Read Online The Sting of the Scorpion by Franklin W. Dixon - Free Book Online Page B

uneasily before adding, “No word yet from Dad, I suppose?”
    â€œNo, indeed—we’ve heard nothing so far.” Miss Hardy’s voice reflected her own anxiety. Then she reverted to her usual tart tone, like a top sergeant bracing up recruits. “But I don’t want you boys to worry about him. Do you understand? Just mind your own p’s and q’s, especially in a city as big as New York. The streets are dangerous these days, from all I hear. As for Fenton, he can take care of himself!”
    â€œThanks, Aunty, we’ll bear that in mind,” Frank said, comforted in spite of himself by her brisk, no-nonsense manner. “Tell Mother we’ll be home soon. ‘Bye now.”
    He replaced the receiver in its cradle and shook his head in response to Joe’s questioning glance. “She says they haven’t heard from Dad. But we’re to call Sam Radley, which means I’d better get some more coins.”
    After breaking a bill at a drugstore news counter, just off the lobby, Frank returned to the phone with his brother and rang his father’s long-time operative.
    â€œHi, Sam. This is Frank,” he said when the detective answered. “Aunt Gertrude gave us your message. Got something for us?”
    â€œSure have,” Radley replied. “I’ve traced Quinn’s ex-partner, Basil Embrow.”
    â€œNice going. What’s the scoop?”
    â€œHe’s now running a business called Embrow Exports in Manhattan. I figured you two might want to check him out while you were there.”
    â€œRight. We’ll do that. What’s the address?”
    The operative read it over the phone and Frank copied it down. “Thanks a lot, Sam,” he said and hung up.
    â€œLower Manhattan,” Joe noted, glancing at what Frank had written. “We can take the subway.”
    Leaving the building, the boys were thrilled to see the two baby blimps directly overhead. The minicraft were just about to settle into their berths on the penthouse deck, high atop the skyscraper.
    â€œBoy, I can hardly wait to ride in one of those things,” Joe said eagerly.
    â€œRight. They’re tubby little cigars, but they do look like fun.”
    The Hardys took a subway train downtown. Embrow Exports occupied a tenth-floor suite of offices in a dingy area, but the firm looked busy and prosperous.
    â€œI’m not sure Mr. Embrow can see you,” a receptionist told the boys. “Have you an appointment?”
    â€œNo, but give him this, please,” Frank said. He wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to the young woman, who excused herself and took the message to her employer.
    Joe shot his brother a quizzical glance. “What did you write?” he asked in a low voice.
    â€œJust ‘Quinn Air Fleet.’ Let’s see if it works.”
    Apparently it did. The receptionist soon returned and said that Mr. Embrow would see them.
    The businessman wore a puzzled frown as the boys were ushered into his office. “What’s this supposed to mean?” he asked, flicking his finger. nail at the paper.
    â€œNothing in particular. It’s the only thing I could think of that might get us an interview,” Frank replied.
    Embrow, a balding, raw-boned man, responded with a smile to Frank’s boyish grin. “Fair enough. At least you’re honest. Sit down and tell me what I can do for you. Am I mistaken in thinking you two are the sons of that famous detective?”
    â€œNo, sir, you guessed right,” Joe replied. “Fenton Hardy’s our father. In fact that’s why we’re here. We’re helping him on one of his cases.”
    â€œIndeed? What sort of case?”
    â€œIt has to do with those dirigible explosions yesterday morning,” Frank replied.
    Embrow sighed, nodded, and settled back in his chair. “I see. I thought there might be some connection.” He rolled a pencil back and forth