The Flickering Torch Mystery (10 page)

“Have you got room for me?” Bernie asked.

“Sure.”

“Hey, that's great,” Bernie said. “Especially since I don't have a car.”

“It's a deal. Let me tell Mother.” Joe hastened upstairs and returned with Mrs. Hardy, who offered Bernie their hospitality. Then Tony departed.

A few minutes later the phone rang. It was Mr. Hardy.

“Where are you, Dad?” Frank inquired.

“Morrisville, New Jersey,” the detective said. “At the airport. I've tracked the hijacking outfit this far. Now I need some help.”

“We'll come double-quick, Dad. But there's a new angle at this end. Joe'll tell you about it.”

He handed the phone to his brother, who hurriedly described his plan to join the Emergency Exit, so he could keep an eye on the Flickering Torch and its patrons. “What should I do?” Joe concluded. “Cancel out the music?”

“Not at all,” Mr. Hardy replied. “Go ahead with your surveillance. All I need here is Frank.”

The dark-haired boy took over again. “Sure thing, Dad,” he said. “Give me the orders.”

“I can't over the phone,” Fenton Hardy told him. “Come to Morrisville late tomorrow afternoon and we'll talk it over. I've got a job at the field as a porter, so it'll be easy for us to meet without arousing suspicion.”

“Anything else?” Frank queried.

“Well, Sam Radley's still checking on Mudd's record. So far there's nothing about Zinn. That's it for now. Take care, both of you.”

The following day Frank decided to let Joe and Bernie have the car. After an early dinner, they dropped him off at Bayport Airport, where he got a commercial flight to Morrisville, then the two went on to Beemerville for their practice session.

They reached the area in a little more than an hour.

“Sure is pretty country,” Joe remarked as Bernie directed him off the highway. They drove along the coast road. The Marlin Crag Cliffs now gave way to sandy beaches which swept inland in a half circle. In the middle of the broad curve lay a small fishing village called Pohasset. It was a little past Beemerville and was frequented by artists who haunted the wharves and scenic dunes. Stretches of green marshes were dotted with small houses and outbuildings.

“See the house up on the knoll?” Bernie asked.

“The one with the barn near the waterfront?”

“Yes,” the drummer remarked as Joe slowed down. “Pull in the drive. That's Pete Guilfoyle's place where we hold our jam sessions.”

Joe parked the car under an elm tree and got out to look around. The barn lay about two hundred feet from the house, nearly at the water's edge. Its front doors stood open, revealing an unusual interior.

It certainly was not for horses. Instead, an organ stood on the right side, and chairs were scattered about, along with two amplifiers.

“Nice place to practice, eh?” Bernie said. “We can vibrate it apart and nobody complains.”

Joe's eyes were following the shore as he walked toward the barn. He noticed a boat rocking in the water some distance away. Concealing himself behind a tree, the boy looked intently at a man standing up in the boat. The fellow had binocu lars and the late-afternoon sun glinted off the polished lenses.

“Bernie, take a look at this,” Joe said.

“The guy in the boat?”

“Yes. I think he's spying on us.”

“Oh, he's probably just a bird watcher,” Bernie said. “Why would he be interested in us?”

The man in the boat sat down, started an outboard motor, purred a little farther away from the shore, then stopped to scan the barn once more.

“We seem to be the birds he's watching,” Joe mused. As he spoke, two more boys drove up in their cars. Bernie introduced them.

“Joe, meet Line Caldwell and George Hansen,” he said. “Fellows, this is Joe Hardy, who'll sub for Mark Bowen this weekend.”

“Okay with us,” said Pete, who had just walked down from the house. “We're with you, Joe, as long as you can play the guitar.”

Joe grinned. “Try me. But say, there's something I want to get straight before we start.” As the boys entered the barn, he walked over to the first amplifier to check it out. It looked normal. He did the same to the second.

“Not a thing out of kilter,” he muttered. “I wonder why Dale Nettleton was fooling around the amp at the Flickering Torch.”

“Dale Nettleton? You know him?” Pete asked.

“Casually,” Joe replied. “What about you?”

“Oh, he hangs around the Flickering Torch. Always interested in the band.”

Bernie, who had been holding Joe's guitar, pushed the instrument into his hands. “Okay, Joe, let's hear some sweet sounds!”

The Hardy boy got in line with the other guitarists. Bernie sat just behind them. Under Pete's direction, the beat started low on the drums. The organ picked up the theme, weaving in and out in an intricate pattern. Then came Joe's lead guitar in a short, burbling pizzicato. The rhythm guitar supported the tune, succeeded by the bass.

Then it was Joe's turn again. At first he was a little hesitant, but soon the music was vibrating through his body. He began to cut loose, improvising wild harmonies, an octave higher than the bass guitar.

The sound reverberated from the rafters. The amplifier swayed as the combo came up to a crescendo, hit the final notes, and ended the first piece. Bernie Marzi looked over from his drums.

“Joe!” he called. “You're great!”

Pete Guilfoyle added, “Want a permanent job with us?”

“You're a lot better than Seymour Schill,” Line Caldwell said.

Joe grinned. “Nice of you to ask me, fellows, but I'm not really in your league yet. Well, how about another piece?”

As the music soared again, faces began to appear in the doorway. Local people were congregating to hear the Emergency Exit rehearse as they always did, tapping their feet and clapping their hands to the tempo.

After the walls of the barn had trembled for more than two hours with the pulsating vibrations, the rehearsal ended. The young musicians joked as they packed their instruments nd Pete Guilfoyle approached Joe.

