaled to Biff. He started the car. The rope tightened, lifting the burden clear off the ground. Foot by foot it rose toward the top of the bluff.

  Halfway up, however, the rope frayed, then snapped! The heavy airplane engine plummeted!

  CHAPTER VI

  The Stolen Fuselage

  JoE and Tony scrambled for safety as the engine hurtled down. It struck a jutting rock, ricocheted off, and flipped over the boys’ heads into deep water.

  Chips of stone and a heavy shower of powdered rock enveloped the two boys. Coughing and sneezing, they stumbled away and collapsed onto the sand. There they lay gasping for breath.

  “I nearly choked,” Joe said when he was able to speak.

  “Me too,” Tony wheezed, wiping dust from his eyes. “Boy, that engine didn’t miss us by much!”

  “You guys all right?” Frank called anxiously.

  “We will be, soon as we can breathe again,” Tony replied.

  “What about the engine?” came Biff’s voice.

  “It’s underwater. We’ll need a stronger rope.”

  “Don’t have one.”

  “Then we’ll have to leave it until later,” Joe said.

  Frank agreed. “We might as well make tracks for Bayport. Let’s have a powwow at our house.”

  He and Biff got into the car and drove off. Joe and Tony took the Napoli out into deep water for the run down the coast.

  Later in the day they all gathered at the Hardy home. Frank phoned Chet to come over. Mrs. Hardy served refreshments in the living room.

  Frank and Tony occupied the sofa. Joe and Biff took the easy chairs. Chet sprawled on the floor, propping himself on one elbow. He had a tall glass of milk and a big plateful of crackers within easy reach.

  “How about giving out with some info,” Chet said, downing a long gulp.

  The others described their adventures at Marlin Crag.

  Chet whistled softly under his breath. “Wow! You’re lucky to be in one piece!”

  Biff nibbled on a cracker. “Somebody’s out to change that. But who? Mudd? If so, why?”

  “Whoever it is has a good spy system,” Tony said. “They knew we found Scott’s engine!”

  Joe nodded. “That’s why that roughneck tried to stave in our boat. They thought we were taking the engine out by sea!”

  Frank considered the whole problem. “Since it’s too late to take the Napoli back to Marlin Crag today, our best bet now is to start a search for Chet’s missing fuselage.”

  Chet swallowed the remains of a cracker and reached for another. “I’m with you on that, Frank!”

  Frank chuckled. “I knew you’d be. Anyway, the fuselage is pretty big. The gang would have trouble hiding it.”

  “They hid it from the police quite successfully,” Chet muttered.

  Biff and Tony had to go home, so it was decided that the Hardys and Chet would scour the area between Bayport and Marlin Crag by car.

  Frank wanted to check with the police first and called headquarters. He asked the sergeant on the desk whether any sign of the fuselage had been reported.

  “You’ll have to talk louder,” said the sergeant. “This is a bad connection. I can hardly hear you.”

  Frank repeated his question.

  “Oh, yes,” came the reply. “Take the highway north past the bridge, turn right, and continue a mile. You’ll find it right there.”

  “What luck!” Frank exclaimed as he hung up. “Let’s go!”

  He, Joe, and Chet hurried out of the house and piled into the Hardys’ family car. Frank headed north at speed limit.

  Spotting the bridge, he turned right. “Must be a dump we’re looking for. Keep your eyes open. I’ll clock the speedometer at exactly one mile, as the sergeant said.”

  Frank slowed down when they covered that distance. “See anything?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” Joe reported.

  They continued on until they saw a motel ahead.

  “Might as well turn around there,” Frank decided. “We must have missed it.” He drew up in the motel driveway. The words on a large bright neon sign glared: HUGHIE’S LODGE.

  The truth hit the trio at the same time. Despite their disappointment, they burst out laughing.

  “Frank,” Joe chortled, “when you said fuselage the sergeant must have mistaken it for Hughie’s Lodge!”

