Free Mystery of the Whale Tattoo by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

than I do.”
    He walked to the prow of the ship and hailed an old man seated on one of the benches, sunning himself.
    â€œOh, Murphy!” Captain Flint called out. “Will you come over here, please.”
    The man, gray and toothless, waved in reply and walked up to the whaler. “You want something, Captain?”
    Flint cupped his hands and asked the question about stuffed whales.
    â€œSure, I know another one,” Murphy replied. “It was washed ashore on Montauk in the 1920’s. Some carnival guy stuffed it.”
    â€œYou know his name or where I can find him?” Frank asked. But the old man shook his head, and shuffled back to his bench.
    â€œThat’s a great help, Captain,” Frank said. “Another question. Have you ever heard of a man named Whitey Meldrum?”
    â€œWhitey Meldrum? Sure. He’s an old merchant marine seaman. I don’t know the specifics, but he was mixed up in a couple of shady deals several years back.”
    â€œYou have any idea where he is now?”
    Captain Flint removed his hat and scratched his head. “I’m not sure, but I seem to remember someone mentioning that he was living in New York. That was about two months ago.”
    â€œCaptain,” Frank said, “you’ve been a tremendous help to us and I want to thank you very much.”
    â€œNot at all. My pleasure. Oh, there’s one more thing.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œI just recalled. Strange thing, you looking for Meldrum. There was another fellow up here just a couple of days ago. He was looking for old Meldrum, too.”
    â€œWho was he?” Joe asked.
    â€œMarlin. Called himself Spike Marlin.”

CHAPTER XI
    The Eavesdroppers
    â€œARE you joking?” Joe asked. “Spike Marlin. Turn it around and you get marlinespike, the tool used in rope splicing.”
    â€œIt struck me the same way,” Captain Flint replied. “But that’s what he said his name was.”
    â€œFine alias for a guy with a sense of humor,” Frank said, and asked the captain where Marlin was from or where he was going. Flint did not know. “Was there anything unusual about him, anything that might help us to identify him?” Frank asked.
    â€œNot much. His clothes were worn, but pretty nondescript. I did notice an anchor tattoo on the back of his left hand. He might have been a seaman, but I wouldn’t swear to it.”
    â€œThose are pretty good clues,” Joe said. “Thanks a lot.”
    The boys left to scan the area, trying to pick up Tim Varney’s trail. They had no luck, so they returned to Mrs. Snow’s in the late afternoon. After supper they headed back to the seaport.
    They searched in seamen’s meeting houses and in cheap restaurants, and questioned proprietors of stores and clerks at hotel desks. But their efforts were fruitless. Several persons readily admitted to knowing Varney, but no one had seen him for the last few days or knew where he might be found.
    Finally the trio stopped at a drugstore and ordered sodas.
    â€œBoy, these are really good!” Joe said after the first cooling gulp.
    â€œGood! My friend, they’re superb!” Chet responded. He finished his soda before the Hardys were halfway done and ordered another. After the gurgling sound of the straw reaching bottom, Chet gave the Hardys a plaintive look. “Fellows,” he said, “it’s not that I’m trying to get out of work or anything, but these sodas are the best I’ve ever tasted.”
    â€œWhat are you trying to say, Chet?” Joe asked.
    The chubby boy wore a sheepish expression. “Well, if you guys think you might be able to do without me for a while, I’d sure like to stick around and do some real justice to that artist who makes these ice-cream dreams.”
    â€œLook, Chet,” Joe said. “We were planning on having you lead us in a couple of double-time laps around the