The Phantom Freighter

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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

BOOK: The Phantom Freighter
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Table of Contents
 
 
THE PHANTOM FREIGHTER
WHEN eccentric Thaddeus McClintock invites Frank and Joe Hardy to accompany him on a sea voyage, the teen-age investigators become entangled in a web of mystery. Who is trying to block the three from securing reservations on freighter ships that carry passengers? Does Mr. McClintock have unknown enemies? Or is there a sinister conspiracy afoot to keep Frank and Joe from going on the trip? Is Captain Harkness's report about sighting a phantom freighter just a figment of his imagination?
The determined efforts of Frank and Joe to find the answers lead to a hazardous game of wits with a ring of slippery smugglers and to a dramatic confrontation on the high seas. At the same time, the boys help their famous detective father solve his current case involving forgers who are selling counterfeit historical documents.
Here is an exciting, action-filled mystery that will keep the reader on edge with suspense.
“It's the phantom freighter!” Captain Harkness cried
PRINTED ON RECYCLED PAPER
 
 
Copyright © 1974, 1970, 1947 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 : 978-1-101-07640-8
2003 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I
A Strange Substitute
“WHAT an odd letter!” exclaimed Frank Hardy, running a hand through his dark hair. “I wonder what the man wants.”
His blond brother Joe, who was seventeen and a year younger, studied the sheet of paper. “Thaddeus McClintock,” he said, reading the signature. “Never heard of him.”
“Since he's living at the Bayport Hotel, he's probably a stranger in town. Who do you suppose told him about us?”
The boys were draped over upholstered chairs in the Hardys' living room. Their mother Laura, smiling at their relaxed teen-age postures, said, “Any one of many people.”
The letter, which had arrived in the morning mail, was addressed to Frank and Joe Hardy and read:
I have heard that you are young men with your feet on the ground and wonder if you would call and have a talk with me. I have an interesting job for you if you care to take it.
Frank looked at his brother. “What do you say? There's no harm in talking to Mr. McClintock.”
“Please be careful,” said Mrs. Hardy. The slender, pretty woman went on, “The man may be a schemer of some kind. If he should ask any questions about your father, be on your guard.”
“That,” said Frank, “is Rule Number One in this household and we're not likely to forget it.”
“Don't worry,” Joe added in an assuring tone. “If this McClintock should try to pry, we don't know where Dad is, when he's expected, or what case he's working on.” He grinned. “Come to think of it, we
don't
know. Do you, Mother?”
Mrs. Hardy shook her head and chuckled. “No, I don't. But that's not unusual.”
Fenton Hardy was a renowned private detective. Trained in the New York Police Department, he had left the big city to work entirely on his own, and with phenomenal success.
His sons had inherited their father's natural ability and had been carefully taught the most modern scientific detective methods. Recently they had solved an unusually puzzling mystery known as
The Secret Panel.
Frank and Joe drove to the Bayport Hotel, and asked to see Mr. McClintock. “Sorry,” the clerk said. “He's not here right now. Went out about half an hour ago, but left a message for you. You're to come back this afternoon.”
“Who is this Mr. McClintock?” Frank asked, “Where does he come from? Is he young or old?”
The hotel clerk, who had been a friend of the Hardys for years, looked surprised. “You don't know him? Well, he's been living here for the past three months—is a little beyond middle age—doesn't say much.”
“What's his line?” Joe asked.
“He doesn't work, but pays his bills promptly. Doesn't seem to have any friends here in Bayport. Maybe that's because he acts so secretive.”
“Thanks,” Frank said. “Guess that'll hold us until this afternoon.”
He and Joe returned home, more interested than ever in meeting Mr. McClintock. As they entered, they heard a woman talking excitedly.
“Aunt Gertrude!” said Joe. “And she's on the warpath!”
Aunt Gertrude was Mr. Hardy's unmarried sister, who had come to live with the family some time before. She was tall, peppery, and had an unpredictable temper. But beneath all the bluster she was a kindly soul who loved her nephews dearly.
“Laura, this box seems to be full of raw wool!” Aunt Gertrude was saying. “And
mine
contained valuable family papers. I'm going to call the express company and give them a piece of my mind!”
“What's wrong, Aunty?” Frank asked as he and Joe strolled in. “Have you been swindled?”
“Not swindled. No. Just—” She gasped in exasperation. “I'm expecting a carton with some things I had left with a friend a few years ago. But they delivered the wrong one!” She pointed to the box lying on the floor. “I opened it without checking the label.”
Joe looked at the box. “It's for a James Johnson,” he stated. “One forty-two Springdale Avenue.”
“That's right,” Aunt Gertrude said. “Obviously the shipping people delivered my carton to Mr. Johnson and his to me. I'm going to call the express company and give them a piece of my mind.”
“Take it easy, Aunty,” Frank said. “Mistakes do happen.”
Miss Hardy went to the telephone and dialed. As the conversation went on, Aunt Gertrude became more annoyed. “Now you listen to me!” she said, but the clerk at the other end insisted on doing all the talking. Finally Aunt Gertrude hung up. “They won't do a thing until tomorrow!” she complained. “Meanwhile, my carton may be opened by these Springdale Avenue people. And that,” she added grimly, “must not happen!”
“How can you stop it?” asked Joe, a twinkle in his eyes.
“Very easily. You and Frank will have to go there and make the exchange. Right now!”
Frank looked at his watch. It was nearly time for lunch, and he and Joe wanted to call on Mr. McClintock directly afterward.
“No excuses,” Miss Hardy said firmly. “It won't take you any time to drive out there. I'll whip up a strawberry shortcake while you're gone.”
“In that case,” Frank said, laughing, “we'll leave right away.” He picked up the carton and went out the door. Joe followed.
A few minutes later they reached the east side of Bayport. Frank turned into Springdale Avenue. By the time they passed a small stone house numbered fifty-two, they had entered a section where the sidewalks came to an end and buildings were far apart. The car bumped along an uneven dirt road.
“We're practically out in the country,” said Joe. “I'll bet we're beyond the city limits. Maybe there isn't any one hundred and forty-two at all!”
A short distance ahead and set quite far back from the road, they could see a large frame house, surrounded by a picket fence. A small barn stood behind it.
“This might be the place,” Joe said as they neared it. Then he yelled excitedly, “Joe! Look! The barn's on fire!”
A curl of white smoke rolled out from an upper window. It was followed by a heavy black puff and a flicker of red flame.
Frank drove through the open gate and stopped in front of the house. Joe leaped out, ran up the steps, and hammered on the front door. There was no response. Joe tried the doorknob.

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