  After discussing their predicament, the boys decided to look at the big dumps northward from Bayport to Marlin Crag. At the first three they drew a blank.

  “This plan isn’t working,” Joe said, discouraged.

  Chet sniffed. “Looking is better than doing nothing, Joe!”

  “Let’s try one more,” Frank proposed. “If we score another goose egg, maybe we’ll come up with a new plan.”

  The next dump was approximately halfway between Bayport and Marlin Crag. Frank drove in and circled past mountains of debris, some of it smoking from spontaneous combustion.

  They were nearly at the exit when Chet called out, “Hold it, Frank. I see something!”

  As the car stopped, Chet scrambled out in great excitement. He ran behind a pile of broken furniture and other discarded household items. A moment later he exclaimed, “I’ve found it!”

  Frank and Joe ran over to see the lost fuselage, which looked none the worse than when Chet had bought it. All three began to drag the cumbersome load out onto level ground.

  The Hardys examined what had once been the cockpit of the airplane. “Here’s the number,” Frank said. “Looks pretty well smudged, but I can make it out. Chet should make a note of it.”

  He called off the number, one figure at a time. Suddenly he stood up straight. “Joe! You know whose plane this is from?”

  “The one Martin Weiss was flying when he cracked into the Marlin Crag cliff!” Joe said in a strained voice.

  Frank circled around the rear, where he paused for a longer inspection. “Something bothers me,” he said.

  “What’s that, Frank?” Chet asked.

  “The tailpost and the rear wheel are missing!”

  “So?”

  “It was there when you bought the thing.”

  “Well, maybe it fell off in transport. What’s a tailpost, anyway?” Chet asked.

  “A hollow metal tube,” Frank explained. “It controls the movements of the rear wheel.”

  “First we find Scott’s engine, with a missing vacuum pump, then Weiss’s fuselage with a missing tailpost,” Joe mused. “And Mudd doesn’t want us to have either.”

  “We have no proof that Mudd stole the fuselage,” Frank objected.

  “No proof, but I don’t have any doubt.”

  “I’m with you,” Frank said. “Well, let’s get this thing back to the farm, okay?”

  The boys hired a local trucker to cart the fuselage to Bayport. Chet could hardly wait for his bulky prize to be unloaded.

  Joe winked. “Suppose you fly us to Marlin Crag next time. We could use a crack pilot.”

  “Sorry, Joe,” Chet replied. “I’m off your case. This baby will take up all my time.” He patted the fuselage affectionately.

  “You’d better lock it up,” Frank suggested, “so it won’t disappear again.”

  He and Joe helped Chet move the fuselage into the barn, then
they left. At home they found Sam Radley, who had just come from the oil refinery at Marlin Crag.

  “The Gamble Oil Company, which operates the refinery,” he reported, “is a reputable firm. They burn off their excess gas at odd times, and I’ve been told that no one can manipulate the flame. Also, the pilots know about the stack and its location and could hardly be lured off course by it.”

  Frank was disappointed. “Not much to go on,” he said glumly.

  “No. And I drew another blank,” Sam went on. “Tried to get hold of Martin Weiss’s parents, but they weren’t home. Neighbors tell me they’ll be back tomorrow. Suppose you fellows ride down to Pittston and interview them?”

  “Glad to,” Frank said.

  “What about the radioactive engine?” Joe queried.

  “We’ll pick that up on the way home. Let’s take a block and tackle this time.”

  “And Biff. We’ll need his muscle. I’ll call him,” Joe said.

  Eager to get on with the case, the boys left early the next morning and drove to the Weiss home, a modest cottage in the center of Pittston. The pilot’s parents received them cordially, and after explaining their mission, Frank plunged directly into questioning.

  “Mr. Weiss,” he began, “do the words ‘flickering torch’ mean anything to you?”

  The man nodded. “Yes. Martin went there many times!”

