Free The Bombay Boomerang by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

were to be admitted.
    â€œGood publicity,” said the doorman with a wink.
    The boys found Blaze in top form, or as Joe put it, “flip and insufferable!”
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œYou’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?”
    â€œPlenty 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!”
    â€œWe 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?”
    â€œNot 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.
    â€œI’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:
    â€œHello, 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