CHAPTER IV

Polypus Ex Machina

"20 years?!" Joe repeated incredulously. "But the telegram!"

Mr. Hardy nodded, putting his finger to his lips. "I'm as befuddled as you are, Joe. Help me with the rest of my luggage?"

Joe followed his father outside. Mr. Hardy walked to the middle of the snow-caked front yard carrying his briefcase.

"What's going on, Dad?" Joe asked, perplexed.

"Wherever I have gone for the past three weeks I have been bugged," Fenton Hardy explained in a low tone. "I wouldn't doubt our own home is as well."

Joe gasped at the notion. Mr. Hardy pulled a legal-sized black-and-white photograph from his briefcase. He held it up for Joe.

"Recognize this man?"

A mug shot of a glum face gazed at the camera lens. "The Western Union deliveryman!" Joe uttered in shock.

Mr. Hardy nodded. "An expert manipulator. Name of Muldoon. Low level thug for an organization whose name I dare not mention now."

"What's his game?" Joe queried.

"The telegram was obviously meant as a trap, which means they are more privy to my dealings with Dr. Jones than I suspected," Mr. Hardy answered.

"So," Joe replied slowly, "You have been working with him?"

"In connection with my work in the Bahamas. We're part of a task force involved with investigating probably the biggest heist I've ever encountered."

Joe's eyes widened.

"I'm afraid we're up against a serious foe, Joe. I'm not sure we've got the upper hand on this one, either." Mr. Hardy was about to say more when the storm window of Aunt Gertrude's upstairs bedroom violently opened.

"What are you ruffians doing out there in the middle of a blizzard?" Aunt Gertrude barked. "Chief Collig is on the line for you!"

Fenton waved to his sister and turned to walk inside. "But, Dad," Joe urgently warned, "The wiretap!"

"It's a chance we'll have to take," Fenton Hardy grimly said. "Besides, I'm a bit worried about Frank. Come on!"

After greeting his wife, Mr. Hardy took the call from the Bayport police chief in his study. Joe joined him.

"I received word from Officer Riley," Chief Collig explained. "Your sedan was found by Stanwide Mining Company, damaged. Who was driving?"

"Frank!" Mr. Hardy answered in dismay. "He was picking me up from the airport this evening."

"Goes without saying he wasn't in the vehicle," Collig continued. "We believe he may be connected with a strange incident at the Morton farm. A tow truck driver was assaulted. Chet and Callie Shaw are in a slow-speed chase of the alleged assailant. We have officers en route, but the weather conditions are hindering us."

"What's their 10-20?" Mr. Hardy asked, gesturing to Joe for a pad and pencil.

"Shore Road headed towards the waterfront," the chief replied.

"Thanks, Chief," Mr. Hardy said jotting down "Shore Road" on the notepad. "We'll be in touch." Mr. Hardy quickly hung up. "Frank must be at the center of this pursuit. Let's go, Joe!"

Mr. Hardy and Joe dashed to the garage where the Hardys' two motorcycles were stored. Within minutes, father and son were braving the elements, the motorcycles tires kicking up slush as they sped down Elm Street in the direction of the Bayport waterfront. "Let's see if we can cut them off!" Mr. Hardy shouted through the gust.

The waterfront, a combination of seedy motels, docks, and saloons, had become a haven for underworld gatherings. The windy Shore Road was normally a busy thoroughfare along Barmet Bay, the horseshoe-shaped inlet off which Bayport was situated.

Other than some black ice patches, the motorcyclists were able to reach the Bayport waterfront without trouble. Given the blizzard assaulting Bayport, there was not a soul about the area.

Mr. Hardy stopped at a popular scenic cliffside point that acted as a helipad landing area for the port authority patrol. Removing a pair of binoculars from the motorcycle compartment, Fenton surveyed what he could of Shore Road.

Minutes went by until finally there appeared a pair of headlights round the bend headed towards the waterfront. Soon, another pair of headlights followed behind that vehicle.

"Here they come," Mr. Hardy announced. "Let's go."

