Halfway down, something in the steering mechanism snapped. The steering wheel spun uselessly in his grasp as the convertible gathered speed down the incline!
CHAPTER VIII
The Emergency Exit
DESPERATELY Frank pushed the brake pedal to the floor. The convertible bucked and tires squealed, throwing the boys forward against their seat belts.
The car skidded sideways to the brink of a cliff. Hitting a big boulder, it tilted up on its left wheels.
“We’re going over!” Joe shouted.
They braced themselves for the plunge. The car teetered toward empty space, rebounded on its four wheels, bounced a couple of times and settled in a cloud of dust.
Bruised and shaken, the Hardys climbed out.
“I thought for sure we were taking a long dive to the beach,” Joe said weakly.
Frank’s face was pale. “I’ll never know why we didn’t go over the cliff. This calls for some tall explaining at the repair shop.”
The boys rode the Honda back to Beemerville and told the mechanic what had happened.
“Keep your shirt on!” the man replied to Joe’s heated denunciation. “I don’t know what conked out your steering mechanism.”
The repairman had the car towed to the garage. While he was working on it, Frank and Joe stood by to watch. They knew quite a bit about mechanics and wanted to make sure that no one sabotaged the works.
“A loose connection,” the mechanic said after he had found the trouble. “Just bad luck.”
When he was finished, Frank gave the steering wheel and the brakes a good workout before trusting the convertible to the hill above the cliffs a second time. The boys shuddered when they passed the spot where they had had such a close brush with sudden death.
“Think our friend Mudd was behind the accident?” Joe asked.
“It’s possible. He’s our prime suspect,” Frank replied.
After lunch Biff and Tony dropped in.
“Your staff is reporting back from the Flickering Torch,” Biff announced with a grin.
“What kind of place is it?” Frank asked.
“Real jumping joint. Music is supplied by a hot combo called the Emergency Exit. We had a long talk with the drummer.”
“He’s a second cousin of mine,” Tony added. “His name’s Bernie Marzi. What a surprise to see him there!”
“Did he say anything we can use in our case?” Joe wanted to know.
“Well, he said the place is managed by a guy named Leon Bozar. No one seems to know who the owner is.” Tony balanced a coffee mug in the palm of his hand. “We hear Bozar’s never around, though.”
Nothing Biff and Tony had learned tied the Flickering Torch in with the plane crashes. But all four boys agreed to continue their investigation of the restaurant.
“We might get somewhere through the band,” Frank said.
“That’s easy enough,” Tony stated. “Let me call Bernie.” He phoned his cousin, explained that the Hardys were friends of his, and turned the instrument over to Frank.
“Hi, Frank,” came Bernie’s voice. “I’ve heard a lot about you and your brother and the cases you’ve solved. Anything I can do for you, just give the word.”
“Thanks, Bernie,” Frank said. “How about letting us have a rundown on the cast of the Emergency Exit?”
“Sure. There’s Mark Bowen on the lead guitar, Linc Caldwell on the bass guitar, George Hansen on the rhythm guitar, and Pete Guilfoyle on the organ. Seymour Schill also plunks a guitar for us, and Joe Clark, a good friend of mine, is the emcee.”
“Tony and Biff say your combo’s pretty good,” Frank put in.
“We’ve almost always got a booking somewhere,” Bernie admitted. “And we’ve been playing at the Torch steady for quite a while. We do have a soft spot in our lineup, though.”
“Oh? Who’s that?”
“Seymour Schill. He’s not too good.”
“Why keep him?”
Bernie chuckled. “Finances, Frank. His father runs a music store and lets us have a lot of stuff for free. So we figure it’s good business to let Seymour stick around.”
They talked a while longer, and finally Frank said, “Thanks for the info, Bernie. We’ll be seeing you. Joe and I will drop in at the Flickering Torch tonight.”
“Stop by the stage,” the drummer invited before hanging up. “I’ll give you the big hello.”
