Tom Swift and His Aquatomic Tracker (12 page)

And then Tom Swift lost consciousness and consciousness lost Tom Swift!

IT WAS past noon when Bud and the two girls decided they had had more than enough of seeing London through the revolving door of a posh hotel lobby. "If our young prodigy can’t make it downstairs in three more minutes, we’ll have to go back to our rooms and
re
-freshen up," complained Bashalli.

Bud chuckled sympathetically. "Sorry, ladies. At least we got to see ’em lug that dummy crate out the door." Some twenty minutes earlier they had watched two workmen maneuver the big box down a side hall and out the deliveries entrance.

"We would do better to date the mannequin," sniffed the young Pakistani. "At least one would always know where he is."

"Tom gets so wrapped up in things," Sandy agreed. "Bud, would you― "

"Okay, okay. Sounds like the Barclay wit is wearing thin on you two." Bud grinned and glanced at his wristwatch, the twin to his pal’s. "I’ll go get genius boy. I’ll probably have to kidnap him to get him off that PER."

Bud rode on up in the lift to his floor. As Bud opened the door of their room, he saw—absence! With the crate out of the living room, the carpet looked broad and bare. "Hey, pal, where’re you hiding?"

Bud checked the bedroom and the bath, returning puzzled to the living room. Their changes of clothes and other accountrements—provided by the hotel or brought over from the
Sky Queen
—lay untouched, and Tom’s PER sat on the dresser.

Bud glanced around the front room and called, "Okay, you comedian, I fell for your little joke! You can come out now and have your laugh!"

There was no answer. Bud hadn’t expected one.

Bud went to the closets and jerked open the doors. Empty. So was the elegant, tiled shower. Feeling more foolish than ever, Bud peered under the beds. Apparently Tom was nowhere in the suite.

He felt a pang of alarm. "What goes on here?" Bud muttered, telling himself:
Tom’s not me—he wouldn’t carry a little prank this far!
He called the desk. "Do you know if Mr. Swift went out? Did he call down a message for—er—Barclay and party?"

"I don’t recall seeing him leave. One moment, please." The clerk checked the rack. "No, sir, his transponder-key wasn’t turned in, so I assume he is still in the hotel. In fact, I spoke to Mr. Swift just awhile ago when the van men arrived, the ones who came to take the large crate to the airport. Mr. Swift had called down earlier, telling me to expect them."

"Yes, he told me he was going to arrange for the crate to be moved. I didn’t expect them to come so soon." As he reflected on the clerk’s earlier words, Bud asked: "But you say you talked to Tom after the men arrived as well?"

"Oh yes, sir, just a short while ago. Is there a problem I might assist you with?"

"I—don’t know. When you spoke to him the second time—how did he sound?"

"Excuse me?" responded the politely patient clerk.

"Well, he’s—he’s been feeling a little ill. I thought he might’ve gone out― "

"Oh, to a chemist’s? Perhaps so, Mr. Barclay." The clerk paused. "Actually, if I may say... Mr. Swift did sound a bit different on the phone the second time—somewhat hoarse, I should say."

Bud’s heart sank.
Jetz! Ten to one that wasn’t Tom at all!
"Look, Reginald― "

"Roderick, sir."

"I need to be put in touch with a guy named Raeburn at Scotland Yard. He’s a Chief of Inspections or something. We’re talkin’ fast, Reg. Can you do that?"

"My dear sir, I do everything ‘fast’."

"I’ll be down to talk with you." After hanging up, Bud paced back and forth trying to decide what to do. What should he tell the girls? Should he contact the
Sky Queen
? Should he call Harlan Ames—or Tom’s father?

Bud’s thoughts were still whirling when he rejoined the girls in the lobby. He tried, and failed, to put matters in the least alarming light possible. "Bud, what could have happened to Tom?" Bash asked anxiously.

"No telling—he may just have gone out somewhere, I suppose. All of a sudden. Without telling us—or anybody. Leaving us waiting."

Sandy was in no mood to be placated. "Oh, Bud, don’t even
try
. He’s been kidnapped! Obviously those men had him tied up in that big crate."

Bud had to give a reluctant nod. "I sure hope not, but you and those mystery stories you like have been right before."

Bashalli, pale with fright, put her arm around Sandy. "The police here are very efficient. Let’s not worry."

