Free The Sting of the Scorpion by Franklin W. Dixon

between his palms for a moment and frowned. “Well, what would you like to know? Do I take it I’m under suspicion?”
    â€œWhy should you think that?” Frank inquired.
    â€œLook! Let’s not play games. I’m sure you’ve found out by this time that I used to be Lloyd Quinn’s partner and that we broke up after a quarrel. Why else would you be here?”
    â€œNaturally we have to check out every angle,” Frank said.
    â€œSure, I understand that. But if you think I had anything to do with those explosions, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
    â€œAny comment you’d care to make about the case, Mr. Embrow?”
    â€œJust one. No. Make that two. First, I hope you Hardys catch whoever’s responsible. And second, I wish Lloyd Quinn nothing but good luck.” Embrow grinned at the boys’ wary expressions and added, “Does that surprise you?”
    Joe grinned back. “Well, it’s not exactly the sort of attitude we were led to expect.”
    â€œI can imagine. Lloyd and I are both hot-tempered guys. We went at it hammer and tongs before we busted up. But that’s water over the dam. I’ve got too much going for me right here to waste any time harboring grudges.”
    â€œHow did you two meet?” Joe asked curiously.
    â€œWe served in the Navy together,” Embrow replied. “In blimps, on Atlantic-patrol duty. That’s what got us interested in dirigibles. We both made up our minds that someday we’d go into the field commercially.”
    â€œDo you regret leaving?”
    â€œFrankly, sometimes I do. It’s an exciting field with a great future. On the other hand, my export business has been highly successful, and I must say, I don’t envy Lloyd any of his present headaches.”
    Joe nodded at a framed desk photograph that Embrow had been toying with as he spoke. It showed a youth in an academic cap and gown. “Is that your son?”
    â€œYup, it’s his high-school graduation picture.” Basil Embrow smiled proudly. “Quite a lad if I do say so, though I don’t see much of him these days.” He moved the photograph aside with a brisk back-to-business gesture and said, “Well, is there anything else I can tell you fellows?”
    â€œNo, sir. You’ve answered all our questions,” Frank replied, rising. “We appreciate your frankness.”
    â€œAnd thanks for your time,” Joe added.
    The boys shook hands with Embrow and left. Outside the building, they headed back to the subway entrance, a couple of blocks away.
    â€œWhat do you think?” Joe asked his brother.
    Frank shrugged. “Hard to say, but he seems a decent enough guy.”
    â€œI agree. He’s not my idea of a sneaky saboteur.”
    â€œBy the way, why did you ask him about that high-school picture?”
    Joe’s eyes twinkled. “Don’t tell me you didn’t spot it?”
    â€œSpot what?”
    â€œThat mole next to the boy’s left eye.”
    Frank stopped short with a gasp. “Now I get it! Just like that Quinn air crewman you photographed who was giving us the once-over!”
    â€œCheck. I snapped a shot of Embrow’s desk photo, too, with my pocket camera.”
    â€œGood work!”
    As soon as the boys arrived in Bayport, Joe developed his roll of film. Then he enlarged the picture of the youth in the desk photo and compared it with his shot of the air crewman.
    â€œHmm. The mole’s in the same place,” Frank mused, “and their faces are similar, but I’d hate to bet they’re the same person.”
    â€œDitto,” Joe agreed. “Besides, there’s at least five or six years’ difference in ages, and neither one of these blowups is ideal for identification purposes. Also, the name stenciled on the crewman’s coveralls isn’t Embrow. It’s H. Maris.”
    â€œWhich could be phony,” Frank pointed