The Phantom Freighter (8 page)

“Thanks,” Mr. Eaton said gratefully. He promised to send the Hardys the name and address of anybody offering him documents for sale.

Frank and Joe visited half a dozen other dealers. From a list Aunt Gertrude had supplied, they were able to identify several rare old books, autographed first editions, and a number of historical documents. All had been sold to the dealers within recent days by a gray-haired woman who claimed to belong to the Hardy family.

In every case her description tallied with that of the fake “Mrs. Harrison,” though she had used various names.

“She's the one all right,” Joe declared. “Now this mystery is beginning to shape up. She and the man with the scar are in cahoots!”

At one shop the young detectives were sure they had uncovered a promising clue. Although the woman had sold Aunt Gertrude's family heirlooms to several dealers under the Trenton address, only one had insisted upon knowing where she was staying in Hopkinsville. To this man she had given her name as Mrs. Randall. Address—the Palace HoteL

The Hardys hastened over to the Palace, a small hotel about a block from the railroad station. There they found the lead was false. No one by that name had stayed there, nor could the clerk recall anyone answering the woman's description.

Joe, thinking perhaps he could recognize her handwriting, looked through the register but found nothing suspicious. “Well,” he said, disappointed, as they emerged from the hotel, “that's that.”

“Maybe she's still in town,” Frank suggested.

Vainly the boys walked up one street and down another. Nowhere did they see the woman nor the man with the triangular scar.

As they were returning to their car, a familiar voice cried out, “Well, look who's here!”

The Hardys turned. Beaming at them, his mouth full of peanuts, stood Chet Morton. With him were two girls—his sister Iola and Callie Shaw.

The Hardys grinned because the girls were their special friends. Frank often dated Callie, while Iola was Joe's favorite.

“Hi!” Callie laughed. “Surprise!”

“I'll say,” declared Frank. “What are you doing in Hopkinsville?”

“We followed you,” teased dark-haired, dimpled Iola. “Chet called your house. When he heard you were here he decided to come, too.”

“I'm glad he did,” said Frank, smiling at blond Callie.

“Just a little business trip, really,” Chet remarked grandly. “I've been calling on some of the storekeepers here. Got orders for a dozen mechanical herrings and some Morton Special flies. Now all I have to do is make the herrings, tie the flies, and deliver them.

He produced an order book and thumbed the pages with an air of importance, while Frank and Joe howled with laughter.

“It's not funny!” said Chet. “It means money. Now if you fellows would only help me—”

“Help you?” cried Joe. “How about that deep-sea fishing trip?”

“Guess you're right.” Chet became silent.

“Oh,” said Callie. “I have something to tell you. It may be important.”

“Mighty important, I'd say,” observed Chet. “Sounds to me as if you fellows are playing with dynamite. Tell them about it, Callie.”

“I will if you'll give me a chance,” Callie said impatiently. “While Chet was parking the car, I went over to the railroad station, which was across the street. I had to call a friend of mine. The line was busy. While I was waiting, I heard a man talking in the next booth. I didn't pay any attention until he cried out, ‘Those boys are wise guys. They've got to keep out of our business, or their old man won't see 'em for a long time.”‘

Callie took a deep breath.

“Go on,” Frank said.

“Then the man said, ‘Yes, I mean the Hardys.' With that he dashed out of the booth and got on a train.”

“Did you know him?” Joe asked excitedly.

“No.”

“What did he look like? Did he have a triangular scar on his face?”

Callie shook her head. “Not that I noticed.”

“Did he mention the name of the person he was talking to?” Frank asked.

“He did at the beginning, but at that time I wasn't paying much attention. I've been trying to remember it. I keep thinking of the word ‘duck' but it wasn't that.”

“Speaking of ducks,” interrupted Chet, “I could go for some food right now. It's been a long time since I've eaten. Let's try that restaurant over there across the street.”

While they were waiting for sandwiches and Cokes, Frank and Joe questioned Callie closely about the overheard conversation, but she could recall little more than what she had already told them.

“It's silly of me to forget,” she said ruefully. “I know he mentioned the name of the person at the other end of the line.”

Chet put on his most sagacious expression. “The best way to remember something,” he said, “is to forget about it. I mean, change the subject. Talk about something else. The freighter trip, for instance. You fellows had better book a fourth passage, by the way. Mr. McClintock says he wants me to go along. In fact, he insists on it.”

“We'll have to find a freighter first,” Joe said, “and a big one at that!”

At that moment the waitress brought the food. Chet picked up his sandwich. As he opened his mouth, Callie suddenly cried out, “I know! Duck! Quack!
Klack!
That's the name the man mentioned on the telephone!”

“Good girl, Callie!” Joe praised her, while Chet bit into his sandwich with a smug smile.

“So Klack's mixed up in this whole affair!” Frank said grimly. “I thought so!”

“You know him?” Callie asked.

“We've had the pleasure,” Joe muttered, then told about their contact with Klack.

Frank decided to talk to the travel agent as soon as possible. When they had finished their snack, they took Chet and the girls back to the railroad station, where Chet had left his jalopy, and said good-by.

An hour later the Hardys stepped into Klack's office.

“The boss is out of town,” said the girl clerk.

“When do you expect him back?” Frank asked.

She shrugged. “A week, maybe.”

“Has he booked passage for us yet?” Joe inquired.

The girl shook her head.

“Pardon me, boys,” said a familiar voice. A man stepped up to the desk. “Have you got my tickets, young lady? I telephoned yesterday. Name's Jennings.” The man smiled at the Hardys. “You fellows taking a trip, too?”

