The Bombay Boomerang (9 page)

Then the Hardys returned home to an affectionate welcome from Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude.

The next morning Frank and Joe held a get-together with their friends. Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred at the Hardy house during their absence, the boys reported.

“If anything had happened,” Joe said, laughing, “I'm sure Aunt Gertrude would have informed us the moment we stepped in the door.”

“We've come up with another problem,” Frank said. “What do you know about that disk jockey Teddy Blaze?”

“He's considered a groovy character,” Biff related. “Puts on platters with a real beat. The kids at school are wild about his program.”

“One thing bugs me about him,” Chet offered. “He's forever chattering about his dog. Tells us his canine companion is named Balto, and then talks to him over the air. Weird kind of nonsense you can't make out.”

“Chet, you may just have given us a vital clue,” Frank said. “Balto—it's worth checking out. Come on, Joe! Let's see what we can find out at the newspaper office!”

They located the radio and TV critic in his cubicle writing a review of a Bayport jazz concert.

“What do I know about Teddy Blaze?” he replied to their question. “Not much. He's new around here. Comes from somewhere in the South. Maryland, I think. Anyway, the kids go for him in a big way. If you're after personal information, you'd better go see Teddy himself. He'll be at the studio now.”

Frank and Joe thanked him and had no difficulty getting into the studio when they announced they were fans of Teddy Blaze. The disk jockey had left orders that his fans were to be admitted.

“Good publicity,” said the doorman with a wink.

The boys found Blaze in top form, or as Joe put it, “flip and insufferable!”

“You fellows look like refugees from the Bach brigade,” he gibed. “Are you beginning to see the light? Does my music provide you with spiritual sustenance?”

Frank was nonplused. “That's not the kind of patter I expected,” he thought. “Hardly the lingo of the hep generation.”

Joe took up the disk jockey's line. “We've switched. But I imagine we're not the only ones in these parts. You must have a lot of fans.”

“You're coming through loud and clear,” Blaze boasted. “But modesty forbids me to tell you the size of my listening audience. Ask my press agent. He'll be less humble about it.”

The man gave the visitors a sidelong glance and asked slyly, “How's your famous father? I'd have given him the big hello if he'd come with you. I dig his detective methods!”

Joe put on a long face and said glumly, “Haven't you heard? Dad's disappeared. Took a trip to Baltimore and hasn't been seen since. Very mysterious!”

Blaze seemed hardly distressed to hear it. “Any suspicions?” he inquired in a somewhat mocking tone. “Any idea of what could have happened to Bayport's celebrated sleuth?”

“Plenty of suspicions,” Frank answered, “but they don't seem to lead anywhere. Perhaps we'll have news about him later. I don't really want to talk about it. Let's get to the music!”

“We came down to the studio to discuss your program,” Joe added. “It's for a paper we have to write in school. How do you pick the platters you play on the air? Intuition?”

“Not entirely,” Blaze replied smugly. “Intelligence might be a better word. Look here. This is a list of the disks that are selling best around the country. I know what my millions of fans are going for each week, and I give it to them.”

While Frank deliberately kept the disk jockey engrossed in his own cleverness, Joe walked around the room, looking at pictures and records. Then he leaned behind a filing cabinet, holding a record from the stock lying on the table. He removed an envelope from his pocket. Making sure that Blaze's back was toward him, he scattered some fine powder over the center of the record where the man had braced his thumbs to avoid smudging the grooves.

He blew the powder aside, revealing a perfect thumbprint. Guardedly he brought out his miniature camera and snapped a picture of the print. “If there's anything on Blaze in the police files, this should do the trick,” he thought.

Replacing the record, he rejoined his brother and Blaze, who were debating the merits of two combos that had recently performed in Bayport.

As the Hardys took their leave, Blaze remarked maliciously, “I hope you find your father. It wouldn't do for his brilliant sons to be foxed on a case where the missing person happened to be the famous man himself!”

