The Flickering Torch Mystery

by Franklin W. Dixon

  They were surprised when they were met by Seymour Schill at the door of the Flickering Torch. Schill showed no recognition of Frank and Joe.

  “I’m the emcee for tonight,” he proclaimed. “I’ll announce your program. But first,” he added with a self-important air, “you’ll have to do a warm-up number so I can see if you’re good enough for us.”

  The Bayport youths played one of their favorite pieces. Seymour seemed impressed. “You’ll do,” he said when they had finished. “Let’s start the program. The patrons are arriving.”

  The band played for about an hour, doing renditions of songs that had the listeners tapping their toes and snapping their fingers to the varied rhythms. A dance melody led up to the first intermission.

  Seymour came over and had a big smile on his face. “Say, gang, you’re great!” he said. “Come along. A lot of patrons are dying to meet you.”

  “I’m not sure we should,” Frank said. He glanced about for any sign of Nettleton or Zinn.

  “You’ve got to be kind to your public,” Seymour insisted. “That’s part of being in show biz.”

  Unable to come up with a plausible refusal, Frank led the way down to the dance floor where a crowd was milling around. Each member of the band was promptly buttonholed by a music fan.

  An effusive blond teen-ager engaged Frank in conversation. “I think your combo is too sweet for words,” she cooed.

  “Er—thank you,” said Frank, who had his eye on the stage. Dale Nettleton had just come in and was tinkering with the ampliner!

  Frank tried to edge away but the girl linked her arm in his. “Do tell me what you’re playing next,” she begged.

  Desperately Frank went through the program. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll have to get ready,” he said.

  “That’s the only reason I’d accept,” she said archly. “Keep the rhythm coming my way!”

  Frank looked back at the stage. Nettleton had vanished. Quickly the boy walked up and checked the amplifier. He found nothing wrong with it. When the band tuned up, the amp carried the sound without distortion.

  “What is Nettleton up to?” Frank asked himself. But there was no time to mull over the question. The music began again. The South Forty zoomed through some melodic country rock before shifting into a louder beat.

  They hit a deafening crescendo at the end of the last piece. The floor shook. The windows rattled.

  And then the amplifier fell over with a terrific thump! What looked like the magnet fell off the back and rolled across the stage!

  CHAPTER XVII

  The Payoff

  THE audience applauded at the end of the program, clapping their hands and stamping their feet. The five Bayport youths bowed.

  “Fellows, I have an idea we’re a hit,” Phil said out of the corner of his mouth.

  “They dig us,” Tony agreed.

  But Joe hardly noticed the applause. “I can’t wait to see what fell off the amp,” he murmured.

  As the audience drifted away, he leaped forward and pounced on the object. The rest of the combo gathered around him.

  “It’s a lead cap,” Joe commented, “and not really part of the amp!”

  “What’s it for?” Biff inquired.

  “Look here,” Joe said. He picked the amplifier from the floor where it had fallen and placed the cap over the magnet at the back.

  “A perfect fit,” he said. “The magnet holds it in place.”

  Tony whistled softly. “No wonder the amp was top-heavy!”

  Frank nodded. “That’s what fooled me when I inspected the amp. I thought the cap was the magnet.”

  “I still don’t know what that hunk of lead is for,” Biff persisted.

  Frank shrugged. “A lab test should give us the answer,” he said. “We’ll take it home to Bayport and find out.”

  “You’re not taking anything to Bayport!” a voice interrupted. The boys turned to see Seymour Schill advancing with a scowl. “All right, hand it over!”

  “Hand over what?” Joe asked in feigned ignorance.

  “That chunk of lead. Give it here!” The guitarist reached out suddenly in an effort to snatch it from Joe.

  But Joe was too quick for Seymour. He lobbed the piece underhand to Frank. When Seymour rushed at him, Frank made a sidearm toss to Biff Hooper. Seymour leaped forward again, only to have Biff flip the piece of lead back to Joe. This infuriated Seymour, who screamed his defiance.

