Mystery of the Whale Tattoo (6 page)

“That may be,” Biff said. “But I'm not so sure about that goon Felsen. And for that matter, Boko and Rembrandt don't seem to be Cub Scout leaders, either.”

“Speculation's an integral part of detective work,” Frank said. “But what we need now are facts. Facts!”

“Who's fat?” said a voice from the stairs. Then Chet clomped down into the recreation room.

“Fellows,” Joe said with a sweep of his hand, “I give you Chesterton the Great!”

Biff and Tony applauded with the Hardys. Chet made a comic bow, then crossed the room and slumped wearily into an easy chair. “Oof! I just had a dozen pancakes for breakfast!” He patted his middle section and rolled his eyes.

Just then Mrs. Prito came down to the recreation room bearing two steaming hot mushroom and sausage pizzas. She smiled. “I thought I might interest someone in a snack,” she said. “Any takers?”

“You bet!” said Biff. Tony opened some bottles of soda while Biff helped Mrs. Prito cut the pizza.

“Chet? How about you?” Mrs. Prito asked.

“Oh, I couldn't,” he groaned. Then, a brief moment later, he said, “Well, just a little to keep up my strength.” He helped himself to a large wedge.

The boys ate silently. Midway through a hot triangle of pizza, Frank looked up suddenly.

“I just remembered something about Boko,” he said, and told the others about the clown's strange whale tattoo. “Think there might be any connection between that and the missing whale?”

Biff shrugged. “It's probably just coincidence.”

“You know,” said Joe, “Rembrandt has a whale tattooed on his chest. That makes three whales.”

Tony looked doubtful. “Still coincidence. Tattooed men have all kinds of designs and pictures on their bodies. There's no reason why a whaling scene shouldn't be one of them.”

“Still,” Joe said, “three whales...”

“Four
whales!” Chet cried, springing to his feet.

The others stared at him.

“Frank,” Chet said, “didn't you tell me that the name on the note sent to R. R. Dunn offering the Ivory Idol for sale was Blackright?”

“Yes,” Frank answered. “What of it?”

“Well, Blackright is a whale, too!”

“How do you know?” Frank asked in surprise.

“Scrimshaw's the answer to that,” Chet replied proudly. “I've learned a lot in my hobby. It's pretty hard to study the art of carving whale ivory without picking up some information on whales themselves.”

“That's obvious,” Joe said. “Come on, Chet. Get to the point.”

As the only person in the room who knew the answer to the riddle, Chet was enjoying his position and consequently in no hurry.

“Look,” he said. “First, there are two general classes of whales: toothed whales, like the Sperm Whale and the Killer Whale and the Bottlenose and so on. And what they call baleen whales. None of the whales in this last group—the group, incidentally, that Tony and Biff's Blue Whale belonged to—have any teeth. They all have a series of ‘plates' in their mouths that act like giant sieves. They swim around with their mouths open, take in a couple of tons of water that has food in it like shrimps and tiny fish, then close their mouths and expel the water through the plates, or as they're properly known—through the
baleen.”

“Listen, Chet,” Frank put in quickly, “get us off the hook! Tell us about Blackright.”

“That's what I'm doing,” Chet protested.

“In the most roundabout way I've ever seen,” Tony said with a long sigh.

“Ah,” Chet went on, “to think of the tragedies that befall people such as I, who try to bring enlightenment to the world.”

“Come on,” Biff growled. “I can't take any more of this.”

“Okay, okay,” Chet resumed quickly. He explained that when men first started pursuing whales they called the most-sought-after variety Right Whales. One in this category was black, hence the name Blackright.

Chet wore a smug expression and folded his arms.

“Is that all?” Tony asked.

“All!”
Chet said. “I think it's quite a bit!”

“It's an intriguing bit of deduction, Chet,” Frank said. “We'll keep it in mind.”

“Sounds pretty far-fetched to me,” Tony remarked.

“I think the chain of whales is a good theory,” Joe said, “but for the moment let's concentrate on what we know to be true.”

