Mystery of the Whale Tattoo (2 page)

“We'll watch ourselves,” Frank assured his father and they hung up.

Joe came downstairs to join his brother in studying their notes. They were still discussing the mystery half an hour later, when the doorbell rang. Frank rose, but Mrs. Hardy passed the living-room entrance on the way to the front door and motioned for him to sit down.

The boys heard the voice of a man and the name Solo and were out of their chairs in an instant and on the way into the foyer. Solo was a tall man with ruddy cheeks and good-humored eyes.

After Mrs. Hardy introduced her sons, Sid Solo said, “I sure am sorry Mr. Hardy's out of town. We've been plagued with pickpockets in the last six towns we've played. Bad for business, keeps the customers away. I thought if I hired Mr. Hardy—well, what with his reputation and all—those pickpockets would skedaddle pretty quick.”

Frank winked at Joe, then said, “Mr. Solo, perhaps my brother and I can help you.”

The carnival man beamed. “Why, I'd consider that a personal favor. I've heard of some of your exploits and I'll lay two-to-one odds that those cheap crooks won't be any happier with Fenton Hardy's sons on the job than they would be with your dad.”

Solo hired the boys on the spot, told them he opened daily at three in the afternoon, and then left.

As soon as they had finished supper, Frank and Joe hurried out to their convertible and were on their way to Solo's Super Carnival. Frank was at the wheel.

“It's perfect,” he said as they sped down the highway. “We can kill two birds with one stone—get rid of Mr. Solo's pickpockets and search for our mystery informer at the same time.”

At the fairgrounds they parked in one of the spacious lots, with scores of other cars. As they walked toward the carnival, the voices of pitch-men could be heard shouting above the noise of a merry-go-round calliope. Delighted shrieks from riders on the roller coaster added to the buoyant feeling of the carnival. Frank and Joe strode briskly to one of the side gates, where there were not many patrons.

The ticket taker was a large, burly youth only a few years older than the Hardys.

Frank smiled. “We're the Hardys. Mr. Solo is expecting us.”

Joe took a step toward the entrance, but the sullen-faced attendant blocked the way. “You're the Hardys! So what? You gotta buy a ticket!”

Frank explained their mission as sleuths, but the fellow kept shaking his head. “Get lost!”

Frank grew impatient. “I'll leave my brother here,” he said. “But I'm going to find Mr. Solo, bring him back, and get things straightened out.” He started past the booth.

The big ticket taker grabbed Frank roughly around the neck and threw him to the ground. Then he poised for a kick.

“Watch it, Frank!” Joe yelled and tackled the bully, bringing him to the ground with a thud.

With a curse, the ticket taker lunged to his feet and rained hammerlike blows upon Joe. At the same time, he threw back his head and bellowed, “Hey Rube!”

The traditional carnival trouble call sounded over the fairgrounds.

“Hey Rube!” he
shouted
again.

JOE's assailant paused only a split second, but it was time enough for the Hardy boy to land a roundhouse blow to the solar plexus of his opponent. The burly youth dropped face first, just at the moment when angry shouts filled the air. Joe glanced around to see a group of tough-looking roustabouts bearing down on them.

“Oh, oh, Frank. Here comes trouble.”

“We'll try to talk our way out,” his brother replied.

“There they are!” cried the leader of the carnival laborers. “They kayoed Knocker Felsen. Let's get'em, boys!”

Frank and Joe stood shoulder to shoulder, braced to meet the charge. “Wait a minute!” Frank yelled.

“They're not going to listen,” Joe said. “We're in for it now.”

The carnival men had almost reached the boys, fists poised and eyes flashing, when an authoritative voice shouted, “Hold it! I'm Police Chief Collig, and I'll arrest the first one who throws a punch!”

The carnies hesitated and looked at one another uncertainly. Then, realizing that the chief's threat was not an idle one, they unclenched their fists and began to mill about. The men muttered angrily among themselves and cast sour glances at Frank and Joe.

“Wow!” said Joe when the police chief appeared at their side. “Are we glad to see you!”