  Sensing something was amiss, some of the patrons of the Flickering Torch rushed toward the stage to gawk.

  In the midst of the turmoil, Frank’s false mustache fell off. Frantically he tried to press it back, but no luck. What was worse, somebody identified him!

  “Hardy!”

  Frank glanced in the direction of the shout and saw O. K. Mudd pushing through the crowd.

  “That’s Frank Hardy!” Mudd shouted. “I recognize him without his phony mustache! Grab him, Seymour!”

  “Grab him yourself,” Seymour retorted. “I can’t handle all of ‘em!”

  “You introduced a bunch of spies!” Mudd’s voice was hoarse with anger. “You numbskull, you let the Hardys trick you!”

  “What do you want from me?” Seymour protested, his eyes bulging in frustration. “Mulholland hired them. Not me. I just took it from there.”

  “Never mind.” Mudd stopped short of the group and regained control of himself. “At least we know who they are. The party’s over!” He turned to Frank. “I want that piece from the amplifier!”

  “Why should we give it to you?” Frank asked.

  “Because it’s not your property, that’s why.”

  Phil asked, “Whose property is it?”

  “It belongs to the Flickering Torch.”

  “Then it’s not yours either,” Biff pointed out, “unless you own the place!”

  Mudd flushed a deep red. He looked around as if searching for help. Suddenly he broke into a smile. A husky policeman approached. His hair was whitish blond and he had a slight limp.

  Joe lobbed the lead cap to Frank

  “What’s the beef about?” he inquired.

  “Officer,” Mudd complained, “the Hardy boys and their cronies are stealing club property.”

  “Like what?”

  “A piece of the amplifier.”

  “Let me see it!” the policeman ordered.

  Joe came forward and handed him the chunk of lead. “It’s not a piece of the amplifier,” he said. “We suspect that something illegal is going on here and suggest that this be checked out in the police laboratory.”

  The officer stared at him angrily. “Cut the baloney, kid,” he growled. “What are you trying to do, play FBI? I’ve got a good mind to arrest you. Get out of here while you’re still in one piece!”

  He turned and gave the lead cap to Mudd, who accepted it with a triumphant smirk.

  “You Hardys stay out of my way from now on,” he threatened, “or you’ll wind up under a slab in my junkyard!”

  As the policeman left, Mudd and Seymour went off the stage together, talking in low tones.

  “Well, how do you like that?” Biff exclaimed in disbelief.

  “That cop didn’t even listen to us!” Tony complained.

  “That piece of lead must have been worth an awful lot to O. K. Mudd,” Joe mused. “Too bad we couldn’t have a better look at it.”

  Frank placed his guitar in its case. “Well, let’s take the policeman’s advice and get out of here. I think he would run us in if he had the chance.”

  The five youths were walking toward Biff’s station wagon when Frank suddenly handed his guitar to Joe.

  “We haven’t been paid!” he exclaimed. “I’m going back inside to see Bozar. I’ll meet you at the car in a few minutes.”

  At the front door Frank noticed Mudd and Seymour entering the manager’s office behind the dance hall. “I’d better find out what those two are up to,” he thought. He sneaked through a clump of small trees and reached the rear of the rest
aurant. He ducked down and scrambled along the wall until he reached a lighted window in the far corner. Sounds of voices came from within.

  Very slowly Frank raised his head and peered over the sill. A broad desk stood at one end, facing a sofa at the other end. Two easy chairs Banked the sofa.

  Mudd was sitting in a swivel chair behind the desk. Seymour Schill stood on the opposite side, facing him. The junkyard proprietor opened a middle drawer and took out an envelope, which he handed to Seymour with the words, “Here’s your dough.”

  The guitarist removed a bundle of bills from the envelope and counted them.

  “What’s wrong?” Mudd snapped. “Don’t you trust me any more?”

  Seymour snickered as he put the money in his breast pocket. “Trust you? After that little episode with the band? You’ve got an idea I let you down with the Hardys. So I wanted to be sure you didn’t short-change me.”

  “The Hardys?” Mudd snarled. “Forget them. They won’t be bothering us any more. From now on it’s business as usual for you and me.”