  CHAPTER VII

  Down the Cliff

  FRANK and Joe were elated to find the answer to the riddle.

  “What is the Flickering Torch?” Frank asked eagerly.

  “It’s a restaurant, not far from Beemerville,” Mr. Weiss told them.

  Frank and Joe stared at each other.

  “Why did Martin go to the Flickering Torch?” Frank asked.

  “Well, my son liked country music. A combo plays there weekends,” Mr. Weiss explained. “Also, he met his friends there. The place was popular with the crowd from the airport.”

  “Did Martin ever tell you the names of his buddies?” Joe said.

  Their host shook his head.

  “But that was all over anyway,” Mrs. Weiss spoke up. “About a week before the crash Martin said he didn’t like the Flickering Torch any more. Besides, he was quitting his job!”

  “Why would he do that, Mrs. Weiss?” Frank inquired.

  “He didn’t like flying the taxi service between Morrisville and Marlin Crag. Something about it was getting on his nerves.”

  “We don’t know what was bothering him,” Mr. Weiss continued. “Do you think it had anything to do with his accident?”

  “We intend to find out,” Frank said.

  “Well, I do hope we’ve been of some assistance,” Mrs. Weiss murmured as she and her husband showed the boys to the door.

  “You’ve both been very helpful,” Frank assured her. “Now that you’ve identified the Flickering Torch for us, we can check it out.”

  “We might find the clue to the mystery there,” Joe added.

  As Frank, Joe, and Biff left Pittston, the sky grew ominously dark, and by the time they were halfway to Marlin Crag, a heavy rainstorm broke loose. It swept in from the sea in blinding sheets.

  “Oh, great!” Biff groaned. “How are we going to get the engine in this kind of weather?”

  “The waves will be pounding against the cliffs,” Frank said. He flipped on the car radio for the weather forecast.

  The announcer said, “Rain through early afternoon, tapering off by this evening. Drive carefully.”

  “Well, that’s that,” Joe declared. “Let’s go home, have lunch, and wait till it clears up.”

  On the way back to Bayport the boys discussed the latest break in the case.

  “We’re going to hear some real cool folk rock pretty soon,” said Frank, skillfully maneuvering in and out of the traffic.

  “At the Flickering Torch, you mean?” Biff asked.

  “Right. We can take the girls, too. Mix dancing with detective work.”

  They dropped Biff off at his house, then went home. Shortly after they had arrived, the phone rang. Joe answered, then gestured to Frank to listen in.

  The caller was Fenton Hardy, who asked for a briefing on the Marlin Crag case.

  Frank and Joe took turns describing the events of the past few days. “Dad, what do you think is our best lead now?” Frank ended the recital.

  “The radioactive engine,” Mr. Hardy replied. “The low yield reported by the Geiger counter may not be too significant. But it could be the debris of a large amount of some radioactive substance.”

  The detective pointed out that strict laws governed the handling of subatomic energy. “The hot stuff is too dangerous to be left lying around,” Mr. Hardy said. “People who handle it illegally often do just that. Some of them couldn’t care less who gets a lethal dose of radiation.”

  “Do you believe that Scott transported radioactive material illegally?” Frank asked.

  “Who knows? We’ll have to find out more about it.”

  Joe said that he and Frank intended to go back to Marlin Crag for the engine as soon as the rain had let up. “We’ll put it through a lab test,” he declared. “Maybe we can isolate the radioactive element.”

  After they had discussed all possible angles to the mystery, Frank asked about his father’s investigation.

  “I’m making some progress by posing as a hood,” Mr. Hardy revealed. “I’ve discovered the stolen goods from the airport are being hauled away in trucks. Destination unknown. That’s where you fellows come in.”

  “How?” his sons asked in unison.

  “While hobnobbing with the crooks I located an informer who’s willing to talk—for a price. Trouble is, he won’t say anything to me or Sam Radley. He’s afraid we’d be spotted and the mob might give him a one-way trip to the bottom of the bay.”

