Returning from their latest interview with Coville and Lombard, the brothers had dinner in their hotel's dining room.
"Hello boys, what hot scoop do you have for me?" A slender young woman with wavy blond hair approached their table. She was wearing a checked suit with a narrow, mid-calf-length skirt.
"Pardon me, do we know you?" Frank asked skeptically.
"Oh, everyone knows me. I'm Molly Mirkin, star girl reporter of the New York Daily Telegram. Our building is a few blocks from here.
"The Daily Telegram is a vulgar, sensationalist tabloid," said Frank, continuing in his sour tone.
"Tell me something I don't already know. I mean that." She sat down next to Joe. They both stared at her. She was actually very pretty, with blue eyes and a wide mouth. "All right, if you're going to sit there like bumps on a log, let me start. I got interested in this German scientist visiting America. Then it turns out he disappears. I heard the famous Hardy Boys were on the case. Now, that piqued my interest. My story is in this afternoon's edition, by the way. Lt. Korman tells me you don't think it was suicide. It would be a pretty dull story if it was suicide."
"You'll get no information from us," said Frank. "Are you really going to be dogging our footsteps?"
"Dogging? I don't need to follow anyone, not even the Hardy Boys. I've got my own sources."
"Say, aren't you supposed to be doing a series on Tibet? Aren't you flying there with some air ace?"
"Now, how would you know that?"
"I—um…"
"You've read my stories. Admit it! So I've got a fan! Don't worry about that ace aviator. He's a dud. Let me tell you, there's not a thimbleful of chemistry between us. He's old and married anyway, not like you two young fellas."
Joe smiled. Frank still looked a little chagrined. "I'll see you boys again, real soon." Molly whirled on her high heels and went out the door.
"Don't forget to bring extra film this time," was Frank's parting shot.
"She's not half bad-looking, you know," said Joe.
"Kind of thin and bony."
"Not every blond has to look like Jean Harlow," Joe replied.
"What would you know about Jean Harlow? I thought you didn't pay any attention to the movies."
"Huh? I take Iola to the movies all the time."
"Yeah, that's just what I mean."
"Very funny, brother. You ought to have your own radio comedy spot. To get back on the subject, what do you know about Molly's series on the aviator?"
Frank laughed. "Am I supposed to be an expert on Molly Mirkin's writing now?"
"You know more than I do."
"Okay. The aviator's name is Robert Soderstrom. You've probably heard of him."
"Famous fighter pilot from the World War."
"Right. And after the war he was a pioneering aviator in Asia. He flew over the Himalayas. He went solo across Central Asia. At the time there was a ton of press coverage for his exploits."
"Why is Molly interested in him now?"
"He's trying to organize an expedition to the Himalayas. He thinks that in some remote valley there's some lost civilization. You know, the Shangri-La sort of thing, a highly advanced, peaceful civilization where people have the secret of a healthy long life."
Joe laughed. "That sounds pretty far-fetched. Where does the money come from for this?"
"He has some ownership stake in an oilfield in Oklahoma. He's a rich man. He funds what he calls the Institute for Central Asian Archaeology. They're the organization behind this research. Oh, I'm sure he's got plenty of rich pals who are donors as well."
"Archaeology? I thought you said that he expected to find this Shangri-La still existing?"
"Yes, well, Soderstrom thinks that they're a remnant of a great civilization, sort of the original civilization…"
"Oh, don't tell me. He wants to trace their history back to Atlantis."
"Yeah, I think that's the idea," admitted Frank. "The Atlanteans lived in the far north and their land was submerged by rising sea levels with the end of the Ice Age. They declined but their culture was carried on by the historical civilizations of Asia."
"It's a theory for those who want to believe that white people created the master civilization. They can't accept that Egyptians or Babylonians had much to do with it."
"There's something that's nagging me," said Frank. "How did Molly get on Mr. Heinze's story in the first place? Remember, she said she knew about him before his disappearance. Considering what The Daily Telegram is like, it's not likely she was going to report on rocket engineering."
"You're thinking that her interest in Heinze has something to do with Soderstrom, don't you? But what's the connection?"
Frank strained to recall what he had read. "There's more to this Soderstrom than weird archaeology. He acts as a civilian advisor to the Air Force. According to Molly's story he has the ear of powerful people in the government. He's influential in defense policy."
"That sounds more like it." Joe seemed a bit skeptical. Frank shrugged and they left it at that.
The brothers went to the hotel's front desk to check for any messages left for them. "Speaking of actors, haven't I seen that guy before?" Frank was looking at a dapper gentleman coming towards them. He walked with an unsteady gait. His clothes were expensively tailored. On a leash ahead of him was a sprightly brown terrier.
"Ah, the Hardy Boys, just the young men I've been looking for," the gentleman said as he reached them. He had gleaming black hair and a slender moustache.
"Is there a big neon sign over this hotel saying, 'Hardy Boys staying here'?" asked Frank of no one in particular.
"I know what you're thinking. You're thinking it's undignified for a gentleman to be drunk walking his dog. Let me tell you, it would be a good deal more undignified for a dog to be drunk walking a man. Say, that doesn't make much sense, does it?" The Hardys shook their heads.
Lowering his voice, the man said, "How about we lose that gun punk over there and go meet someone?" He tipped his head towards a young man sitting in an armchair, hidden behind a newspaper. In a louder voice he said, "Why don't you join me for a drink, in my room? It's only on the second floor."
The boys followed the man up the stairs, along the second floor corridor, and down another set of stairs at the end of the corridor, back to the ground floor. There was an exit leading to the alley.
"How did you know that guy was tailing us?" Frank asked.
"Either that or he's an awfully slow reader. He's hardly turned the pages of that newspaper in the last half hour."
"Are you a private investigator?" asked Joe suspiciously. "You didn't tell us your name."
"You can call me Mr. Charles. My dog does." He walked out to the sidewalk and, looking around to check for their tail, hailed a taxi. "I was a private detective once, before I married my delightful wife Nora and became a member of the spoiled rich. I know it's a difficult racket. It's difficult to make a buck at it while remaining on the right side of the law."
"Our father manages to do it," retorted Frank.
"Ah, Fenton Hardy is an exceptional man. I've told him so more than once."
"We keep running into people who know us."
"You are well known, as well known as any resident of Bayport can expect to be. What would the Bayport Gazette have to report if it wasn't covering your exploits?"
"You haven't told us who we're visiting," objected Joe.
"We're going to a club and hopefully there we'll see Olivia Simmons, the singer you're looking for. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll have to drop my dog off at my hotel. He's underage, you know."