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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

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BOOK: The Secret Warning
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“Swell idea!” Frank agreed. “Maybe we can pick up some good leads!”
“Incidentally,” Mr. Hardy added, “I think Sam should be free this afternoon. He'll fly to Bayport and the three of you can go to Whalebone Island as we planned.”
“Great!”
Both Frank and Joe were eager for the trip to New York. After a hasty breakfast they drove to the railroad station and caught an early train. By ten minutes after eleven they were stepping out of a taxi at Zufar's address in Lower Manhattan.
The address proved to be a grimy loft building. On the card Zufar had given them he had also written the name
“Fritz Bogdan, Curio Dealer.”
The same name was lettered on the windows of a ground-floor shop.
Frank and Joe entered the shop and found themselves in a long, dimly lighted room filled with Oriental carpets, statuary, paintings, and curios.
A tall, hawk-faced man with iron-gray hair eyed them curiously.
“May I help you?”
“Are you Mr. Bogdan?” Frank asked. When the man nodded, he went on, “We're looking for Mr. Mehmet Zufar.”
“Oh, yes. I'm his American agent. He occupies office space here on his visits to this country.”
Bogdan led the boys past a huge green Buddha figure to an inner corridor and pointed to an office doorway bearing Zufar's name. Frank thanked Bogdan and rapped on the door.
“Come in!”
Zufar looked up startled from his desk as the Hardys entered. He listened with obvious impatience as Frank repeated what Mr. Hardy had said. Then he pounded a fist on the desk.
“Now listen! Something has come up that changes everything. Your father must help me!”
CHAPTER XII
Key 273
 
 
 
 
 