“Nice going. We're glad to have you with us.” He glanced at his watch. “It's getting pretty late. Are you planning on going back to Bayport tonight?”

“I suppose so.”

“That's a long way. How would you like to sleep in the barn loft? I'd invite you inside, but there isn't enough room.”

“That's a good idea,” Joe said. He stepped aside and said to Bernie, “That fellow in the boat might show up again in the morning. Maybe I can find out what's cooking.”

“Good,” Bernie said. “See you Saturday.”

Joe thanked Pete for the invitation.

“Don't mention it,” the boy replied. “You'll find blankets in the loft. Make yourself comfortable. I'll turn off the lights and see you in the house for breakfast, okay?”

“Fine.”

Joe climbed the rungs of the ladder and pulled himself up to see a pile of hay and several blankets. He wriggled into the dry grass.

While drowsiness overcame him, Joe pondered the stranger in the boat. Soon he was fast asleep. In his dream he watched the man start his motor. It exploded with a giant
boom,
causing Joe to sit bolt upright.

Outside, thunder was cannonading along the shore, and through a small window he saw great streaks of lightning. These were followed by a torrent of rain.

The door creaked open. Then, caught by a gust of wind, it slammed shut violently. Joe got to his knees, crawled to the edge of the loft, and looked down.

Lightning flashed again and for a moment he could not see anything. Then, in the shadows, he made out the figure of a man I

The fellow listened, then moved stealthily toward the ladder leading to the loft!

THE intruder glanced up and Joe pulled back out of sight. Had he been seen?

The boy listened, his heart pounding with excitement. All he could hear was a
drip, drip,
drip. The roof leaked, and droplets of rain splashed on the ladder. Perhaps that's what had caught the man's attention! Joe fervently hoped so.

No other sound now. Joe craned forward cautiously. The shadow was moving toward the door. It opened quietly and the stranger disappeared into the night.

“I'd better trail him,” Joe decided. He hastened down the ladder. It was wet from the rain. Joe's feet slipped. His sagging weight was too much for fingers that clutched the slick rung above him. Down he went!

Joe fell heavily to the barn floor, striking his head against the post supporting the loft. He lay stunned, for how long he did not know. When he opened his eyes again, there was an eerie silence in the barn. The rain had ended and the trickle from the roof no longer splashed on the ladder.

Joe rose to his feet and rubbed a bump on the back of his head. Then he stepped to the door, opened it quietly, and looked outside. The landscape was bathed in silvery light, cast by a full moon which shone pale between fluffy clouds.

The boy followed the path leading to the road, moving at a crouch and searching for possible clues which the intruder might have left. But the rain had obliterated all tracks. By the time Joe reached the edge of the road, he knew the man had made a clean getaway.

Suddenly he noticed a small shiny object on the ground. He reached down in the gravel and picked up a plastic guitar pick. Was the night visitor a musician?

Joe pocketed the pick and walked back toward the barn, still alert to possible danger. If the prowler were one of the fellows in the band, why had he come back? Or could it have been the stranger in the boat, who had been spying on the Guilfoyle property?

Joe was about to enter the barn when he heard the sound of an approaching motor. A vehicle was driving up the road slowly.

Joe ducked, dropping on his knees behind a bushy azalea plant. He watched. Out of the darkness appeared a large van. The words MOBILE X-RAY on its side were visible in the moonlight. The driver stopped in front of the barn. The cab doors swung open and two men jumped out. They peered around, then went into the barn.

Joe listened, pressing his ear against the wall. There was a sound of scraping metal, then footsteps as the men came out again.

A voice said, “One more contact and we're finished.”

“Things are getting too hot around here,” the other man replied. “It's just as well.”

Pondering what it all meant, Joe watched the men as they returned to the van. They climbed in, and the doors slammed.

Joe reached for his car keys. They were not in any of his pockets! “I must have dropped them in the barn,” the boy thought desperately. “Now I can't follow these birds!” Suddenly he had an idea.

He sprinted from his hiding place and dashed toward the road, just as the van started off in first gear. As the vehicle picked up speed, Joe ran behind it, looking for a handhold. Nothing was accessible except the bumper.

Joe grasped it with both hands, then swung his feet up under the chassis, resting his heels on the muffler. If he could only hold on until the van stopped!

But Joe had not bargained with the exhaust pipe. It emerged near his face, sending out a hot stream of carbon monoxide. Joe turned his head away from it, sucking in gulps of air and trying to hold his breath as long as possible.

Finally, however, a numbness began to creep into his hands and he wondered if he should drop off. The noxious fumes made the decision for him. Joe fell unconscious to the road like a sack of potatoes!

If Frank Hardy had known what was going to happen to his brother, he would not have gone to his assignment in New Jersey so eagerly.

Once Frank had arrived at the Morrisville airport, he picked up his suitcase from the baggage claims center and headed toward the exit, where a porter sidled up to him and grasped the handle of his bag.

“May I help you with this, young fellow?” the porter asked. “It's kind of heavy.”

“No thanks. I'll carry it myself,” Frank replied with a sidewise glance at the man. Then a big smile came to his face. “Okay, you can take it, Dad.”

“Not so loud,” Mr. Hardy cautioned. “And get that grin off your face!”

“Where'll we meet?” Frank asked as they advanced toward a line of taxicabs in front of the terminal.

“I made reservations for you at the George Washington Motel. It's only a few blocks from here on the road leading into town. I'll see you there at six,” Mr. Hardy said.