  “Okay, Mudd,” Seymour replied. “But don’t get ratty with me again. I don’t like it.”

  The pair walked out of the office, Mudd turning off the lights at the door.

  As Frank stood up to leave, a dry leaf crackled behind him. He whirled around in time to catch a glimpse of the policeman creeping up. The man’s nightstick flashed out and a gigantic Roman candle exploded in Frank’s head. Then he crumpled to the ground in blackness.

  When Frank came to he was bound hand and foot with rope. He sat up and looked around.

  Frank was in a small laboratory painted white. Fluorescent lighting threw a glare over the interior. Along one side, rows of shelves held bottles of various sizes. The opposite wall was lined with scientific instruments and small metal containers, many of lead. A table covered with test tubes and electronic equipment stood at the far end.

  A low moan caused him to turn his head. Another prisoner lay near him. The man moved con vulsively, revealing his features.

  Lefty the informer!

  He looked haggard. His eyes were tightly closed. His lips twitched.

  “Lefty!” Frank gasped. “What’s going on?”

  “He can’t hear you, I’m afraid,” said a smooth voice.

  Frank twisted around and saw a man in a white coat. He was carefully filling a hypodermic needle with a whitish fluid. With a sinister smile he said, “Lefty couldn’t care less about what’s going on.”

  “Well, I care!” Frank snapped. “Where are we?”

  “Come, come, Hardy, you know enough science to recognize an experimental laboratory. Splendidly equipped, don’t you think?”

  “What kind of experiments are you carrying out?” Frank demanded.

  “They concern the radioactivity of subatomic particles.”

  “Uranium isotopes,” Frank guessed.

  “Precisely.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Dr. John Weber. I’m quite distinguished in the field of physics, if I do say so myself.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” Frank asked suspiciously.

  “Because the information will die with you,” Dr. Weber said with a leer.

  He advanced toward Frank, holding the hypodermic syringe in his left hand. The fingers of his right hand toyed with the plunger. The long needle gleamed wickedly!

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Diamond Dust

  Back, in the station wagon, Joe fidgeted nervously. “I wonder what’s keeping Frank,” he said.

  Phil shrugged. “Maybe Bozar’s trying to weasel out of the deal.”

  Joe flicked on the radio and they listened to music for a while. Fifteen minutes went by. Still no sign of Frank. Joe glanced at his watch.

  “That’s long enough!” he decided. “Something must have happened. I’m going back.”

  “We’ll come with you,” Biff offered.

  All four left the car and strode into the Flickering Torch. They found the place vacant except for employees who were cleaning up after the evening’s entertainment.

  One man pushed a broom over the dance floor, while another stuffed scrap paper and soda bottles into a bag. Waiters were carrying plates and glasses into the kitchen.

  Joe asked about Frank. None of the employees had seen the boy return!

  Suddenly Biff grabbed Joe’s arm. “Look! There’s Seymour!” He pointed to the guitarist, who was just about to leave the building.

  “Hey, Seymour!” Joe called out. “Wait! Have you seen Frank?”

  Schill stopped and faced the boys. “Last time I saw your brother, he was up at the stage with the rest of you. Meanwhile I thought you all had gone home!”

  “We came back to collect our fee,” Phil said pointedly.

  “Didn’t Bozar pay you?”

  “No.”

  “He’s left already. But maybe the check’s on his desk. I’ll look.”

  Seymour disappeared into the manager’s office and returned shortly.

  “Here it is,” he told Joe and handed him a check made out to the South Forty. Then, with a tired wave of his hand, he left.

  “Let’s search inside,” Joe said as he pocketed the check, “then we’ll scout the grounds.”

  Phil and he took the main floor. They looked behind the stage and in the kitchen, finally examining the rest rooms and the check room.

  Biff and Tony found their way to the cellar, which was filled with cases of soda and cartons of restaurant supplies.

  “Frank, where are you?” Tony called. No reply.

  The four met again after a fruitless search.

