Mystery of the Whale Tattoo by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

“I’ll go right past that deserted farmhouse, and if there’s no one else on the road, I’ll turn around, come back, and park.”
    â€œGood.” Baby Face prodded Frank and Joe with his foot. “Say your prayers, punks, you’ve come to the end of the line!”
    The boys were sweating. “Joe,” Frank whispered, “we’ve got to hit them like wild demons when they drag us out of the car. Tied or untied. It’s our last chance!”
    â€œRight. We have nothing to lose.”
    Mug shouted suddenly, “Hey! What’s that crazy cab doin ’?”
    â€œLook out!” Baby Face yelled. “He’s gonna run you off the road!”
    There was the tearing sound of wrenching metal, and the car came to an abrupt halt. Frank and Joe heard car doors opening. Noises of a scuffle followed swiftly and Baby Face was dragged cursing from the rear seat.
    â€œFrank! Joe!” called a familiar voice.
    â€œChet!” Frank yelled.
    The blanket was stripped away, and Chet Morton’s anxious face peered down at them. “Boy, what would you do without me to get you out of scrapes?” he said, pulling his pals from the sedan.
    Frank saw Baby Face shaking his head and trying to rise from the ground. Mug was wrestling with the driver of the taxi.
    â€œGet us untied, quick!” Frank said.
    Baby Face regained his feet and stood looking around groggily. Mug picked up a rock and hit the taxi driver on the head, stunning him. “Let’s get out of here!” he shouted.
    Baby Face needed no further urging. The two leaped into the car, and before Chet could untie the Hardys, it roared off.
    â€œMan!” said the taxi driver, rubbing his head. “You told me it’d be rough, but I didn’t think you meant getting clobbered!” He slowly scrambled to his feet.
    In the taxi on the way back to the airport, Chet explained that the first job Mr. Hardy had given him was to shadow Frank and Joe to make sure they got off all right. Chet had seen Mug and Baby Face take his buddies to the car and tie them.
    Afraid the criminals would be gone by the time he could get to a phone, Chet had jumped into a taxi and followed the sedan. He and the driver hoped to find a police car, but when they did not, Chet decided he had to go into action. He promised the driver that Mr. Hardy would pay him a reward for rescuing Frank and Joe.
    â€œGreat going!” Frank praised.
    â€œThen Mug and Baby Face really were bluffing about holding you and Dad prisoners!” Joe said. “Were we ever fooled!”
    Having only ten minutes to catch their plane, the Hardys thanked their pal and the taxi driver as he drove into the airport. They raced to the departure gate and made it with seconds to spare. After the plane was airborne, both boys fell into a deep sleep, awakening when the captain announced that they were landing at Los Angeles.
    The Hardys spent the rest of the night at an airport motel, then went directly to the central offices of the Los Angeles Police Department, where they explained their mission to Sergeant Bill Thompson.
    â€œCome with me,” the officer said. “I’ll take you to the files.”
    On the way through the corridors, the sergeant told them that most tattooing was a form of exhibitionism. Originally, tattooing had been done for purposes of adornment and beauty. It was an ancient craft—practiced by the Egyptians nearly three and a half thousand years ago.
    Some people, like the Burmese and Maoris, had brought tattooing to the status of a very refined art. Tattoos, said the sergeant, could not be removed without leaving telltale scars and thus they were a good means by which to identify suspects.
    The sergeant muttered to himself as he went through the card file. “Whale ... whale ... whale ... Hundreds of ’em here.” Then his eyes lit up. “Wow! Are you in luck!” He handed Frank a card