Read The Flickering Torch Mystery Online
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
The Flickering Torch Mystery (15 page)
Lieutenant Cook looked thoughtful. “Mr. Hardy, why don't we all get some sleep here before daybreak. Then I suggest you have a talk with the airport personnel, while I see if our dragnet has located the mobile X-ray.”
Mr. Hardy and Joe settled down in comfortable chairs and fell into an uneasy sleep. They awakened about eight oâclock, had breakfast at a nearby diner, and then set off to question Steve Holmes, the airport manager.
He insisted he knew nothing about the diamonds.
“Perhaps Bill Zinn can help us,” Mr. Hardy said.
“He's away on vacation,” Holmes replied.
“Did he leave an address?” Joe asked.
Holmes shook his head.
“What about Dale Nettleton?”
“Sorry, I can't help you there either. Last time I saw Nettleton, he was flying to Morrisville.”
“That sounds pretty fishy,” Joe murmured. “We have two suspects who disappear at the same time!”
Just then Holmes's telephone rang. He picked it up, listened a moment, and then handed the phone to Mr. Hardy. “For you,” he said.
The Bayport sleuth spoke briefly and hung up. “The police have made a discovery,” he said. “We'll have to go.” Rapidly he led the way out of the terminal.
“What's up?” Joe queried.
“They found the van.”
“Where?”
“In the woods. Lieutenant Cook told me how to get there.”
Father and son hastened to the scene. Two police cars were guarding the area.
Parked in a glen and partly concealed by overhanging tree branches stood the large van. The words MOBILE X-RAY stood out boldly on both sides.
The Hardys hastened up to it and around to the rear. Both doors stood open.
The van was empty!
CHAPTER XIX
Needle Man
LIEUTENANT Cook walked up to the Hardys.
“Is this the way you found the van?” Joe asked him.
“Yes. Except that it was locked. Whatever has been in the van was removed before we got here.”
Joe pointed to a set of tracks on the floor of the vehicle. “A large box must have been slid out and hidden somewhere, Lieutenant. Frank's probably in it!”
Cook nodded. “I'm having my men scour the woods. But chances are the container has been taken to a building, and not necessarily in this area.”
“Well, while you're conducting your search,” Mr. Hardy said tersely, “I'll go back to the airport and see what I can find out there. Joe, I suggest you return to the Flickering Torch. It's closed today, but stake it out anyhow. The gang might meet there and perhaps you'll be able to pick up a clue. We'll call you, Lieutenant, if there is any news.”
“Good plan,” the officer agreed.
“I don't want to waste any time,” Mr. Hardy went on. “Could one of your men drop Joe off at the Torch?”
“Sure.”
Lieutenant Cook ordered an officer to drive Joe there at once. Minutes later Mr. Hardy set off for the airport in his car. He was just about to leave the parking lot when he heard Chet Morton's jalopy backfire into an open space.
The detective intercepted him. “Chet! What in the world are you doing here?”
“Where's Frank? Did you find him?” Chet asked with a worried look.
“Not yet. How did you know he was missing?”
“Biff called me. And I feel terrible, Mr. Hardy. I've let my buddies down. Frank and Joe were working hard on this case, and what was I doing? Making out like Snoopy and the Red Baron!”
“Don't blame yourself, Chet,” Mr. Hardy said. “You couldn't have preventedâ”
“But maybe I could have!” Chet said grimly. “Gee, Mr. Hardy, what can I do to help find Frank?”
The detective thought for a moment. “As a matter of fact, there is something you can do. But you'll have to apply all the sleuthing you ever learned from Frank and Joe.”
“I'll do it. What is it?”
“Joe went back to the Flickering Torch to stake out the place. It might be a good idea if you'd tail him.”
“Me? Tail Joe? What for?”
“He may be in danger. If anything happens to him, you can report to me.”
“All right,” Chet said.
Mr. Hardy cautioned him to park the car far from the Flickering Torch so that his noisy jalopy would not be a giveaway.
“Don't worry,” Chet said, sliding behind the wheel. “I'll hide this in the woods half a mile from the place.”