Chet whacked his forehead with his palm.

“Aiieee!
The trials and tribulations we geniuses go through.”

“Fellows,” Frank said, “duty calls. Let's drive to the carnival. Later, when the crowds are gone we could go to the spot where Tony regained consciousness and see if we can turn anything up.”

All agreed. They left Tony's house, piled into the Hardys' convertible, and drove to the fairgrounds. After the carnival had shut down for the night, the four boys spread out so as to cover more ground, each probing with a flashlight beam as he searched for possible clues. Their efforts took them farther and farther away from each other, and so, thinking he was alone, Frank was startled when a hand dropped on his shoulder. He whirled around, ready to meet an attack.

“Frank, it's me!” came Joe's urgent whisper.

Frank relaxed. “You took me by surprise. What happened to your flashlight?”

“I doused it on purpose. I was scouting near the gate and caught sight of someone moving from shadow to shadow toward one of the carnival wagons—Knocker Felsen's, to be exact.”

“We might lose him if we stop to get any of the other guys,” Frank decided. “Better handle this one alone.”

“That's why I came for you. Let's hurry.”

Frank extinguished his own flashlight and the two made their way stealthily toward Knocker Felsen's wagon.

“There,” Joe whispered. “See him?”

Frank squinted against the blackness and made out the dim silhouette of a crouched figure moving toward the wagon. “Let's not jump the gun. We'll wait until it's absolutely certain he's going to break into Felsen's quarters,” Frank advised.

“Right.”

They watched the figure advance a few more steps, pause, move forward and pause again.

“He's reached the steps,” Joe said tensely. The intruder dashed up the steps and reached for the door. “Let's take him!” Frank yelled.

As the boys rushed forward, the figure poised before Felsen's door and spun to meet them. Frank was the first to get to the wagon and his speed earned him a punch in the jaw that sent him sprawling.

Joe came running and was hit like a tackling dummy. Crash! Both he and the stranger hit the ground. Frank shook his head to clear the cobwebs, sprinted to the struggling pair, and leaped into the fray. “Wow!” he thought. “This is one tough cookie!”

Their adversary fought with skill and power; only Frank's agility and quick reflexes saved him from being kayoed.

But suddenly he spotted an opening, seized his opponent by the wrist, spun on his heel and threw him over his shoulder. The intruder hit the ground with a thud and Frank pinned him.

Voices sounded in the distance as Joe thumbed his flashlight to life. The Hardys gasped as the beam revealed the face of
Biff Hooper!

At the same time, sleepy-eyed Knocker Felsen poked his head from the wagon with a blank look.

Biff groaned. He saw Frank and Joe, shook his head, and said, “Boy, you guys play awfully rough!”

“Us!” Frank fingered a bruise. “What about you?” In a lower voice he added, “What were you doing, sneaking up on Felsen like that?”

Frank had relaxed his grip and Biff got to his feet. “We all know he did it. I was going to force a confession out of him.”

“Biff,” Joe said, “that's no way to do detective work!”

“I guess so,” Biff said dejectedly. “How come you jumped me?”

“We didn't know it was you,” Frank answered “How come you lit into us like that?”

Biff grinned. “Same reason you came after me—I didn't know who you were.”

Flashlights bobbed toward the trio and a moment later Chet and Tony arrived. Close on their heels came Sid Solo.

“What's going on here?” he demanded.

“Yeah, what's up?” chimed in Knocker.

“Just a bit of a mix-up,” Joe explained. “We came back in the hope of finding new clues and we-ah-stumbled over each other in the dark.”

Felsen yawned, squinted against the bright lights, and lumbered back to bed.

Solo was sympathetic and again expressed regret over the theft of the whale.

“We just can't give up,” Frank said. “Mr. Solo, would it be all right if we had another look around Boko's wagon?”

Solo consented. He went with them to the clown's quarters and opened the padlocked door with a key from his chain. Solo and the five youths gave the wagon a fine-toothed combing, but at the end of an hour they had found nothing of any value.