  “Let’s try outside,” Joe said. He ran to the car and returned with two flashlights, then the boys circled the Flickering Torch. Their investigation of a garage behind the building revealed nothing, neither did the bushes, hedges, or the gully across the road from the restaurant.

  Now the last of the lights were winking out. Joe played his flashlight against the window of Bozar’s office. Directly beneath the sill, the beam picked up a small flower bed. Zinnias and marigolds lay crushed into the soil.

  “Look here,” Joe said. “Footprints! Two sets of them!”

  “Frank was probably trying to look inside,” Phil said, “when somebody jumped him.”

  “And he was knocked down and carried off to a car waiting at the road!” Tony conjectured. “Now what’ll we do?”

  “Call the police,” Joe said without hesitation. “But first I want to get in touch with Dad.”

  The boys returned to the car and drove along the road until they found a telephone booth. Joe put in a call to Bayport. He got his father and quickly told him that Frank was missing.

  “A dangerous turn of events,” Mr. Hardy said. “Call the authorities. I’ll meet you at the State Police Barracks in about an hour.”

  As planned, they rendezvoused at the barracks, where Lieutenant James Cook, a tall wiry man, was told about Frank’s disappearance.

  “We’ll have to question everybody connected with the Flickering Torch,” he said. “Can you give me any leads other than the footprints beneath the window?”

  Joe spoke up. “There have been several mysterious things going on around here.” He told of the elusive van and added, “If Frank was kidnapped, that might be a good place to hide him.”

  “We’ll check it out,” Cook said, and ordered his men to set up a dragnet for the van.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “Yes. I think Mudd’s airplane junkyard should be searched, too,” Joe said. “He threatened that if we didn’t lay off, we’d wind up under a slab in his junkyard! Frank might be held prisoner there!”

  The lieutenant was intrigued and asked for full details of the Hardys’ case. Joe and his father quickly related all the developments in the mystery from the time they had taken on the airport investigation up to the point where the policeman had snatched the lead cap which had fallen from the amplifier.

  The lieutenant nodded thoughtfully. �
�One thing is clear from your description of the policeman,” he said. “It doesn’t fit any of our people in this area, be it state or local police. He probably was a phony.”

  “I think you’re right,” Tony added. “That fake cop must be a crony of O. K. Mudd.”

  “I’ll get a search warrant for Mudd’s place,” Cook said. Then he instructed one of his assistants to broadcast a seven-state alarm for Frank Hardy, describing the young sleuth in detail.

  The boys looked exhausted after their work at the Flickering Torch and the excitement that had followed.

  “Why don’t you all go back to Bayport?” Fenton Hardy suggested. “You won’t be able to help at this point. Joe can stay here with me, and if we need the rest of you, we’ll give you a call. Okay?”

  Phil was about to protest, but then saw the logic in the detective’s reasoning. After a quick good-by, the boys drove home in Biff’s station wagon.

  Joe and his father presently fell asleep in their chairs until Lieutenant Cook woke them up.

  “It took some doing at this early hour, but I’ve got a warrant to search Mudd’s premises. Want to come along?”

  “Sure do,” Mr. Hardy replied, rubbing his eyes.

  The lieutenant, two of his men, and the Hardys drove directly to Mudd’s home. Joe and the detective waited as the junk dealer was routed from bed. He came to the door, bleary-eyed and angry. “What’s this all about?” he grumbled.

  Lieutenant Cook showed the warrant. “This is for the search of your property, Mr. Mudd. Frank Hardy is missing and we have reason to believe that you’re holding him.”

  Mudd gave a nasty laugh. “You’re crazy. Go right ahead and look all you want. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  The troopers searched the house first. Then they took Mudd to his junkyard.

  “This is ridiculous!” the man protested. “I don’t know anything about that Hardy kid!”

  He glared angrily as the two policemen searched his office. But again there was no sign of Frank.

  As they were about to leave the building, Joe spied a pipe-like object standing in one corner of the office. It was an airplane tailpost. The boy pointed to it and said, “Lieutenant Cook, I suggest we examine this!”