Frank and Joe pretended to be downcast at the thought. They hurried from the studio as the disk jockey returned to his records and his fans.

The boys went straight to the office of Chief Collig, where Joe brought out the film of the thumbprint from Teddy Blaze's disk.

“I'll have it developed right away,” Collig agreed, “and do an immediate check to see whether it matches one in our files.”

Driving home, Frank suggested that they listen to Blaze's program. Joe fiddled with the knob until he got the right kilocycle. A pop tune came bouncing through the radio. As it ended, they heard Blaze's voice:

“Hello, out there! Ready for an afternoon of the sweet and cool with a dash of hot syncopation? That's what you want, and that's what I've got for you. And now to my dog Balto. Are you listening? The next number is dedicated to Flatfoot and the Flunkies. You don't believe it? How suspicious can you get? Plenty. Sock it to 'em! Right up here in Bayport. That's the ticket!”

Joe snapped the radio off. “Is that stuff supposed to be groovy?” he growled.

 

 

 

 

“I don't think Blaze is trying to be groovy,” Frank responded with a thoughtful frown. “That kind of talk sounded to me more like a riddle.”

“You mean a code? Secret information for listeners who know how to decipher it?”

“Why not? Look, what do you make of Flatfoot and the Flunkies?”

“Dad and ourselves!” Joe exclaimed. “I'll bet that's it! Balto must stand for Baltimore. He's telling his confederates in Baltimore that you and I are suspicious about Dad's disappearance!”

Frank shifted gears and turned into their driveway. “That's how I figure it. The rest fits in, too. When he mentions socking it to 'em in Bayport, that could be an order for his pals to deal with us!”

“But we can't be sure that's his game after hearing him on the air only once. Let's have his program monitored while we're in Pittsburgh. Chet and the others will probably be glad to oblige. I'll give them a ring.”

Their friends were enthusiastic. They liked Blaze's recordings. And they vowed to listen in turn to his patter in the hope of breaking the code, if there was one.

That settled, the Hardys were preparing for their trip when Chet Morton's car drew up in front of their house, wheezing and backfiring as usual.

Joe was puzzled. “We just talked to him over the phone. Wonder why he's coming to see us.”

“He must have bounced over here as fast as his motorized tin can would travel,” Frank replied. “We'd better go out and see what's bothering him.”

Chet's car was standing at the curb. The driver sat at the wheel, fiddling with the ignition.

Joe called out, “Chet, what's up?”

“That's not Chet!” Frank shouted the warning. “Duck, Joe!”

Too late! A man hiding in the back of the car leaped out. Leveling a spray gun at them, he fired its contents into their faces. The liquid burned and stung. Frank and Joe staggered back, temporarily blinded by the assault.

“There's more where this came from,” snarled their assailant. “Pull out of the mere racket while you've got time! Stay on our backs, and you'll go the way your old man went! We're through fooling with you!”

Before Frank and Joe could open their eyes to get a look at the pair, the car had roared off. The boys soon recovered, agreed that they had been the victims of a variety of tear gas, and returned to the house. After a thorough soap-and-water washing, they consulted their father about the incident.

The phone rang during the conversation. Chet was calling. “You know what's happened?” he queried glumly. “My car's been stolen. My pride and joy is in the hands of thieves!”

“We've just seen it,” Joe told him. “In fact, it was borrowed for a visit to Frank and me.” He described what had happened. “Report the theft to the police, Chet. They should be able to locate it easily. There aren't many cars like it around. And tell them that it was used for shooting gas into our faces. I was just about to call Chief Collig myself.”

Chet phoned later to say that his jalopy had been found. “The thieves abandoned it near the bay. The crime lab people examined it, but found nothing incriminating.”

“No clues at all?” Frank questioned.

“No. Chief Collig says the guys were pros who didn't leave any calling cards. Not so much as a fingerprint. So he still has no lead to the mercury gang.”

