Mystery of the Flying Express

Table of Contents

 

 

A sleek new hydrofoil is scheduled to start ferrying passengers between Bayport and Cape Cutlass. But business enemies of the hydrofoil owner have stirred up a hornets' nest of violent opposition among small boat owners. Fearing sabotage, he begs Frank and Joe Hardy to guard the
Flying Express
on her maiden trip.

Startling developments plunge the teen-age detectives into a dangerous chase by sea, air, and land in pursuit of a gang of hardened criminals who operate by the signs of the Zodiac. The Hardys' close pal Chet Morton tries to help them by using his newly acquired knowledge of astrology.

Tension mounts when the
Flying Express
vanishes-and so does Sam Radley, Mr. Hardy's skilled operative. Has Radley been kidnapped? Is he a prisoner aboard the stolen hydrofoil? Peril stalks Frank and Joe's every move as they hunt down the terrifying gangleader Zodiac Zig and his vicious henchmen.

Copyright © 1977, 1968, 1941 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset
Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.
THE HARDY
BOYS
^®
is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.
Library Of Congress Catalog Card Number: 73-106327

eISBN : 978-1-101-07634-7

2007 Printing

LOUD explosions, like a fusillade of gunfire, echoed through the quiet streets of Bayport. An old jalopy careened around the corner. The driver, plump and freckle-faced, pulled up before the home of Fenton Hardy, private detective.

Frank Hardy, eighteen years old, and his brother Joe, a year younger, guessed who was coming before they spotted their visitor.

“Chet Morton, for sure,” said blond-haired Joe, looking out a window. “And is he excited!”

Chet waved and beckoned. “Hey, fellows! Big doings at the waterfront! Let's go!” he called out as the Hardy boys bounded down the front steps.

“What is it all about?” asked dark-haired Frank.

“Hop in and I'll explain on the way.”

The three crowded into the front seat. Chet started the car, which lurched away from the curb, jouncing its passengers as it picked up speed and headed for Bayport Harbor.

Joe braced himself with a hand against the dashboard. “Okay, we're on our way. You'd better clue us in before this ancient heap decides to pause for a rest!”

Chet chuckled. “Sir, you are referring to the vehicle I love, but I'll overlook the remark in view of the circumstances! Seriously, though, there's real trouble down there. Something to do with the big hydrofoil.”

Joe looked surprised. “The Flying
Express?
I thought she was all set for her maiden spin the day after tomorrow.”

Chet shifted gears as he turned onto Bayport's main street. “Right. She's scheduled to begin her new commuter service to Providence. Wish I had a ticket, but they're all sold out.”

Providence was a port at the tip of Cape Cutlass, seventy miles south of Bayport. The three youths often spun down there and back aboard the Hardys' motorboat, the Sleuth.

“What's wrong with the Flying
Express?
” Frank wanted to know. “Mechanical failure?”

“Not the way I understand it,” Chet replied. “Something to do with public relations. Seems that quite a few people would like to foil the hydrofoill”

“Owl” Joe said. “Pretty corny pun.”

Chet stopped at a red light near Condor's Photo Store. “Hey, Frank, let's pick up the passport pictures while we're here,” Joe suggested.

“Good idea. Chet, pull over for a minute, will you?”

Fenton Hardy and his operative Sam Radley had had their photos taken to renew their passports, which were always kept up to date. Chet parked in front of the shop and the Hardys hastened inside. Frank took Sam's pictures, while Joe pocketed his father's. They paid the photographer and soon were off again for the waterfront.

As they approached the dock where the Flying Express was berthed they could hear the tumult of the crowd gathered there. Small boat owners milled around, shouting and gesturing at the shiny white fiberglass vessel riding low in the water. Chet parked the car nearby and they all got out.

The ship's sleek hull had enclosed cabins forward and aft, and a rakish pilot's bridge. The windshields of the wheelhouse looked out over a metal deck. This forward deck obviously was not for passengers. The rear deck was slightly lower and guarded by white pipe railing.

“Quite a boat,” Frank said admiringly.

“She's a hundred feet long and has accommodations for sixty passengers,” Chet explained, “with a top speed of seventy miles an hour.”

“I wonder what they have against a beauty like that,” Joe said, pointing toward a picket line carrying placards. In bold lettering one sign read:

“Beats me,” Frank replied. “I can't see that she'll get in anybody's way as long as she slows down when she enters the harbor. Barmet Bay's big enough for everybody.”

Chet had been inspecting the rest of the crowd. “Those kids near the slip are painting signs. I think I'll mosey over for a closer look at their artistic productions—Hey, what's this?”

One of the sign painters suddenly pushed a placard into his hand. Frank and Joe received the same treatment from a couple of paint-smeared teen-agers. Before they realized it, the Hardys and Chet were holding slogans of protest against the hydrofoil.

“Say, we have nothing to do with you guys!” Chet shouted angrily.

“Watch it!” Joe warned. “Here comes a TV news truck! Let's get out of here!”

Hurriedly the boys threw down the placards. But it was too late! The truck had swept past, its lens pointing directly at them!

“Holy catfish! They got us!” Joe groaned.

Some of the pickets were yelling for a raid on the
Flying Express.
“Scuttle the hydrofoil!” one of them shouted. The rest took up the chant: “Scuttle the hydrofoil! Scuttle the hydrofoil!”

They were about to go into action when a police car rolled into the middle of the mob. Bayport's chief of police got out and surveyed the disorder.

“We've got a complaint about this dock being blocked illegally,” Chief Collig boomed through a bullhorn. “I want some explanations. Let's start with you two fellows- Well, if it isn't Frank and Joe Hardy! How did you get involved?”

Chief Collig knew the Hardy boys well because they frequently helped their father with his detective cases. Their ability as amateur sleuths was known to practically everyone in Bayport, and they cooperated with the police whenever they could.

While Frank spoke to the chief, Chet slipped away to a group of sign painters, and began work ing with a brush and a piece of cardboard.

“Some pal, leaving us to face the music,” Joe thought.

“We're not in this fracas, Chief!” Frank said. “We're the most innocent bystanders you ever saw.”

A middle-aged woman rushed forward brandishing a finger at the Hardys. “Innocent my foot. I saw them! They were right in the middle of it.”

Chet, carrying a sign behind his back, edged his way into the group around Frank and Joe.

The woman was running out of breath. She finished by pointing to a placard on the ground, and declared triumphantly, “There, that's one of the signs they were carrying! Look for yourself.”

“I'll get it,” Chet said quickly. Stooping, he deftly switched placards and straightened up with the one he had been carrying. He pushed it into Frank's hand, and raised the boy's elbow so that everybody could read the words he had painted:

A roar of laughter came from the crowd. Even Chief Collig showed the trace of a smile.

Frank glanced at the sign and winked at Chet.

By now the ugly mood of the protestors was evaporating. They began to drift away from the dock. Seeing that everything was under control, Chief Collig drove back to headquarters.

Frank, Joe, and Chet returned to the Hardy home. They were met at the door by the boys' Aunt Gertrude, Fenton Hardy's sister, who had come to live with the family some time ago. She was tall, angular, and had a no-nonsense look behind her spectacles. Although Aunt Gertrude scolded the boys for taking what she considered too many risks, she held her nephews in deepest affection.

“I hear there has been trouble at the waterfront,” she said sternly. “No doubt you were there!”