Free The Phantom Freighter by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

the scowling prisoner. They drove to headquarters. There the man gave his name as John Smith. He denied that he had ever gone under the name of Johnson, that he had ever been to the Phillips house, or that he had received any cartons.
    He was booked on a charge of assault and battery. The express-company driver was sent for and identified him as the man who had signed for Aunt Gertrude’s missing carton. The suspect said the expressman was crazy, and then maintained a stony silence.

    A figure hurtled through the window
    â€œAny identification on him?” Joe asked Riley after the man had been searched.
    â€œNot a thing,” the policeman replied. “Just some figures scribbled on the back of an old envelope. Can’t make head or tail of them.” Riley produced the evidence. Joe whooped. Scrawled on the paper were letters and numbers:
    A23—151—C2—D576—A19395—M14
    â€œThe same as those found at Mrs. Armstrong’s home!” Joe thought excitedly.
    Written beneath the figures was Falcon.
    â€œThe name of the phantom freighter!” Joe gasped.
    â€œWhat?” Riley asked.
    Joe quickly told him Captain Harkness’s story and the officer promised to investigate.
    When Joe and Chet arrived at the Hardy home, they expected to find Frank there. But he had not yet come back.
    â€œThat’s strange,” reflected Joe. “I wonder where he went.”
    For the next few hours the family and Chet anxiously waited for news of Frank. With growing concern, Joe and Chet returned to the waterfront and searched the docks thoroughly, making scores of inquiries. But to no avail!
    When they arrived home they found Mrs. Hardy, pale and tight-lipped, near the telephone. Her husband was away, and Aunt Gertrude paced up and down nervously. “That man they have locked up in jail—I’ll bet he knows what happened,” she declared. “If I had my way—”
    â€œBut the police have questioned him a dozen times, Aunty,” said Joe. “He won’t talk.”
    â€œWhat time is it?” asked Mrs. Hardy.
    â€œTwo o‘clock in the morning, Mother,” Joe replied. “You’d better go to bed and get some rest.”
    â€œI wouldn’t be able to sleep. If Frank doesn’t show up by seven,” said Mrs. Hardy, “I’ll have to telephone your father.”
    â€œNo use bothering Fenton until we’re sure it’s serious,” said Aunt Gertrude. “Frank will turn up,” she added to calm Mrs. Hardy, but to herself she said, “I’m afraid something terrible has happened.”
    The telephone jangled harshly. Mrs. Hardy sprang to her feet, but Joe reached the instrument ahead of her.
    â€œIs this the home of Fenton Hardy?” demanded a rough voice.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWho is this?”
    â€œJoe Hardy.”
    â€œAll right, kid. In case you’re worrying about your brother, here’s a tip. You’ll find him on the porch of a summer bungalow about two miles up the Willow River. Better go and get him because he’s in no shape to walk home.”
    â€œWho’s speaking? What bungalow? Is he all right?”
    The caller hung up.
    â€œWhat is it, Joe?” Mrs. Hardy asked tensely, and he repeated the conversation.
    The message had been ominous, but Joe tried to be cheerful. “Oh, I’m sure Frank’s all right. Come on, Chet. We’ll take the Sleuth and go out there.”
    â€œI’m going with you,” Aunt Gertrude said brusquely. “Come on, Laura, you too!”
    Joe looked up. “Better not. What if it’s a trap?”
    â€œA trap? But why?”
    â€œMaybe someone wants to get us all out of the house, for some reason,” suggested Joe.
    Mrs. Hardy was distressed. “Then maybe Frank won’t be there at all,” she said.
    â€œOh, I’m sure he is, Mother. But we’d better not take chances. Stay here and call Chief