Chet rumbled out of the parking lot. True to his word, he concealed his car in a thicket far from the restaurant, then walked parallel to the road, making sure that nobody saw him.
Several hundred yards from the Flickering Torch Chet parted some bushes and peered at the place, just in time to see Joe slipping around the side of the building. Chet followed, carefully keeping a screen of trees between him and his friend.
Joe reached the window of the manager's office, raised his head slowly, and peered in. Two persons were inside! One was a tall, dark man sitting in a swivel chair. The other was Seymour. The window was slightly ajar and Joe could hear Seymour speaking angrily.
“Bozar, I want to know what's going on!”
Joe thought, “So that's Bozar, the manager of the Flickering Torch!” He strained to hear more of the conversation.
“Sure, Seymour,” Bozar said. “What's your complaint?”
“I've been running errands for Muddâ” Seymour began.
“Why not?” Bozar interrupted. “Mudd owns the Flickering Torch. And anyway, he paid you every time, didn't he?”
“The money's fine,” Seymour retorted. “But O. K. never tells me what his errands are about. I've never asked any questions, either. But now Frank Hardy's missing. And there seems to be something awfully strange going on around here.”
There was silence for a few seconds. Then Bozar said, “So now you're asking questions?”
“You bet your life I am,” Seymour said. “And I want some answers.”
There was the sound of a scraping chair. Joe saw Bozar stand up. “Seymour, I think you're right. It's time you were let in on the whole deal. But Mudd'll have to do it, he's the boss.”
“Where is he?” Seymour demanded.
“Go to the Midatlantic warehouse at 10 Walker Road, near Helen Avenue in Beemerville. You'll find him there. I'll phone ahead so he'll be waiting for you. You have your car here?”
“Yeah. Out in front of the garage.”
Joe's mind was in a turmoil. Was Mudd out on bail? And how could he follow Seymour? He quickly made a decision. Sneaking up to the garage, he saw a red Ford in front of it. There was no other car in sight, so it had to be Seymour's.
Joe quickly opened the door, got in and flattened himself on the floor in the rear and waited tensely.
A minute or so later Seymour slid behind the wheel. He started the engine and headed toward Beemerville.
Watching from hiding, Chet raced back to his jalopy. He started it with the usual bang, then set out in pursuit of the red Ford. After two miles he caught up, but stayed far enough behind to avoid suspicion.
Fifteen minutes later Seymour parked in a deserted neighborhood and got out. Joe peered through the window and saw warehouses on both sides of the street.
Seymour went up to one of them and knocked loudly. The door opened and the youth slipped in. Joe heard a click as the door closed again.
Quickly Joe followed and cautiously tried the knob. It was locked! Stepping back, he looked up at the windows high above. His best chance to get at them was from the roof of a taller building so close that it nearly touched the warehouse.
“There's about ten feet between them,” Joe mused. “Maybe I'll be able to see something.” He ran to the fire escape of the second structure and climbed to the roof. Hastening across to the parapet, he found himself facing a window six feet below where he was standing. It was blacked out with thick paint!
Disappointed, Joe was about to descend when he spotted a ladder lying on the pebbly roof near a chimney. He carried it to the parapet, lifted it over the edge, and allowed the legs to slide down until they rested on the sill of the warehouse window. The ladder now ran between the two building at an angle.
Beneath Joe was a twenty-five-foot drop to the pavement. He tested the stability of the ladder before gingerly placing his feet on one rung. Letting go of the parapet, he climbed down.
The window was slightly open at the top, but Joe could not see through the crack. Quickly he pulled out his pocketknife and scraped away enough paint for a view inside. Then he put one eye on the glass.
On the warehouse floor sat an enormous boxlike container! Joe could see enough of the interior to make out scientific instruments ranged along one wall. A portable laboratory! At the far end of the warehouse was a delivery van.
Joe's heart beat with excitement as his eye picked out a group to the side of the box. Seymour Schill was flanked by two men in white coats. He looked frightened, but defiant.