  “And you mean Joe and I can contact him without causing suspicion?” Frank asked.

  “Exactly.”

  “Where do we find him?” Joe asked.

  “I can’t tell you yet. He’s to let me know in a few days. When he does, I’ll get back to you. Be ready to move quickly. And remember, this is a dangerous mission. You may run into some tough customers. Keep your wits about you.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  After Mr. Hardy had hung up, Frank and Joe decided to hold another conference with their friends. Joe called Tony.

  “What’s up?” Tony asked.

  “More detective work. We want you to come over for a think session.”

  “Okay. Incidentally, don’t call Biff. He’s here. We’ll be right over.”

  Fifteen minutes later Biff’s wagon wheeled into the Hardy driveway. The boys leaped out, took the front steps two at a time, and rang the bell. Joe let them in. Soon all four were deep in a discussion.

  The Hardys told Tony of their discovery that the Flickering Torch was a restaurant.

  “What’s the strategy now?” Tony asked.

  “Well, we’ve got two projects on our hands,” Joe pointed out. “Recover the radioactive engine and investigate the Flickering Torch.” He looked through the window. It was still raining, but not as heavy as before.

  “Make mine the restaurant,” Tony said with a wink.

  “Double the order,” joked Biff. “Tony and I are real rhythm hounds. We’ll bring the whole band back with us if it’ll solve the mystery.”

  Frank laughed. “I wish it were as simple as that. Anyway, it would help if you two checked out the place.”

  “What are we really after, Frank?” Biff inquired.

  “I wish I knew, Biff. Just case the joint. See what you come up with.”

  “Maybe you can find out why Martin Weiss got fed up with the place,” Joe added. “He must have had a reason.”

  Biff and Tony drove off with a promise to drop in at the Flickering Torch that evening.

  The Hardys called Chet to give them a hand with the engine. They picked him up and set out for Marlin Crag Cliffs in the family car. It was drizzling
slightly, but the wind had abated, except for an occasional gust.

  When they arrived, Joe tied a rope to the bumper and tossed the other end to the foot of the cliff. Testing the rope to be sure it would hold his weight, he gingerly lowered himself over the edge. Dangling high over the rocks, he began his descent.

  Suddenly there was a gust of wind and Joe veered crazily out into space. Then he careened back, hitting the stony wall with a thud that knocked the breath out of him. Frantically he clung to the rope, gasping for air. When he looked down, he could see a long drop onto the rocky beach.

  “I’m a goner if I let go,” Joe thought desperately. But his hands began to slip!

  All at once his foot hit the cliff and came to rest on a narrow ledge. The toe hold enabled him to take some of the weight off his hands. Pausing until his strength returned, he climbed down the rope and jumped on to the beach.

  Joe ran to the spot on the shoreline where they had left the engine. He kicked off his sneakers. Wading into the water, he looked around.

  The engine was gone!

  Joe returned to the foot of the cliff, climbed the rope to the top, and told Frank and Chet.

  “Somebody must have taken it!” Chet exploded.

  “There’s a ledge along the shoreline,” Joe stated. “The tide might have shifted it. Maybe the engine tumbled into deeper water.”

  “Another mystery to solve,” Frank said, disappointed. He looked up into the sky. “It’s getting dark already. We’d better head home.”

  That night the Hardys received a telephone call from the repair shop in Beemerville that their convertible was ready. They left the next morning by motorcycle to pick it up.

  On Frank’s Honda they zoomed past billboards and motels on the highway, and carefully moved with the traffic in small towns. Finally Frank sputtered to a halt at the garage.

  They found their car looking as good as new. Frank loaded up the Honda, then slipped behind the wheel and drove into the street. He took the road linking up with the highway near the Marlin Crag Cliffs. It led up a steep hill toward the bluffs. After Frank crested the mountain, he started to descend.