The Great Airport Mystery

Table of Contents

 

 

Valuable electronic parts containing platinum are being stolen from shipments made by Stanwide Mining Equipment Company's cargo planes, and Frank and Joe Hardy are called upon to assist their world-renowned detective father solve the baffling case.

At Stanwide the boys pose as employees, and become suspicious of their boss's hostility toward them. Is he involved in the racket? And what is the truth behind the plane crash at sea in which Clint Hill, chief pilot for Stanwide, was killed?

Frank and Joe launch an aerial search for clues to the platinum thieves' hideout, believing that they will also uncover the mystery behind Hill's accident. The puzzling trail of clues leads the young sleuths to an uninhabited Caribbean island, near the scene of the plane crash—then to a mountaintop in Montana and a danger-filled show-down with the band of thieves. But the final discovery—and most startling and exciting revelation of all—is made in the boys' home town of Bayport.

Franklin W. Dixon fans will find suspense, action, and many breath-taking flying episodes in this thrilling story.

“Those ropes will snap any minute!” Frank thought fearfully

Copyright © 1993, 1965, 1957, 1930 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam &
Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.
THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07624-8

2007 Printing

CHAPTER I

“Too bad we lost so much time fixing that flat, Joe. Dad wanted us home in a hurry to start work on a case.”

Frank Hardy speeded up the brothers' convertible.

Joe studied a road map. “We're coming to a turnoff that could save us thirty miles,” he said. “Let's try it.”

The boys kept a sharp lookout in the gathering dusk. Presently Frank slowed and spun the wheel. The entrance to the turnoff was narrow and flanked by heavy trees and brush. If they had not been watching for it, they could easily have missed it.

A second later Frank slammed on the brakes. The glare of their headlights showed a wooden barrier several yards ahead.

“Oh, no! A roadblock!” Joe groaned.

“That's strange,” Frank murmured. “There's no sign to explain why the road's cut off.”

“Maybe it's only for minor repairs,” Joe said hopefully. “Let's take a chance.” He jumped out to move the wood barrier.

“Okay, but keep your fingers crossed,” Frank said. “I'd sure hate to get stuck in some pothole and break an axle—especially at this time of night.”

Joe, blond and a year younger than dark-haired, eighteen-year-old Frank, dragged the barrier aside. Frank drove past, then Joe replaced the roadblock to its original position.

Climbing into the convertible again, he asked, “Any idea what this new case Dad's working on is about?”

“No, but the way he sounded, it must be urgent.”

Fenton Hardy, the boys' father, was a former crack detective of the New York City Police Department. After retiring from the force to the waterfront town of Bayport, he had become a famous private investigator.

Frank and Joe, who seemed to have inherited their father's sleuthing talents, often aided him in his investigations. The brothers had also solved several cases largely on their own, beginning with
The Tower Treasure,
and, most recently, the strange
Mystery of Cabin Island.

Now a summer vacation trip had been cut short by the upcoming assignment. The boys continued their journey in the deepening darkness. Ahead, the road wound through isolated, hilly country. Here and there they encountered patches of light radiation fog, a phenomenon common to this type of terrain. After several minutes the Hardys were puzzled not to see any road construction, or any other reason for the barrier they had encountered.

“Maybe the roadblock was just somebody's idea of a joke,” said Joe.

Frank was about to answer when suddenly the brothers were startled to see an intensely bright red glow appear on the road ahead. Temporarily blinded by the light, Frank jammed on the brakes. The car skidded crazily, then came to a halt up on the side of a steep embankment that bordered the road.

“What's that?” Joe shouted.

“Looks like a flare!” Frank answered, turning off the ignition.

The boys' eyes became accustomed to the bright light just in time to spot a man scurrying off the road and into the woods. The stranger vanished quickly, but not fast enough to prevent the Hardys from getting a glimpse of his face. A split second later they heard a series of loud cracking sounds.

“Those are rifle shots!” Joe yelled. “But where are they coming from?”

“The woods. And they may be aimed at us! This car is too good a target. We'd better get out pronto!”

But before either of the boys could move, a new sound captured their attention. The mounting, throaty drone was unmistakable.

“That's an airplane coming down!” Frank cried out.

“And it's headed this way!” Joe yelled.

At that moment the boys saw two bright lights approaching obliquely from the right and very low. Frank and Joe were able to make out its silhouette against the night sky, even through the glow of the flare. The plane had two engines and a sleek, streamlined fuselage that terminated at the rear in a high, swept-back tail section. Its landing gear was fully extended.

“That pilot's trying to set her down here!” Frank declared as he stared in disbelief.

“He's so low his wheels won't clear the top of our car! Get down!” Joe yelled frantically.

No sooner had the brothers dived to the floor of the car than the plane passed overhead with an earsplitting roar. Its left wheel grazed the roof of the car. Already tilted on the embankment, the convertible toppled over with a smash. The Hardys blacked out.

Several minutes passed before either of them regained consciousness. Frank was the first to move. With great effort he and Joe managed to push themselves to an upright position.

“You all right?” Frank asked weakly.

“I feel as if I'd taken a ride inside a cement mixer.” Joe groaned.

As their heads cleared, the brothers realized that the car was lying on its side. They forced open the door on Joe's side and scrambled onto the road, then glanced about them. The flare was gone, and the woods remained dark and silent. As far as they could tell, there was no sign of the airplane.

Frank bent down, and with his pocket flashlight, examined a deep crease across the roof of the overturned car. “It's from the wheel that turned us over,” he commented.

“What was that idiot pilot doing?” Joe snapped.

“I don't know,” Frank answered. “If he was trying to make a forced landing, he would have crashed into the trees on the other side of the road. Yet there's not a trace of any wreck.”

“It vanished just like everything else,” Joe said. “The flare, the man who ran into the woods as we drove up, and whoever was using the rifle.”

“Did you get a look at the face of the man with the flare?” Frank queried.

“Yes, but only for an instant,” Joe answered. “I think I've seen him some place before, though.”

“Me, too,” Frank agreed. “Maybe we saw a photo of him in Dad's files. Let's take a look when we get home.”

Except for several deep dents and scratches, the car did not appear to have suffered any serious damage. The boys decided to try rolling it back to an upright position.

“We'll need a couple of long poles for leverage,” said Frank.

“Maybe we can find something in the woods,” Joe suggested.

The boys took a flashlight from the car and started into the wooded area. They searched the ground carefully for fallen trees to serve as poles. Suddenly they were startled by a sharp, snapping sound, like the breaking of a twig, behind them.

“Did you hear that?” Joe whispered.

“Yes. Listen!”

There was a second snap. Then silence. The boys stared into the darkness, but could see nothing.

“Probably some animal,” Frank said.

“I guess so,” Joe agreed.

The Hardys were about to resume their search when the snapping of twigs was heard again. Frank switched off the flashlight. The boys listened. From nearby came the faint rustle of leaves. It was as if someone, or something, were approaching stealthily.

They turned and looked behind them. Suddenly the outline of a man appeared against the heavy brush. He seemed to be pointing something at them. Was he the man with the rifle? The Hardys stood frozen in their tracks.