Mr. Hardy decided that leaving from Bayport for Pittsburgh might be too risky, so he and his sons drove to an airport several miles away. Jack Wayne had flown in to pick them up, and they were soon in the air.

When the Golden Triangle at the confluence of the Allegheny and the Monongahela showed up in the distance, Jack cut his engines, made a big circle, and came down. for a landing on instructions from the control tower.

Then he went into the administration building, while the Hardys rented a car. “We're to rendezvous with our friend at the third motel right down this highway,” Mr. Hardy explained. “Place called Vacation Inn.”

Frank made the turn at the neon sign. The motel was an oblong structure with rooms along three sides. They parked and went directly to the room where the admiral was waiting. It was in the middle of one section, so the get-together would be as inconspicuous as possible.

The officer was dressed in civilian clothes when he opened the door. “Another precaution,” he informed the Hardys. “My naval uniform would stick out like a sore thumb in this place.”

He motioned Frank and Joe to sit down on the sofa, while Mr. Hardy made a quick search for hidden microphones. Then the admiral went right to the heart of the matter.

“This Bombay Boomerang angle has me stumped. At the Pentagon, we've played the tape from Commander Wenn's office over and over. With regard to that phrase, we literally don't know anything yet.”

He glanced at the two boys. “I hear you fellows are experimenting with boomerangs, so maybe you have a theory.”

Frank shook his head. “Nothing yet, sir.”

“My secretary did some research, and she said the weapon is native to India as well as Australia. Does that tidbit lead us anywhere?”

Frank shrugged. “Where it leads—if it leads anywhere—I don't know. But your secretary is right, Admiral. The Indian boomerang isn't as famous as the Australian version, but many Indian families cherish their boomerangs as heirlooms and even as sacred relics.”

“Our expert, Chet Morton of Bayport, says that in olden times Bombay was the metropolis of the southern India boomerang country,” Joe put in.

“India keeps popping up in this case,” Frank noted. “Remember that Indian desk clerk in Baltimore. He's been one of our suspects ever since we saw him. And—”

Mr. Hardy held up a warning hand.
“Sh!
Someone's outside the door!”

A key eased into the keyhole. The individual trying the lock twisted it gently at first, then with greater force as it stuck. He was determined to get into the room.

Admiral Rodgers strode to the door. Flinging it open, he surprised a man bending over and fumbling with the key.

“What do you want?” the admiral barked.

“I want to get into my room. What are you guys doing here? This is number 69, isn't it?”

“No, it's 89!” The admiral's tone showed his annoyance at the interruption.

The man was plainly embarrassed. “Sorry,” he stammered apologetically. “I didn't mean to intrude.” He retreated toward number 69.

“An honest mistake, I believe,” Rodgers said, rejoining the circle. “But it's enough to give one the jitters when strangers crash into a conference like this.”

“We can arrange to keep them away,” Joe declared with a grin. “At least honest ones!” Stepping over to the door, he hung a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the outer knob.

Mr. Hardy picked up the thread of the conversation. “I believe the vital question concerns the relation between the mercury case and the missing missile. What can they possibly have in common? If we knew that, we'd have the solution.”

“There's another mystery that might link the two, although right now I don't see how,” Frank said. He and Joe reported their suspicion of Teddy Blaze, the artist of the disks.

They stressed their belief that his patter contained coded messages for his confederates.

“Anyway,” Frank continued, “we may soon have a break on this angle. Joe took a thumbprint from one of Blaze's records. We left it with Chief Collig to be checked out.”

Admiral Rodgers was impressed by the news.

“It's a lead worth running down,” Mr. Hardy stated emphatically. “There's got to be a Baltimore-Bayport connection in all this. What do you think, Admiral?”

“I agree with you. But the Indian angle also has to be considered. I've been looking into it myself. A freighter from India is docking at Baltimore day after tomorrow. The
Nanda Kailash.”