Mr. Jennings taught ancient and modern history at Bayport High. As the girl riffled through a list of reservations he chatted pleasantly with Frank and Joe. He had long planned a freighter voyage down the coast for his summer vacation with his two sons, he said, and now he was ready to leave.

“Here you are, Mr. Jennings,” said the girl.

The boys gaped in surprise as he paid for the tickets and put them in his billfold.

“I suppose you made your reservations a long time ago, Mr. Jennings?” Frank asked politely.

“Oh, no,” returned the teacher. “It wasn't until yesterday that I knew I could get away at all. Very quick service.”

He strolled out of the office, leaving the Hardys staring after him in astonishment. Annoyed by the agency's unfair treatment, Frank demanded that the girl explain why they were unable to get on a ship while others could.

“You'll have to ask Mr. Klack about that,” she replied.

The boys left. They were now completely convinced that there was a definite reason for their failure to get freighter passage and that Klack had something to do with it.

“I suggest we try an out-of-town agency,” Frank said.

“Right. Southport, for instance?”

“Why not.”

The next afternoon they drove to Southport. The people working in the travel bureau there were a great deal more courteous than at Klack's and the owner more cooperative. While Frank discussed their problem, Joe picked up a copy of the local newspaper lying on the counter and glanced at the shipping notes.

“We haven't anything just now,” said the agent pleasantly, “but I'll get in touch with the Neptune Line. It may take half an hour or so.”

“Good,” said Frank. “We'll come back.”

“Hey, have a look at this,” Joe said, pointing to an item on the front page. It read:

“Sounds familiar, doesn't it?” said Joe.

“The same old routine. We'd better call on Mrs. Armstrong,” Frank agreed.

The woman, like Mrs. Updyke in Bayport, could tell the boys very little other than what the newspaper had reported. Beds had been slept in and kitchenware used, but nothing was missing.

“The police have searched the house thoroughly,” she said, “but my visitors didn't leave any clues. Unless you could call this a clue,” she added, taking a ragged slip of paper from the mantel. “I found it in a corner when I was dusting this morning.”

Frank and Joe examined the paper. Scribbled on it were some letters and numbers:

“Can you make anything of that?” she asked.

Frank shook his head. “It could be a motor number, a safe combination, a lot of things. Do you mind if I copy these numbers?”

“Not at all!”

Frank took a notebook from his pocket. “You'd better give this slip to the police,” he advised.

“Yes. I'll do that.”

After the boys had left the house, Joe said, “I believe it's some kind of code.”

“Let's memorize the numbers,” suggested Frank. “Just in case we should lose them.”

Both Hardys went over them several times until they were sure they would not forget them, then returned to the shipping agency.

“I got in touch with the Neptune Line,” the owner told them, “and got reservations for you. One of their freighters, the
Crown of Neptune,
will be leaving in two weeks.”

“Can we pick up the tickets now?” Joe asked.

“Not right away. I'll have to wait for confirmation. They'll be ready in a day or so. I suggest that you get passports and vaccination certificates because the ship will be putting in at a couple of Central American ports.”

“Fine,” said Frank. “We'll take care of that.”

They drove back to Bayport, relieved that they would have good news for Mr. McClintock at last.

“Two weeks, eh?” he said. “Well, that's not so bad. Meantime, we'll go fishing. Do you know if Chet had any luck yet?”

Frank suppressed a grin. “As far as I've heard he's talked to a Captain Harkness. The skipper told him he'd call him as soon as he has a free day.”

“Good.”

An hour later Frank, Joe, and Chet were at the docks to search again for the man with the scar. Unknown to the boys, a longshoreman followed them at a discreet distance. As they walked toward a truck being unloaded by a stevedore, the man tailing them signaled to the worker.

Instinctively Joe turned around and saw the fellow's strange motions. Then he glanced ahead to see the stevedore throw a carton back onto the truck and duck beneath the chassis.

Joe leaped into action. Racing ahead of the others, he dashed to the truck and looked underneath. The man was crawling out on the other side. Joe ran around just in time to see him dodge through a doorway to a storage shed.

“Frank, Chet! I found him!” Joe beckoned furiously. “He ran in there!”

Joe dashed toward the doorway, but was blocked by two workmen carrying crates on their shoulders. The men moved off slowly, revealing the darkened entrance once again. Joe sprinted forward, just as Frank, running up behind him, shrieked out a warning.

“Joe! Stop!”

Out of the shadowy doorway sped a hand truck. It was loaded but nobody was at the controls!

“LOOK out, Joe!” Frank yelled in horror.

Joe dived to safety on the cobbled pavement a split second before the cart whipped by and smashed into the parked truck. Boxes and parcels flew through the air.

Unhurt, Joe scrambled up. He suspected that the fugitive had shoved the hand truck toward him in an attempt to gain time for a getaway in the network of alleys along the waterfront.

He caught sight of the man at a gateway to the dockyard. Then the fugitive vanished from view.

Joe raced in pursuit. As he reached the open gate he got a brief glimpse of the fugitive hurrying up the street, but a moment later he was gone again.

“Probably ducked into one of the stores,” Joe concluded. He dashed up the street, not sure which door the man might have entered. Joe looked into two shops, then spoke to a fellow lounging outside a pawnshop.

“I saw a guy run into Fit-Your-Figure-Charlie's a minute ago,” the man told him.

Joe rushed to the clothing store. It was apparently deserted. No clerk. No customers. Three clothes dummies were in the front window.