Bud dialed the Flying Lab at the London Airport. "He hasn’t checked in here with us," stated Arv Hanson. "Should we—no, I suppose we should all stay here on the plane in case he shows up. He could be on his way."

"Yeah, that would be best. I’ll keep you updated. This may all be nothing." Bud’s tone made very clear that he didn’t believe his own words. It seemed unlikely that the young inventor would have gone there so abruptly without notifying anyone.

After hanging up, Bud asked the desk clerk, "Were those men from a real trucking company?"

The clerk frowned. "We wouldn’t have allowed them through the door and past floor security if they hadn’t presented the proper credentials. Empire Van Company, Limited, the very company Mr. Swift told me to expect."

Bud phoned the firm. A dispatcher confirmed that a truck had been sent to the hotel.

"I can call them by their cab cellphone, if you like, sir."

"Do that, please," Bud requested anxiously.

A few moments later the dispatcher reported back. "No response, sir, but I’ll keep trying. Rather unusual."

Bud took down a description of the van and its license number. He ended the conversation just as Chief-Inspector Raeburn strode into the lobby trailed by a detective sergeant and two constables.

Nodding and puffing gravely, the inspector listened to Bud’s story as the girls stood by. Then he and his assistants questioned the hotel staff but learned nothing more except a vague description of the two van men—and it developed that the videocam recordings were also frustratingly vague. Bud asked if he and the girls could accompany the officers back to Scotland Yard.

"Certainly, sir," Sergeant Vaughan replied as Raeburn nodded.

At the New Scotland Yard complex they were ushered into Raeburn’s office while the Chief Inspector received a report. "I’m afraid that the situation may be serious," he told the Americans. "We’ve found the van. It was parked and abandoned."

Sandy stifled a gasp of fear. "What about the two men—and the crate?" she asked tensely.

"The
real
van men were found inside, Miss Swift—bound and gagged. But no crate. I’m afraid the men who came to the hotel were impostors, as we’ve suspected. The real drivers say they were stopped by two men with guns just as they started to pull out onto the road from the firm’s parking garage." He then related the rest of the story the policemen had taken down.

The two gunmen had made the employees lie down inside the van, covering them over with a canvas tarp. Then the van had been driven for some time, apparently stopping and parking at the hotel. "After a while they came back again and it sounded as if they loaded something into the van."

"The crate with Tom inside!" Bud muttered.

"Where did they take it?" Bash asked.

Raeburn shrugged. "No way they could see, I fear. More driving, stopping, scuffing of feet, the squeak of a dolly. Some sounds that might indicate the docks on the Thames. Then the van was driven to where it was abandoned, Hampstead Heath. No doubt that name sounds very
British
to you three, wot?"

Bud and the girls were sick with worry after hearing the story.

"Tom must have been knocked out or drugged before he was put into the crate," Sandy theorized, trying to hold back her tears. "The kidnappers may be planning to ship him out of the country! For ransom—if—if he’s even― " Sandy choked back a sob. "Oh, if we only had some clues!"

"Don’t worry, miss." Inspector Raeburn gave her a fatherly pat. "These days we have a great many people keeping an eye on our docks and airports, some in uniform, some not. And of course there are busy camera-eyes watching as well. It won’t be easy to smuggle your brother out of here, rest assured."

Sandy snapped back, "I don’t intend to
rest
at all!"

The inspector began issuing orders. The telephone rang. One of Raeburn’s men answered.

"For you, Mr. Barclay."

The caller was Arvid Hanson. He explained that after calling Tom’s hotel—"Chow’s getting a little nervous!"—he had been told to contact Bud at New Scotland Yard.

"Tom’s been taken, Arv." Bud explained the situation hastily. "You and the crew stand by for now. We’ll keep you posted."

"We’ll do that, Bud. Except for our excitable range cook. He left in a taxi just as soon as I told him where you three are."

Bud grinned wanly. "It’ll feel good to have him here." He hung up. Restless, fretting, he glanced at his wristwatch.

Sandy’s eyes took on a sudden gleam. "Bud! Wouldn’t Tom have had his wristwatch?" she asked.

Bud nodded. "Sure. He wears it all the time when he goes out. It’s engraved, you know."

"Do you have an idea, Sandra?" asked Bashalli hopefully.

Sandy turned to Raeburn. "Inspector, Tom’s watch is just like this one here that Bud’s wearing. The other week, back home, I pressed the ‘find’ button on the base of the portable phone― "

"Pardon me, Miss Swift," interrupted Raeborn. "You say, the
find
button?"