Joe telephoned Iola, who was eager to go out that night, and Frank made a date with Callie. They arranged to meet at the farm and drive to Beemerville from there.
Whey they arrived at the Mortons’ place in the evening, the girls were ready.
“Where’s Chet?” Joe asked Iola.
“He went to see an aviation engineer about getting some information on building his plane.”
Joe grinned. “He’s got a knack of finding the right people to help him.”
Iola smiled. “He sure does. And he’s arranged to take flying lessons.”
The four climbed into the convertible and reached Beemerville without incident.
The Flickering Torch was a two-story roadside building with small wings flanking a medium-sized main building. Frank drove into the parking lot, where he stopped at the end of a row of cars facing a stone wall. The sound of music came drifting out into the night air.
“It’s a popular dance place,” Callie commented, “judging by the number of cars.”
“The beat explains it,” Iola said. “I feel like dancing already.”
They entered a hallway and moved on to a large, dimly lighted main room, which was crowded with people. The emcee escorted them to one of many tables arranged in a semicircle around the edge of the dance floor.
At the rear was the stage on which the Emergency Exit was playing a popular tune. The floor was jam-packed with couples gyrating to the beat. Waiters passed bearing trays of food and drinks for those at the tables.
Psychedelic lights played constantly over the room, revealing faces in the crowd for an instant and then leaving them in darkness. Fantastic patterns cut across the walls and ceiling. Brilliant colors merged and separated in perpetual motion along the spectrum from red to violet. Flames appeared to be licking over everybody.
“I bet those lights are the reason why this place is called the Flickering Torch,” Frank said. “Everywhere you look it flickers.”
“Kind of spooky,” Iola commented.
“Like Dante’s Inferno,” said Callie, who had recently done a paper on Italian literature. She looked around. Her eyes were getting used to the dim interior and the moving lights. “Do you see anybody you know?” she asked.
The Hardys carefully examined the faces of the patrons and shook their heads.
“I didn’t think we would,” Frank said.
Everyone ordered cokes. After downing the drinks, they paired off to dance.
Frank edged Callie toward the stage, where they paused just below the drummer. Frank recognized Bernie Marzi from Tony’s description. After Bernie had ended a drum solo, Frank spoke to him in an undertone.
Meanwhile, Joe kept his eye on one of the guitarists, who seemed ill at ease, playing listlessly, and scanning the crowd all the time. At the intermission he hastened backstage.
“Iola, wait at our table,” Joe said. “I’m going to follow that bird.”
Affecting a casual air, Joe started for the door through which the guitarist had disappeared. He barely reached it when he bumped into the fellow coming back with another man.
Joe covered his embarrassment by pulling an envelope from his pocket and saying, “Excuse me, but I came backstage hoping to get your autograph.”
“Sure,” said the guitarist, who was about Joe’s age. He was obviously pleased. Quickly he took out a pen and wrote Seymour Schill across the back of the envelope.
Joe threw a quick glance at Schill’s companion. He was square-jawed, with a scar across the left side of his face. Dale Nettleton! The pilot who had almost hit their plane!
; CHAPTER IX
Callie Plays a Trick
NETTLETON stared straight at Joe with hard, cold eyes.
“Does he recognize me?” Joe wondered. “If he does, he’s covering up pretty well.”
Seymour Schill handed Joe the autograph. He and the pilot then hurried through the door to the dining room. Joe shadowed them, keeping far enough behind to escape notice.
Schill disappeared outside. Nettleton went on the stage, bent over, and began fooling around with a tall cabinet amplifier. He seemed concerned about something at the back of it.
Suddenly he straightened up, jumped off the stage, and hastened out a side door.
As Joe moved forward to investigate, a group of young people swarmed across the dance floor in his path. He edged his way through them as fast as he could, but by the time he reached the door, his chances to intercept Nettleton had vanished. The flier climbed into a car and drove quickly out of the parking lot.
Joe returned to the table, where Frank, Callie, and Iola were waiting.