“It's hopeless,” Joe said. “I think we'd better call it a night.”

Biff finished thumbing through a file of magazines and tossed them on Boko's bunk. One slipped to the floor, and the corner of a postcard protruded from the pages. Frank's alert eyes caught sight of it.

“Hey, Biff, did you see that?” he exclaimed, pulling the card out.

“No. Must have missed it.”

The others looked around him while he examined the card. It bore the postmark “Mystic, Conn.” and the message
“Getting hot. Beluga.”

“Beluga!” Chet cried out. “I told you! Now will you believe me?”

“What do you mean?” Tony asked.

“Beluga's another name for the White Whale. Just try and tell me it's another coincidence!”

The boys now had to agree with Chet. This could no longer be chalked up to chance. Perhaps the whale names were the key to a code, Frank suggested.

During the ride back to Tony's house, they discussed the various developments in the mystery.

Frank and Joe dropped Biff off on the way, then left Tony at his home and said good night to Chet.

Their husky pal, beaming with success, got into his jalopy. Before he started the motor, Joe cautioned, “For Pete's sake, easy on the backfire, Chet. Everybody's asleep around here.”

“Sure,” came the answer, then
blam!
The chassis jiggled as the engine started, and Chet sheepishly headed for the farm where he lived, on the outskirts of Bayport.

Back at the Hardy house, Joe said, “Beluga, Blackright, Rembrandt's tattoo, Boko's tattoo and the missing whale! I just can't fit the pieces together.”

“I can't either,” Frank said. “But I think it might be worth while to make a trip to Mystic and—”

Frank was interrupted by a short ring of the telephone. Aunt Gertrude called from the kitchen, “Boys, is Chet here?”

“No,” replied Joe.

“Well, pick up the phone. Iola Morton's on.”

Joe grabbed the extension phone in their father's study. “Hello, Iola. Isn't it rather late for a growing girl to be up?”

But his banter was short-lived. He sensed immediately that something was wrong.

“Joe,” Iola said in a quavering voice, “I just talked to Tony. I'm worried. Chet should have been home long ago. We haven't seen or heard from him at all!”

“I'M sure Chet's all right, Iola,” said Joe, trying to soothe the worried girl. “He probably had a flat tire, or just stopped for a late snack. Tell you what. Frank and I will go look for him, and as soon as we find him, we'll give you a call. Okay?”

“Thank you, Joe. I knew I could depend on you.”

When Joe hung up and told Frank, the older boy looked concerned. “I don't like the sound of this. Chet could change a flat in ten minutes and be on his way again.”

“I know,” Joe said. “But there wasn't any sense in worrying Iola any further.”

“Right.” Frank reached in his pocket for his car keys. “We'd better get started.”

Joe was just opening the front door when two muffled explosions split the still night air.

“Speak of the devil!” Frank exclaimed with obvious relief.

Chet's battered old jalopy pulled up to the curb. The car backfired a third time before sputtering into silence on the quiet street. Chet jumped out and ran up to Frank and Joe.

“Have I got something to tell you!” he blurted. “A fantastic piece of luck!”

“All right,” Joe said, “but first you'd better call your sister. She's worried about you.”

“Oh.” An expression of regret crossed Chet's face. “I know I should have phoned, but I had to get here as fast as I could.”

“Come on in,” Frank said. “Call Iola and let her know where you are, then tell us about it.”

Chet quickly telephoned his sister, then announced to the boys, “I've found another whale!”

“Where?” Joe asked. “What kind?”

“California Gray. When I left you guys I headed straight out of town on the parkway. You know Marty's Giant Burgers place?”

“Sure,” Frank answered.

“Well, I was feeling a little hungry so I stopped in for a quick bite. There was a fellow sitting at the counter next to me—a big man, rough-looking, strong. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and when he raised his coffee cup, I saw the tattoo. It was a small one on his right biceps. As good a picture of a California Gray as I've ever seen.”