T
HE mustached art dealer's reaction took the Hardys by surprise.
“Do you have some kind of clue?” Frank asked.
Zufar's eyes narrowed. “A good deduction.” His fingers nervously plucked an envelope from his desk. “This letter came in the morning mail,” he said, handing it over. “See for yourself.”
Frank took the envelope, which bore a typewritten address and was postmarked New York, N. Y. Inside was a note and a small key stamped with the number 273.
The note, which also was typed, read:
We have the gold head of Rhamaton IV.
We will sell it back to you for $100,000.
Be ready with your answer. SHOW THIS
NOTE TO NO ONE IF YOU VALUE
YOUR LIFE!
The Hardys exchanged baffled glances.
“If the gang who sent this have the Pharaoh's head, Mr. Zufar,” said Joe, “why should they offer to sell it back to
you?
”
The dealer mopped his brow with a lavender silk handkerchief. “Who knows? Maybe the thieves have been unable to find a private buyer willing to pay such a price for a stolen art object. Do not forget—the deal would entail great risk on both sides, and the buyer would never be able to display his acquisition.”
“Maybe,” Frank suggested, “the thieves think you're aiming to collect from the insurance company, then sell the head secretly for much
more
than a hundred thousand.”
Zufar shot him a sharp glance. “It is possible,” he admitted grudgingly.
“Do you think it's likely that the persons who sent the note really have the authentic head?” Joe inquired.
The dealer threw up his hands in despair. “Alas, I fear so. The head may have been salvaged from the
Katawa's
strong room, or stolen or switched by some trickery before the ship left port.”
“Would there have been time for anyone to do either?” Frank asked.
“Of course. I purposely arranged to have the head brought aboard several hours before any passengers embarked, in order not to attract attention. That was in Beirut. Again there was a chance for trickery when we stopped at Le Havre. If the purser was dishonest—who knows?”
Zufar shrugged unhappily. The purser, he added, had been lost in the sinking.
Frank replaced the note in its envelope, then said, “Personally, I think you should take this note to the police, Mr. Zufar.”
The art dealer's eyes bulged fearfully. “You think I am a fool?” he said shrilly. “If I did, my life would be in danger!”
“But you've showed the note to us,” Frank pointed out.
“That is different. Your father is not the police. If these—these thieves contact me, I can say simply that I have hired him to act as my go-between.”
Dabbing his face with the handkerchief, Zufar went on, “Furthermore, once this became an official matter for the police, the news might leak out. I cannot afford to endanger my reputation any further!”
The telephone on Zufar's desk rang. “Excuse me.”
He scooped it up. “Hello? ... Yes, this is Mehmet Zufar speaking.”
Suddenly the dealer's face grew pale. He beckoned frantically to the Hardys and held the telephone away from his ear so they could listen in.
“You heard me! Speak up!” a harsh voice was saying on the other end of the line. “I asked if you're ready to make a deal.”
Zufar looked pleadingly at the boys.
Frank and Joe hesitated. Then, with a glance of mutual understanding, reached a quick decision. Frank nodded emphatically.
Zufar gave a sigh of relief. “Very well,” he said into the receiver. “What do you wish me to do?”
“Listen carefully. Have the money ready in small bills. Take that key to the Philadelphia Airport. Use it to open a public-storage locker there and stand by.”
There was a sudden click as the caller hung up. Zufar, too, put down the phone and turned his eyes to the Hardys. “You keep the note and the key, and you will inform your father immediately?”
“We'll get in touch with him,” Frank promised, pocketing the envelope. “Good-by.”
Frank and Joe left the office. In the corridor they almost bumped into Fritz Bogdan. The proprietor gave them a thin smile and walked on quickly down the hall to a rear storage room.
As the boys went through the display area, their gaze swept over the exotic assortment of merchandise. A tigerskin rug hung on one wall between dusty carpets and tapestries. Near the green Buddha, the painted face of an Egyptian mummy case stared back at them sightlessly. Both boys felt there was something sinister about the dingy place.
An employee was moving a large, murky-col ored landscape painting in a gold frame. The Hardys recognized him as Zufar's granite-faced chauffeur.
When they reached the street, Joe muttered, “Do you suppose that fellow Bogdan was eavesdropping?”
“Don't know. I was wondering the same thing,” Frank replied. “You know, I have a feeling I've seen him somewhere before.”
“Me too. I thought his face seemed sort of familiar.”
Neither of the Hardys could explain the impression.
“Well,” Frank said, “we'd better get in touch with Dad and then get a bite to eat. I could sure use a couple of hamburgers.”
Sighting a drugstore on the next corner, the boys went inside where Frank phoned their father. Mr. Hardy readily approved of his sons' action.
“Don't worry, you and Joe used good judgment,” he said. “The Philadelphia Airport angle strikes me as a good omen, too.”
“How so, Dad?”
“There are only a few private collectors in the eastern United States who might be avid enough and rich enough to buy something like the gold Pharaoh's head, even if it was stolen,” the detective explained. “The two most likely purchasers live within fifty miles of Philadelphia. That's why Sam and I have been concentrating on this area.”
“Sure hope this lead pays off,” Frank said. “What's our next move, Dad?”
Fenton Hardy instructed the boys to take the letter with the key to La Guardia Airport and leave it with a friend who worked for one of the airlines. Sam Radley, he went on, would fly there, pick up the envelope, and bring it back to Philadelphia.
Frank asked, “Does that mean Sam won't be coming to Bayport this afternoon?”
“I may need his help on this new development with Zufar,” Mr. Hardy said. “Anyhow, I've made a slight change of plans for you fellows.” Excited, Frank signaled Joe close to the receiver.
“The Crux Diving Company's salvage ship is leaving New York today to begin operations on the
Katawa.
Captain Rankin has agreed to take you and Joe along and drop you on Whalebone Island.”
The vessel would be close at hand in case of emergency, the detective added. They could pursue the Jolly Roger's mystery and keep in touch with the salvage operations.
“That's great, Dad!” said Frank. “But wouldn't it be better if we had the
Sleuth
along with its radio?”
After a hasty discussion, they decided that Joe would board the Crux ship alone. Frank would return to Bayport, get Chet and the
Sleuth,
and then proceed to Whalebone Island.
After a quick lunch at a coffee shop, the Hardys split up. Frank headed for La Guardia Airport, while Joe went straight to the pier where the Crux ship,
Petrel,
lay berthed.
The dock was bustling with activity as supplies were loaded aboard. Joe hurried toward the gangplank to announce himself to the deck officer.
A heavy oil drum, slung from a cargo hook, was just being hoisted from the pier. Joe passed underneath as the boom swung inward toward the ship's hold.
“Hey! Watch it!”
Joe whirled at the sudden cry of alarm. In that instant the oil drum plunged straight toward his head!
CHAPTER XIII
A Lost Anchor
 