“Why the disappointed look?” Callie asked.
Joe sat down and quickly told of his encounter with Seymour Schill and Dale Nettleton.
“I guess Nettleton’s one of the Marlin Airport group that hangs around the Flickering Torch,” Frank commented.
“But Joe saw him doing something to the amplifier,” Iola said.
“Would an ordinary patron do that?” Callie queried.
Joe shrugged and said, “Let’s check on that amp, if we can, Frank.”
At the next intermission Frank went up to the stage and returned with Bernie Marzi. He introduced the drummer to Joe and the girls.
Bernie sat down with them. “Enjoy the music?” he asked.
“We sure do,” Callie replied. “It’s great.”
“Especially the drums,” Iola added.
Bernie grinned at the compliment. “There’s more coming up in about ten minutes. Put your dancing shoes on. The next number is a real wild one.”
“By the way,” Frank said casually, “is something wrong with your amplifier? If there is, I might be able to fix it for you. Amps are my hobby.”
“Nothing’s wrong as far as I know,” Bernie replied. “But if you want to take a look, be my guest. Let me know if you find anything. I’m going to pop outside for a breath of fresh air before we begin the next number.”
He nodded to the girls and left.
Frank leaned over and whispered to his brother. “I’ll examine the amp, but I don’t want Schill to see me. If he comes back unexpectedly, intercept him, okay?”
Frank walked across the dance floor and vaulted up onto the stage. He gave the amplifier an expert inspection, especially the part Nettleton had been fooling around with.
“Nothing wrong,” he muttered to himself. “What can Nettleton have been up to?”
At the table, Callie was about to make a remark about Frank’s puzzled look, when Joe grabbed her by the elbow. He pointed toward the door. Seymour Schill was just entering.
“Quick!” Joe urged the girl. “Do something to stop him before he sees Frank on the stage!”
Schill was almost at their table. Suddenly Callie stood up, let out a piercing scream, and collapsed against the guitarist, who caught her by the arms. But she managed to sink to the floor.
Callie lay on her back, quite still, with her eyes closed. Schill dropped to his knees and began to fan her with a menu.
All the while, Iola wrung her hands. “Callie’s unconscious!” she cried in simulated anguish.
Callie half-opened her eyes and squinted at Iola, who signaled her to get up. Frank was through with the amplifier and off the stage.
Callie rose shakily to her feet and brushed her dress.
Schill asked anxiously, “Are you all right?”
“Quite all right, thank you,” Callie replied.
“What happened?” the guitarist wanted to know.
“A mouse ran over my foot!”
“No wonder you yelled,” Iola said.
“We owe you a debt of thanks, er—?” Frank said, extending his hand.
“Seymour Schill’s my name.”
“Thank you, Seymour.”
The musician looked pleased at all the attention he was getting. “Forget it,” he replied. “I’m always glad to help a lady in distress. Especially a pretty one.”
“Except for you,” Callie put in, “I’d have a big bump on my head.”
The group began to discuss popular music.
“The Emergency Exit has a terrific beat,” Iola commented. “And you’re so good!”
Seymour liked flattery. “I’m pretty far out,” he boasted. “It’ll take the other guys a while to catch up.”
Callie pretended to faint
“Any chance of us attending a practice session?” Frank asked in an offhand way. “We’ve got an amateur group and are interested in this sort of thing.”
“Sure, why not? We hold rehearsals in a barn on Wednesday nights. Place owned by Pete Guilfoyle. You can come if you like. I won’t be there next time, but the others will.”
“Great!” Joe replied. To himself he said, “I wonder how this guy gets away with it. He’s not too good anyhow and then he doesn’t even show up for practice.”
“I’ll write down the address of the place for you,” Seymour offered. He drew a printed card from his pocket and began to scribble on the back. Then a thought struck him. He turned the card over.
Frank and Joe, peering across his shoulder, read the legend: O. K. Mudd’s Airplane Junkyard, Main Street, Beemerville.