“I can understand that,” Chief Collig said. “It's a rough bunch. I'd like to know what's going on here.”

Frank and Joe told him. By the time they finished their story, Knocker Felsen had regained his feet. Chief Collig vouched for the Hardys, but the carny leader was hard to convince. He looked dubiously at Frank and Joe.

“Well, if Mr. Solo hired them,” he said finally, “and if you say they really are detectives, then I guess it's all right.” He looked embarrassed. “Sorry about the trouble, fellows.”

Frank and Joe accepted his apology. Knocker Felsen, however, with one hand pressed to the pit of his stomach, sulked away a few steps, grumbling.

“Let's shake and forget it,” Frank said, but Knocker refused the offer and marched back to his ticket booth.

“He's a real sorehead,” Joe observed.

Chief Collig nodded. “I'd be a little careful of him.”

The Hardys thanked the officer and wandered into the already crowded avenues of the carnival to begin their double duties. Near the merry-go-round Joe spotted a familiar figure.

“Hey, Chet!” he called.

Their best friend swiveled his ample frame around and trotted over to their side. His round, freckled face was attentive as Frank and Joe told him about the call from their father and about Sid Solo.

“How would you like to give us a hand, Chet?” Frank asked.

Chet Morton considered the offer silently. The husky boy was fond of fun and strongly opposed to hard work. He had no great taste for danger and usually backed away from it. But when Frank and Joe were in a tight spot, Chet always pitched in to help.

Finally he replied with a big smile, “Sure. This is the kind of detective work I like—observation and investigation. Everything from a distance.”

The three laughed and sauntered down the carnival's midway, their eyes searching for suspicious characters. As they walked, Chet told them of his latest hobby—scrimshaw. He was constantly discovering new hobbies and sports, plunging enthusiastically into each one. But after a few weeks, his interest would wane.

Now it was scrimshaw—the art of polishing whale teeth and walrus tusks, then carving a picture or a design into the ivory. Frank and Joe were somewhat familiar with this art. They owned a walrus-tusk cribbage board, decorated by an Alaskan Eskimo.

“Scrimshaw really is the greatest,” Chet bubbled. “Why, did you know that old-time sailors would spend as long as six months carving one single sperm whale tooth? And it's no wonder! Those fellows spent an average of three years on each whaling trip.”

Chet explained how the ivory was softened by a soaking in brine, how its roughness was removed with a rasp, and later how it was polished with pumice and finally rubbed to a gloss with the palm of the hand.

“But, Chet,” said Frank, “are you sure you have the patience?”

His friend was not listening. “The carving itself,” he went on, “was done with sail needles or jackknives. Once the design had been etched on, they used India ink to stain the lines. Of course today some people use power tools, but that's not for me. No sir! I'll do it by hand.”

“We've got a new hobby, too,” Joe said. “Collecting lost relatives.”

“What do you mean?” Chet asked, stopping beneath the platform on which Boko the Clown was doing a unicycle routine.

“Look at this!” Joe showed him the picture of Elmer Hardy and told of the impending visit. Chet chuckled over Elmer's picture and expressed the hope that the old seaman could teach him a few more things about scrimshaw.

Suddenly a hoarse cough sounded above the boys' heads. They looked up to Boko peering down at the photograph of Elmer Hardy.

“Excuse me, fellows,” Boko said. “I just finished my act and I'm on my way off the platform.”

The boys stepped aside. Boko leaped to the ground and disappeared around the comer of the canvas facade.

“I think,” Frank said, “that this would be as good a time as any to start asking some questions.”

Joe and Chet agreed, and Frank led the way around the corner in the direction Boko had taken. They found the clown drinking coffee in a small private resting place for the performers. He had taken off his dunce cap, but was still wearing his baggy polka-dot suit, his floppy shoes, and his red-and-white grease paint.

With him was Rembrandt the Tattooed Man. Rembrandt, wearing only bathing trunks, was covered from head to foot with multicolored tattoos of every imaginable kind. Included was a scene depicting whalers closing in on a huge sperm whale whose giant, blunt head rose far above the waves. This artistic gem covered Rembrandt's entire chest.