"When you push the button, the handset beeps loudly, so you can find where you’ve left it."

"Ah, do it all the time, I do," declared Vaughn.

"But that time," Sandy persisted, "the signal also set off something in Tom’s watch—just by accident, I guess. Crossed wires."

Raeburn took a puff. "I fear I don’t quite follow."

Bud spoke up. "Tom told me what happened. The watches have this little emergency-alarm deal built into them—you know, in case you’re being mugged and need to attract attention. There’s a little sound-chip inside. It’s like a voice yelling for help. If you don’t like the default setting, you can select whatever phrase you want."

"Mmm. Yes. I see."

"And so," Sandy went on, "what if we transmitted that ‘find’ signal all over London? It would set off Tom’s watch alarm—and believe me, it’s loud! I’m sure someone would hear it!"

"But Sandra, perhaps you’ve overlooked something," Bashalli objected gently. "Surely these thuggish men would not allow Tom to retain such a valuable item. They would steal it."

"Ah now, but that’s the point indeed," declared Raeburn briskly. "Very likely the man who stole the watch still has it on his person—in his pocket no doubt. Imagine he’s hiding it from his crony, eh? And so― "

"Hey, I get it!" Bud exclaimed. "Find the kidnapper and you find the
kid
!"

After a moment’s thought, Raeburn began placing some urgent calls. Bud and the girls settled down tensely to await the outcome of Sandy’s plan—and soon were joined by a big fretful Texan in a ten-gallon hat.

Some time later in the afternoon Jake Swithins, foreman of the Noteworthy-Ventilation Thames Shipping warehouse on the docks of London Town, was dozing at his desk at the end of a hard shift. One of the warehouse crew shook him.

"Well, whot’s the matter?" Jake grunted.

"Can’t you y’ear it?"

"Aa, whot?"

"That rowby noise, Jake-o. Some little urch is crumpin’ ruddy off!"

The foreman listened. Above the dockside clamor seeping in from outside the warehouse he heard a shrill cry, repeated over and over.

"
Adult assistance! Adult assistance!
"

"Hmm." Swithins sat up and considered the matter at some depth, from various angles. "Now that, mate—that’s a
tyker
. Take it as a fact. Some child calling out. And now, whot’s he saying, I arst you?"

"Wants a grownup."

"Aye, just so, Bill. Mind you—an
adult
. By specification of his own self. Not ’is Mum. Not old Nanny. No, mate, he wants a grown-upper. I find that
most striking
."

"Ahem." Bill Frobisher appeared unconvinced. "Now. Y’say that
word
, Jake-o."

"I do. The very word."

"Bum-blammee, now
do
tell me, what precisely is s’
stroikin
’ about it, wuh? That
was
yer word, wudden it?"

"It was. Fair n’ true. I am
struck
by the fact of which we speak, Bill."

"Well now. Turning it all over-like in me head, mate, wuh stroiks
me
is thut yer word is
sin-kwew-lardly
ill chewsen. See?"

"My etchucated vocallary is heads over yours, blokeny-b’y. Did I, did I not, go to school? Did not me mum sarcrifeece for it? My words is right whea they should be, commer’t knowledge." Jake took a moment to look superior, in a scholarly way, then proceeded. "But m’haps I shall
clarify
to your benefit my thinking on this matter.
Ee
ven now we hear it—hape hape
adult
.
Ee
ven now."

"Roit, we do. Not Mum."

"Not Mum. And so I say,
why not
? Is-t’-say, is this just a normal tantrum? As what’s done by eev’ry child? Callin’ mummy, daddy, nursee? No, deed n’ word, I say—
No
! I say,
this is something very different
!"

"May be s’m trouble."

"So I would say, mate. Trouble of a most striking variety. That I say."

"Then if I may speak me mind with frankness,
I
say—you, you personally,
you
are the bleetny f’rman here. I like t’ suggest you go interrogate it."

"I do believe whetchoo mean t’ say, me boy, is
investigate
," Swithins corrected him. "And now, as there is a bit of a tad t’ your point, I shall."

The two determined, by precise triangulation, that the rhythmic outcry was coming from somewhere within their range of hearing.

Swithins narrowed it down further. "Not here whar
we
are. No. I should say over out
there
, s’place." He and Frobisher were now speaking in tense whispers.