Mystery of the Whale Tattoo by Franklin W. Dixon

they’re talking about?”
    â€œI don’t know. It could be connected with the stolen whale, or it might have something to do with Dad’s case.”
    â€œOr both cases, for that matter,” Joe added.
    â€œRight, but remember we still don’t have one shred of positive proof. Originally we thought the whale had been stolen by someone from the carnival. Now suddenly we find this fair-haired guy was at the carnival, which, while not ruling out the carnival people, seems to imply a bigger gang. Also there’s that postcard signed Beluga that was mailed from here.”
    â€œAnd once we got to Mystic,” Joe said, “we started running into seamen who are involved—Tim Varney and Whitey Meldrum. The gang Dad is after is made up of seamen. Wow! What a mess! Frank, I think we should get the police to arrest these guys right now.”
    â€œNo good, Joe. There’s nothing they can be charged with—at the moment.”
    â€œVarney tried to smash you with that whale-bone!”
    â€œHe could claim it was an accident, and we couldn’t prove otherwise.”
    â€œWell, I still think we should get them while we have the chance,” Joe said.
    â€œThey’d only be set free ten minutes after the police brought them in,” Frank countered, “and besides, they’re not sure how much we know about them. We’d be tipping our hand. Come on. Let’s investigate this shack!”
    They walked in. Joe struck a match and lit the wick of the old-fashioned lamp.
    Two things instantly captured their attention—a woman’s blond wig and a souvenir cane from Solo’s Super Carnival!

CHAPTER XII
    An Odd Messenger
    JOE picked up the wig and turned it over in his hands. “You know, when Chet said ‘That was no lady’ he didn’t know just how right he was!”
    â€œBaby Face in disguise,” Frank muttered. “He and I are going to have a few things to settle when we finally come face to face.”
    Joe set down the wig on the cane, which he twirled a moment like a baton. “This proves that at least one of them if not all three were at the carnival.”
    They went through the rest of the shack, but discovered no additional clues.
    â€œWe still don’t know Beluga’s real name,” Frank said tersely.
    â€œOr what his game is,” Joe added.
    Frank’s brow wrinkled as he repeated the message Beluga had sent to Boko. “‘ Getting hot. Getting hot.’ It could mean a couple of things. For instance, ‘We’re almost to our goal.’ Or, ‘The police are close on our trail.’ ”
    The boys pondered the possibilities. Finally Joe said, “I think we’ve done about as much as we can do here. What do you say we go back for Chet?”
    Frank glanced at his watch. “Okay. The hour’s just about up to meet Chet.” They hastened off. Reaching the drugstore, the Hardys saw nearly a dozen youths clustered around the soda counter, talking excitedly.
    â€œC’mon, boy. You can do it!”
    â€œJust take it slow and easy.”
    â€œNo problem, fellow. Still plenty of room left.”
    â€œGo for broke, champ!”
    The Hardys made their way forward and discovered the object of everyone’s attention—Chet Morton! He grinned weakly when he saw his pals. “Hi, Frank. Hi, Joe.”
    â€œWhat are you doing, Chet?” Frank asked.
    â€œCompeting in a marathon.” Chet made a sweeping gesture with his hand, taking in a row of empty soda glasses.
    Joe counted. “Five! You put down five sodas?”
    â€œYou bet he did,” said a girl at Joe’s elbow. “And he’s far from finished!”
    â€œThat’s right,” agreed a boy. “The big one’s still ahead of him.”
    â€œYou see,” Chet said, “I’ve never encountered such scrumptious sodas in my life, and before I knew it—well, I knocked off five