For an instant the motorboat seemed to stand still in the midst of the boiling waters. The
engine and treacherous current pulled with equal strength in a fierce tug of war. Then, slowly, the sturdy craft inched her way seaward under Joe's guidance.
'She did it!' Frank whooped in relief. 'What a boat! And nice piloting, Joe!'
The Sleuth gathered speed and Joe took the boat out a safe distance from the reef.
'Too bad we couldn't find out if that sunken boat was the Black Cat,' he remarked. 'But maybe we can learn something about the wreck when we get to Northport.'
'First we should trace the postcard,' Frank said. He pulled it from his pocket and looked at it again carefully. 'This is so old, it probably was bought in a place that doesn't sell many,' he commented.
'The edges are yellow and the picture is out of date. There haven't been trolleys on Waterfront Street for years. As soon as we get there, let's look for a little hole-in-the-wall store.'
Frank studied the card from all angles. 'Joe, look!' he exclaimed, and pointed to the thin edge.
There was a blue stain. 'Ink,' Frank judged. 'If it was spilled on the whole batch of cards, the others will have similar blots. We'll look for that.'
It was well past noon when the boys sighted Northport on their left. Passing between a pair of entrance buoys, the Sleuth came off the swelling ocean onto the calm surface of a small, well-protected harbor.
On one side a forest of thick masts rose from a fleet of sturdy fishing boats. At the far end of the bay, bright-colored pleasure craft rode at anchor. Slender, pencillike masts marked the
sailboats. On the shore nearby were the yellow wooden skeletons of boats under construction.
Joe guided the Sleuth toward a large dock with gasoline pumps, which extended into the water
from the boatyard.
'This must be the yard that sponsored the regatta,' Frank commented. 'Bring her in, Joe.'
Within minutes the young detectives had made their craft secure and scrambled onto the dock.
They hurried down the wooden planking and turned onto Waterfront Street. There were
restaurants, souvenir shops, and boat-supply stores. All of them were well kept and busy. The
boys stopped in a luncheonette for a snack, then hurried on. They paused to look down the first intersecting street. It was narrow and shabby.
'Let's try the stores on this street,' Joe suggested.
Halfway down the block, they found a small confectionery squeezed between a junk shop and
an empty store. There was a sign HARRY'S on the window.
As the boys went in, a musty smell hit them. When their eyes adjusted from bright sunlight to
the dark interior, they saw a glass case of candy and a soda fountain with a broken stool. There was no one in the store.
'Look!' Frank said, pointing to a rack of postcards on a shelf behind the candy case.
As Joe stepped behind the counter to peer at them, a door opened in the rear of the store.
'Don't touch it!' said a deep voice.
The boys turned to see a big man lumbering toward them. He had a swarthy face with huge
dark eyes and a heavy black mustache.
'You want a postcard?' he asked shortly.
'Yes, please,' Joe replied. The shopkeeper took the card rack from the shelf and placed it on the counter. 'Pick out,' he ordered.
Frank showed the man Chet's postcard. 'We want one like this. Some friends of ours bought it here yesterday, we think.'
The man looked at them stonily. 'Could be!' He pointed at the rack to some faded cards identical to the one Frank held. Joe lifted them out, held them up together, and squinted at the edges. There was the blue inkstain!
'Do you remember the fellows who bought this one?' Frank asked casually, holding out the card from Chet and Biff.
'You buying or asking questions?' the man inquired.
'Both,' Frank told him with a smile.
'I guess you don't recall,' Joe said. 'Two boys our age-one of them pretty chubby?'
The man looked annoyed. 'I remember who comes in my place,' he said hotly. 'No kids. It was a big, bald fellow with a loud voice. He bought a lot of Fizzle soda. Second time in a week.'
Frank and Joe exchanged glances. Both had the same recollection: the huge, bald-headed man
in the Black Cat. Could he be the postcard purchaser?
Unable to learn more, the boys thanked the proprietor and purchased three postcards. Outside,
they turned toward Waterfront Street.
'Just as we suspected!' Joe burst out. 'The postcard's a phony. Somebody forced Chet and Biff to write it!'
'And that somebody may be the bald man. But what's his game? And is his buddy who piloted the Black Cat in on it too? What's their connection with Shantytown, anyway?'
'I'd sure like to get my hands on those two guys!' Joe declared. 'They must know where Biff and Chet are.'
The Hardys stopped at a nearby restaurant, where Frank telephoned Bayport police
headquarters. He gave a report of their findings to Chief Collig.
'Good lead,' said the officer. 'That bald fellow might have a connection with your pals'
disappearance.
I'll send out a description of him. Keep up the good work.'
The Hardys then went to the boatyard where they had left the Sleuth. 'Maybe someone here
knows about the Black Cat,' Joe said. 'Let's ask.'
As the boys walked out on the docks, a wiry man bustled up to greet them. He had a lively,
ruddy face and unruly black hair.
'Hello, mates!' he called out. 'I'm William Caine-I manage this dock. Need any gas? Repairs?'
Frank spoke up. 'What we really want, Mr. Caine, is some information.'
The manager smiled. 'We'v got plenty of that, too. Come along.'
The friendly man led the Hardys to his office, an old deck cabin, at one end of his dock. Inside, Frank and Joe looked about them curiously. The room was filled with all sorts of old sea articles-a barometer, a binnacle, and a huge pilot wheel. In addition, there were a desk, a filing cabinet, a typewriter, and a telephone.
'Pretty snug, eh?' Mr. Caine chuckled. 'It's my little bit of sea on shore, now that my sailing days are over.'
While Joe grinned appreciatively, Frank noted a limp object lying on top of the filing cabinet.
'Excuse me, Mr. Caine,' he said. 'What's that?'
The seafaring man followed Frank's gaze. 'Oh, that!' Carelessly he tossed it over.
'A mask!' Frank exclaimed.
'A gorilla mask!' Joe added. 'Where did you get this, Mr. Caine?'
'Kind of scary, ain't he?' The old-timer chuckled. 'We had a big masquerade party the last night of the regatta. I went as a gorilla.'
The young sleuths studied the rubber face intently. 'Coincidence,' Joe murmured.
'Sure was a big regatta,' the manager went on. 'People came from all over.'
Joe nodded. 'What we want to ask you about, Mr. Caine, is a good-sized inboard, painted all black, named the Black Cat,'
'The Black Cat?' Caine raised his eyebrows. 'Why, I own her!'
'You do?' Frank exclaimed.
'Sure. Nice fast boat, too. Where'd you see her?'
'At Bayport, day before yesterday,' Joe replied. 'She tried to ram us.'
Caine looked astonished. 'What happened?'