 
 
 
 
A
s JOE whirled around, somebody rammed him hard. He reeled backward under the impact, and together with his tackler sprawled on the dock as the oil drum crashed inches from them.
“Sufferin' snakes!” Stunned, Joe sat up limply. His thumping pulse almost blurred out the ensuing shouts and confusion.
The man who had rescued him—a husky, middle-aged six-footer in dungarees—called over reassuringly, “Take it easy, lad. No harm done.” He got up nimbly and helped Joe to his feet.
“Thanks. . . thanks a lot,” Joe gasped. “You saved my life.”
The man's freckled face broke into a grin. “Maybe you saved mine. I was rushing across the dock and had to slow down when you got in my way. If you hadn't, I'd have been right under that drum myself!”
Meantime, stevedores had captured the dented rolling drum and were wrestling it back into position while a crewman examined the hoisting sling.
The captain shouted wrathfully from the ship, “How'd it happen, bos'n?”
“Chine hook seems to have fractured, sir! Never seen one give like that before!” Red-faced, the bos'n aimed a torrent of salty comments at the loading crew for not having spotted the cracked hook when they rigged the sling.
“You there, young fellow!” the captain called down to Joe. “You one of Fenton Hardy's boys, by any chance?”
“Yes, sir! I'm Joe Hardy—my brother won't be making the trip.” Accompanied by his rescuer, Joe mounted the gangplank and shook hands with the tall, lean officer.
“Welcome aboard! I'm Captain Rankin. Sorry about the accident.”
“Guess I should've kept a sharper eye out.”
“Cargo handling can be as dangerous as salvage work sometimes,” the skipper acknowledged. “This bucko who saved you, by the way, is our master diver, Roland Perry. He's used to danger. That's how his hair got so thin.”
Perry chuckled and touched the sun-bleached reddish fuzz on his freckled pate. “Don't believe him, Joe. It's the chow they serve and the hard time he gives us salvage boys that made my hair fall out.”
Joe laughed, and soon he and Perry were engaged in friendly conversation. The diver had first learned his trade at the Navy's Deep-Sea Diving School in Washington, D. C.
Late that afternoon, the ship, secured for sea after loading, churned away from its pier. Captain Rankin allowed Joe to come up on the bridge and watch as they sailed out through the busy waters of the Port of New York.
The next day Perry gave Joe a guided tour of the
Petrel.
The steel salvage vessel, he explained, was of a type specially designed by the Navy for offshore salvage work and carried equipment for handling any imaginable marine emergency.
Its electronic gear included radio, radar, loran, radiotelephone, fathometer, and radio direction finder. On its main deck was a salvage workshop with a forge, welding machine, lathe, pipe-threading machine, and various other equipment. In the engine room was a complete machine shop.
“Our towing engine has a forty-thousand-pound-line pull capacity—we can make lifts over the bow sheaves up to a hundred and fifty tons,” Perry went on proudly. “We can pump more than a million gallons of water an hour—furnish electric power to a disabled vessel—and there are two miles of steel cable in our wire stowage room.”
“Wow! Some setup!” said Joe, much impressed.
The diver chuckled. “We're really a floating construction warehouse. We carry everything from nuts and bolts to a concrete mixer—not to mention timbers for making patches to seal off holes in ships' hulls.”
Joe was fascinated when Perry showed him the diving locker, forward on the main deck. It held several sets of diving suits, scuba gear, submarine telephone equipment, underwater burning torches, and a full stock of spare parts.
“Does Captain Rankin boss the diving operations?” Joe asked.
BOOK: The Secret Warning
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