The Flickering Torch Mystery (13 page)

“What's it called?”

Thinking quickly, Phil came up with a name. “The South Forty,” he answered.

“Never heard of them,” the agent replied.

“They're big around Bayport,” Phil assured him. “Three guitars, drums, and organ.”

“What's your name?”

“Phil Cohen.”

Mulholland asked some technical questions about music. Phil expertly fielded every one of them.

“Okay, you seem to know your stuff,” the agent said at last. “I'll give you a shot at it. You'll start tonight. Leon Bozar, the manager, will pay you.”

“We'll be there with our gear,” Phil promised.

“Okay, but don't bring any amplifiers. The manager of the Flickering Torch says they use only their own. They have an organ, too.”

Phil thanked the agent and hung up. Joe let out a whoop of triumph.

“Great going, Phil. From now on you're our agent.”

The Hardys contacted Biff and Tony. Biff offered to drive them all in his father's station wagon.

“Good,” Frank told him. “We'll meet at our house about seven-thirty. We're due on stage at nine o‘clock sharp. And by the way, Biff, Joe and I will wear disguises so don't panic when you see us!”

While waiting for evening, Frank and Joe decided to use the afternoon to make an aerial search for the mysterious van that Joe had seen at Pete Guilfoyle's place. They drove to the airport for their plane and Frank piloted the craft north along the coast. He flew in from the sea and drifted lazily over the Marlin Crag Cliffs. Then he circled low over Beemerville, where the Flickering Torch stood out clearly on the highway.

“See anything exciting?” Frank asked as he turned past Beemerville.

“Lots of cars, trucks, and trailers, but no big van,” Joe replied.

“Negative here, too. I'll head back for Marlin Crag. The woods are bigger there. Good place to hide a vehicle that size.”

The cliffs loomed up on their horizon again. They saw the surf below pounding against the rocks and hurling spray high in the air. Frank flew out to sea and then back.

Suddenly Joe nearly jumped out of his seat. “I see it, Frank!” he exclaimed. “That van down there between the trees at the end of the lane! It's the same shape and color as the one I hitched a ride on.”

Frank dived down and circled low over the vehicle. On the side of the van, gleaming in the sunlight, were the words: MOBILE X-RAY.

“No doubt about it now,” Frank agreed. “That's the van we're after!”

He headed toward the airport and asked the control tower at Marlin Crag for clearance. When he received it, he came in for a quick landing. After parking their craft, the boys raced to a car-rental office. Within minutes they were speeding toward the woods.

Joe was at the wheel. He turned off the highway onto a dirt road, the wheels picking up a cloud of dust. Reaching the lane, the car jolted into an open space and careened to a stop.

The place where the van had been was empty!

“It's gone,” Joe said.

“Have we got the right location?” Frank asked.

“I'm positive.”

“Then it might be somewhere near here,” Frank said. “We'll cruise till we find it.”

Joe swung the car around and they roared back along the dirt road, bouncing along and scouting the woods as they went.

Suddenly Joe cried, “There it is!” He stepped on the brakes and pointed up a side path where a big vehicle was parked facing them. The driver had raised the hood and was tinkering with the engine.

Joe drove straight to the spot and parked, facing the van, bumper to bumper. “This guy isn't going to make any sneak getaway,” he muttered. “Unless he can fly that van over us!”

As the boys jumped out, the man lifted his head. He was thick-set and had a rugged face.

“Hold everything!” Frank ordered.

“What's this all about?” the driver asked in surprise.

“We'd like to know what you've got in your van,” Joe told him.

“What's it to you?”

“Just say we're curious,” Frank said.

“The police might be interested, too,” Joe added.

The man turned pale.

“Do we get to inspect the van, or don't we?” Frank pressed.

The man shrugged. “I guess I can't stop you. Go ahead.”

Frank and Joe ran around to the rear of the vehicle. Each grabbed a handle and swung the doors open, then stared at a cargo of tables, chairs and other household furniture.

Embarrassed, Frank looked at the name on the side—MIDWEST MOVING COMPANY.

Joe gulped and turned red. “Frank, I made a mistake.”

“You can say that again,” Frank replied, then turned to the driver who had followed them.

“Sorry, sir,” he apologized. “We thought you might be a crook.”

The man looked relieved. “Believe me, I was afraid you were a couple of shakedown hoods. Now that I've fixed the engine, I'll be on my way.”

The Hardy boys went back to their car. “Am I mortified!” Joe confessed.

“You and me both,” Frank said with a rueful grin.

They cruised around for a while longer without spotting the van they were after. Frank, who was driving now, finally turned back to the airport. “It's time to head for home,” he noted.

The psychological letdown was hard to overcome and the boys felt tense that evening as they put on their disguises. Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude looked on as Frank and Joe fixed cheek pads and eyebrows and donned wigs. Frank put on a false mustache.

“I do hope you'll stay out of danger,” Mrs. Hardy said nervously.

“Nothing good can come of these disguises,” Aunt Gertrude added. “Gracious, you frighten me!”

“Don't worry,” Frank assured the women. “There'll be five of us at the Flickering Torch. We can take care of ourselves.”

Biff drove up in his father's station wagon with Tony in the front and Phil in the back seat. The Hardys stowed their guitars in the back and slipped in next to Phil. The South Forty rolled north toward Beemerville.

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!

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.

“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.”