Seymour put the card hastily back in his pocket. He began to look for something else to write on.
“Here, use this,” Joe said, proffering a napkin. Seymour flattened it on a table, scrawled the address, smiled at the girls, and strolled over to the stage where the Emergency Exit was assembling. He began tuning his guitar.
“Our friend Seymour knows O. K. Mudd,” Frank muttered.
“It could be strictly coincidental,” Joe replied. “Mudd’s got a big place and is probably known by most people in town. On the other hand there could be a connection between Mudd and the Flickering Torch, with Schill as a link.”
“And if the Flickering Torch is in some way involved in the accidents, Schill definitely bears observing,” Frank added.
The combo started playing a number. Couples drifted from the tables to the dance floor. The Bayport foursome joined them.
At the next intermission Bernie Marzi returned to their table. They engaged in some light chitchat about music, then Frank asked if the drummer knew a Beemerville man named Mudd.
“Can’t help you,” Bernie replied. “Never heard of him. Should I?”
“Not unless you go in for used airplane parts,” Joe replied.
Bernie laughed. “They’re not my line.”
“Is anyone in your group interested in that sort of thing?” Frank asked.
“Not that I know of.”
Finally the band quit for the night. The lights of the Flickering Torch were dimmed and the patrons filed out into the night air.
Callie, Iola, Frank, and Joe settled themselves in their convertible. After a few miles of driving, Frank flipped on the radio. He tuned it until the voice of a newscaster came through. The big story of the day made the boys sit bolt upright.
The announcer said, “A gang of thieves broke into a warehouse at Kennedy Airport earlier tonight in another bold freight heist. In a well-organized robbery, the gang overpowered the night watchman and transferred a whole consignment of air freight to trucks parked outside the warehouse.
“The trucks have vanished. The police are investigating, but Chief Reynolds admits that up to the time we went on the air, no clues to the gang or the stolen goods have been discovered.”
The commentator turned to other news stories, his voice droning on.
Frank snapped the radio off. “That’s a new development in Dad’s case. He must be plenty upset about the gang’s getawa
y.”
“I wonder if he was close to nabbing them,” Joe said. “Maybe the informer we’re supposed to meet will give us a lead to this mob.”
“All this is Greek to us,” Callie said in a mock pout. “What’s going on, anyway?”
Frank said, “We can’t let you in on the details, but Joe and I may have a hand in catching that very same bunch of crooks.”
“Do be careful,” Iola pleaded.
“Don’t worry,” Joe said. “We always are.”
The young people dropped into silence, busy with their own thoughts as they rode along. Gradually a series of lights came into view on the right-hand side of the highway.
“That’s Marlin Crag Airport,” Frank informed the girls, “where Scott and Weiss were headed when they crashed.”
Overhead, they could hear the motor of a small plane coming in for a landing. Suddenly the runway lights blinked off and on several times.
“Oh, look,” Callie said.
“That’s funny,” Joe commented. “I’ve never seen that kind of signal to an incoming plane.”
“There’s something very strange going on,” Frank said. “Joe, we’d better investigate this!”
CHAPTER X
Shots in the Dark
FRANK pulled the car over to the side of the road and switched off the headlights.
“We can observe the airstrip from here,” he said. “I think something fishy’s going on.”
The control tower loomed in the distance, the muted lights from its windows brooding over the semidarkened field. Runway markers stretched out into the distance, and the strange blinking continued.
The airplane came closer and the young people craned to see it. Port and starboard lights were visible now, and the belly beam winked as the craft passed over them.
“Do you suppose the runway signal was meant for this plane?” asked Callie.
“Could be,” Joe said. “Let’s watch it.”
Even though the pilot had plenty of runway, he failed to settle the plane down until near the end of the strip.
“Boy, I hope he doesn’t overshoot!” Frank declared. As he spoke, the plane dropped several feet, then hit the ground smoothly with only yards to spare.
The Flickering Torch Mystery Page 5