The boys introduced themselves. Rembrandt and Boko were friendly enough until Frank deftly turned the conversation to a criminal named Blackright and an unknown man who wanted to sell information about Blackright. Then Boko and Rembrandt grew distant. Their answers became curt.

Finally Boko said, “Look, you guys. We never heard of nobody named Blackright. We don't know nothin' about it. Now, why don't you leave us alone so we can take it easy a while? We got to go back on stage in a few minutes.”

On the midway again, Joe shook his head. “It's possible,” he said, “that they're telling the truth.”

Frank looked dubious. “Carnival performers work hard and they need their coffee breaks,” he said. “But their change of attitude was a bit too sudden for my taste.”

Chet agreed with Frank, and the boys decided that Boko and Rembrandt definitely warranted further attention. Earlier, Chet had promised to meet his sister Iola and her friend Callie at the Venus Rocket Express. That was fine with the Hardys. Joe regarded vivacious, dark-haired Iola Morton as his regular date. Slender, blond, lithe-some Callie Shaw was Frank's favorite partner.

“Hi, Joe!” Iola cried gaily when the boys reached the roller coaster. “Are you and Frank going to take us up?” She cast a sidelong glance at her brother. “Chet wasn't at all happy with the idea.”

“Aw, lay off!” Chet replied. “You know what that does to my stomach.”

It was agreed that Frank and Joe would take the girls on the ride and that Chet would maintain the lookout for pickpockets while they were gone. The two couples hurried to the ticket booth, climbed into a red-and-green car, and started up a long incline. There was a breathless moment's hesitation at the peak; then a dizzying plunge down the steep drop that made the girls scream as the wind whipped their hair about. Iola and Callie clutched Frank and Joe for protection and hung on tightly until the coaster came to a stop.

The four young people emerged with bright eyes and happy expressions.

“Oh, oh,” Frank said. “Look over by the shooting gallery, just behind Chet.”

Their buddy was shadowing a seedy-looking man, watching his every move. Behind the stout sleuth was a clean-cut fellow in slacks and a sports jacket, whose appearance would have aroused no one's suspicion. As they watched, however, this man's hand removed a wallet from the back pocket of a short, balding onlooker beside him. The victim felt the touch and whirled around. Panicky, the thief slipped the stolen wallet into Chet's pocket!

“Let's go!” Frank said. He and Joe rushed to the scene. The irate patron had seized the pickpocket, who in turn had denied his guilt and accused Chet. Poor Chet was bewildered and confused, especially when a quick search revealed the missing wallet in his possession.

“But listen,” he said, befuddled, “I—I—” A crowd formed and the pickpocket tried to slip away. Frank and Joe grabbed him.

“All right, folks,” Frank said. “Please go about your business. We're security detectives for Mr. Solo.”

The pickpocket protested his innocence and said that “the fat kid” had stolen the wallet.

“For your information,” Frank told him, “not only is Chet Morton a good friend of ours, but he's our assistant!”

Frank and Joe each took one of the pickpocket's arms and they escorted him with firmness to Sid Solo's private office. The victim came along to make the identification. Police Chief Collig was called, and after he had heard the story, one of his patrolmen ran the pickpocket out of town with a warning that if he showed up again he would be put behind bars.

Solo walked Frank and Joe back to the spot where they had left Chet with Callie and Iola. The carnival man was in high spirits and heaped praise and congratulations upon the Hardys.

“I knew I'd get results with you two on the job,” he said, clapping them on the shoulders.

Knocker Felsen was standing nearby. Upon hearing the praise he sneered, turned his back, and walked away to show his contempt.

The rest of the evening passed uneventfully. When the crowds thinned out and the carnival began to shut down, the Hardys said good night to Chet.

“So long, fellows,” he replied. “I'm going to stash away a couple of pizzas Mr. Solo promised me.”

Frank and Joe drove Callie and Iola home, then returned to their own house. Their mother was waiting for them with a twinkle in her eyes and a clipping from the evening newspaper in her hand.

“What have you got there, Mom?” Joe asked the slender, pretty woman.