Chet and Callie had followed closely on the tow truck's trail without being able to disable it. The broken down jeep anchored to the tow truck proved to be a useful wedge for Muldoon keeping Callie and Chet at bay.

"As long as we don't let him out of our sight," Callie said through gritted teeth, "He can't win."

"You sure sound like Frank Hardy's girlfriend!" Chet chided before glancing a sideways glance at Callie. "Th-that is official, right?"

Callie gave a terse grin before she swerved the Corvette to the left. "Something's happening. Hang on!"

Callie braked, slowing down a bit. Ahead, she saw two motorcycles flashing their headlights.

"Bayport Police might be trying to slow down this guy," Chet suggested.

"I don't think that's Bayport PD," Callie responded.

A confounded Muldoon honked at the oncoming motorcyclists, but they would not budge nearing the oncoming truck.

"Who are these guys?" he muttered to himself. He glanced at the clock on the truck console. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

As Fenton closed in on the driver side of the tow truck, he peered up at Muldoon. Muldoon, recognizing Fenton Hardy, scowled and shook his fist.

"Why that's Mr. Hardy and Joe!" Chet cried from the Corvette passenger seat. "They're trying to get him to stop."

"Trouble coming up behind them," Callie muttered.

"What do you mean?" Chet asked squinting to see. "Oh, no," he moaned.

A Bayport city snowplow was steadily gaining behind Joe and Fenton Hardy!

Callie rolled her window down. "Behind you!" she shouted, but her warning was lost to the wind.

The driver of the snowplow slammed on the horn, its golden lights flashing, the blade shoveling a continuous wave of snow out of its path. It was less than a hundred feet from the Hardys, the Muldoon tow truck, and Callie's Corvette.

"Dad," Joe called. "We got company!"

Mr. Hardy and Joe steered their motorcycles off to the side of the road just as the plow sped past the tow truck and Corvette. The blade's fury buried the Hardys and their motorcycles in a heap of snow!

As the two burrowed their way out, the tow truck continued its descent down Shore Road reaching the edge of the Bayport waterfront.

"Joe," Mr. Hardy cried, "Are you okay?"

"Fine!" Joe answered. He then craned his head upwards upon hearing a roar from the sky. "Dad," he shouted, pointing up. "Look!"

Mr. Hardy gazed upwards. A low flying helicopter roared over the cove as it hurtled towards the waterfront.

Mr. Hardy grimaced. "Get these bikes up now!" he ordered as they hastily brushed off the snow from the motorcycles.

The helicopter, a sleek black piece of machinery, glided parallel with Shore Road before hovering around the helipad area on the cliffside.

Muldoon flashed his wolfish grin as he saw the sight. He steered the tow truck and the dilapidated jeep towards the helipad. Callie followed closely.

As the helicopter landed, Muldoon crept out of the tow truck and opened the back of the jeep. Callie and Chet both gasped at the sight of a bound and gagged Frank writhing vainly in Muldoon's clutches towards the helicopter.

"They have Frank, Dad!" Joe decried as the motorcycles sped towards the helipad. Both doubled down on their acceleration.

"Stop him, Chet!" Callie yelled from the passenger seat. Chet immediately complied. He darted out of the Corvette and leapt at Muldoon's feet under the frenzied blades of the chopper. Despite Chet's valiant efforts, a powerful figure exited the helicopter and quickly subdued Chet with a swipe to the leg and a punch to the gut.

"Chet!" Callie stepped out of the Corvette, deciding whether to attack the men herself.

"Heads up, Callie!" Joe Hardy announced from behind her.

Callie jumped out of the way. As the figure and Muldoon loaded Frank into the helicopter, they both glanced back at the approaching motorcyclists encroaching in on them.

"Go, go, go!" Muldoon shouted to the pilot as he shut the door with Frank inside.

As the motorcyclists sped in on the helicopter ramping for liftoff, Joe shouted, "Dad, that symbol on the chopper! Do you know it?" He nodded to a macabre depiction of an evil-eyed octopus with eight tentacles.

"It's the organization we're after," Mr. Hardy responded, eyes narrowing, leaning forward on the bike. "It's called SPECTRE."