The Bombay Boomerang by Franklin W. Dixon

for you. And now to my dog Balto. Are you listening? The next number is dedicated to Flatfoot and the Flunkies. You don’t believe it? How suspicious can you get? Plenty. Sock it to ’em! Right up here in Bayport. That’s the ticket!”
    Joe snapped the radio off. “Is that stuff supposed to be groovy?” he growled.

CHAPTER XI
    Patter in Code
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    â€œI don’t think Blaze is trying to be groovy,” Frank responded with a thoughtful frown. “That kind of talk sounded to me more like a riddle.”
    â€œYou mean a code? Secret information for listeners who know how to decipher it?”
    â€œWhy not? Look, what do you make of Flatfoot and the Flunkies?”
    â€œDad and ourselves!” Joe exclaimed. “I’ll bet that’s it! Balto must stand for Baltimore. He’s telling his confederates in Baltimore that you and I are suspicious about Dad’s disappearance!”
    Frank shifted gears and turned into their driveway. “That’s how I figure it. The rest fits in, too. When he mentions socking it to ’em in Bayport, that could be an order for his pals to deal with us!”
    â€œBut we can’t be sure that’s his game after hearing him on the air only once. Let’s have his program monitored while we’re in Pittsburgh. Chet and the others will probably be glad to oblige. I’ll give them a ring.”
    Their friends were enthusiastic. They liked Blaze’s recordings. And they vowed to listen in turn to his patter in the hope of breaking the code, if there was one.
    That settled, the Hardys were preparing for their trip when Chet Morton’s car drew up in front of their house, wheezing and backfiring as usual.
    Joe was puzzled. “We just talked to him over the phone. Wonder why he’s coming to see us.”
    â€œHe must have bounced over here as fast as his motorized tin can would travel,” Frank replied. “We’d better go out and see what’s bothering him.”
    Chet’s car was standing at the curb. The driver sat at the wheel, fiddling with the ignition.
    Joe called out, “Chet, what’s up?”
    â€œThat’s not Chet!” Frank shouted the warning. “Duck, Joe!”
    Too late! A man hiding in the back of the car leaped out. Leveling a spray gun at them, he fired its contents into their faces. The liquid burned and stung. Frank and Joe staggered back, temporarily blinded by the assault.
    â€œThere’s more where this came from,” snarled their assailant. “Pull out of the mere racket while you’ve got time! Stay on our backs, and you’ll go the way your old man went! We’re through fooling with you!”
    Before Frank and Joe could open their eyes to get a look at the pair, the car had roared off. The boys soon recovered, agreed that they had been the victims of a variety of tear gas, and returned to the house. After a thorough soap-and-water washing, they consulted their father about the incident.
    The phone rang during the conversation. Chet was calling. “You know what’s happened?” he queried glumly. “My car’s been stolen. My pride and joy is in the hands of thieves!”
    â€œWe’ve just seen it,” Joe told him. “In fact, it was borrowed for a visit to Frank and me.” He described what had happened. “Report the theft to the police, Chet. They should be able to locate it easily. There aren’t many cars like it around. And tell them that it was used for shooting gas into our faces. I was just about to call Chief Collig myself.”
    Chet phoned later to say that his jalopy had been found. “The thieves abandoned it near the bay. The crime lab people examined it, but found nothing incriminating.”
    â€œNo clues at all?” Frank questioned.
    â€œNo. Chief Collig says the guys were pros who didn’t leave any calling cards. Not so much as a fingerprint. So he still