“I want to know what's going on here! And no more of your soft talk! Where is O. K. Mudd?” he demanded.
“He's been arrested. You'll have to be satisfied with us,” one of the men replied.
“Who are you?”
“Dr. John Weber. This is my assistant, Dr. Curtice Cain.”
Dr. Cain gave a cool nod and disappeared into the lab.
“I never heard of you,” Seymour growled.
“Well, we've heard of you, Mr. Schill. You've been our courier, only you didn't know it.”
Dr. Weber grinned. “You arranged to get us isotopes in exchange for diamonds.”
Seymour looked startled. “So that's what Mudd was up to. Nice little racket!”
“Very nice, indeed,” Dr. Weber replied. “And we want it to keep going.”
“Too bad you canât,” Seymour snorted. “I'm reporting you to the police. This is the end of the line for you!”
“Not for us!” Dr. Weber snarled. “For you!”
He threw himself on Seymour and the pair tumbled to the warehouse floor.
“Curtice, help!” Weber yelled.
Cain came running from the lab bearing a hypodermic needle. He plunged it into Seymour's arm. The guitarist went unconscious.
Working rapidly, Weber and Cain drew a tarpaulin from a compartment of the lab. They spread it on the floor, shifted Seymour onto it, and wrapped him up like a mummy.
Then the two went into the lab, each emerging a moment later with another body swathed in the same way.
“We'll make it to the airport just in time,” Weber said as the two men went to get stretchers, one for each of the tarp-shrouded figures.
“They'll be waiting for us,” Cain remarked, and opened the back door of the delivery van. He helped Weber to slide the stretchers inside.
The door slammed shut. Cain turned the handle to lock it into place, then he got into the front seat beside Weber, who started the engine.
The hair rose on the nape of Joe's neck. “Frank might be on one of those stretchers!” he thought. “Somehow I'll have to stop that truck!”
Frantically he grabbed the first rung of the ladder and began to ascend. A sound on the other end made him look up. He stared into the menacing face of Bozar!
“See anything that takes your fancy?” the man asked with a smirk and gave the ladder a violent kick. It rose and stood poised for an instant on the window sill, then it fell back, striking heavily against the parapet.
The force of the blow caused Joe to lose his balance. He slipped and plunged toward the pavement twenty-five feet below!
CHAPTER XX
Airport Ambush
JoE uttered a cry and flung out his arms in desperation. The fingers of his right hand closed over the side of the ladder and he clutched it, causing it to turn. Then, with an iron effort, he grasped the ladder with the other hand, and, feet dangling, righted it again.
As he swung his body upward, Bozar shouted, “It's all over, kid. You're going down!” He raised his foot to give the ladder another kick.
But suddenly the man flipped back from the parapet onto the roof. Chet Morton had him in a bear hug!
Joe regained his footing on the ladder in time to see Bozar break away, and a wild slugging match ensued. Bozar went down from a blow to the jaw. He scrambled to his feet, caught Chet with a kick in the stomach, and fled down the fire escape.
Joe climbed to the roof and helped his friend up. Blood trickled from Chet's nose. He brushed it aside with the back of his hand and grinned. “Your dad told me to shadow you, just in case.”
“Great thinking!” Joe said. “Come on. Let's get down. We've got to stop a truck!”
The two rushed to the fire escape, where they spotted Bozar far below running toward the truck. He jumped in beside the driver, then the vehicle roared off.
“He's going to the airport!” Joe panted. “We'll follow!”
Reaching the alley, the boys rushed to Chet's jalopy. Chet started the motor, but it stalled seconds later with a depressing groan.
“That's all we need!” Chet moaned and turned the key again. No action!
“You're out of gas!” Joe exclaimed. “Look!”
Chet threw a desperate glance at the fuel gauge. Joe was right.
Just then two motorcycles whined up the street. Their youthful riders wore leather jackets, helmets, and goggles. Joe jumped out of the car, ran in front of them, and waved his hands. They screeched to a stop a few feet away.
“Fellows, we're out of gas and we've got to get to the airport to stop some crooks from getting away. Can you give us a ride?”
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