CHAPTER XII

BLACKBEARD

the threatening letter to Wu Sing was crudely scrawled in pencil on cheap note paper. No name was signed. Silently the Oriental showed the envelope to the Hardys. It had no postmark.

"This letter wasn't mailed," said Frank.

"No. Some unworthy person laid it on counter while I was in office," replied the Chinese.

He had no idea who that individual might have been.

"This is not good," muttered Wu Sing. "I do not wish trouble. Maybe you should not come here again.''

"Have you shown this letter to the police?" asked Frank.

Wu Sing shook his head. By bringing the police into the picture, he explained, he might be creating the very trouble he wished to avoid.

"Bad men write that letter," he declared tremulously. '' Better I should do as they say.''

"Well, we certainly don't want to get you into hot water, "Joe told him. '' We '11 steer clear of your place from now on. If we really need your advice, we can always reach you by phone.''

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Wu Sing smiled gratefully. He shook hands warmly with the boys as they left, and it was plain that he was relieved by their willingness to spare him embarrassment.

"It proves we're bothering someone," Frank said as the boys walked home. "But whom?"

"And why?" added Joe. "We don't know whether the letter referred to the coins Chet found or to this gold one.''

Late that afternoon, Fenton Hardy decided to make a quick trip to Washington by plane to complete plans for his journey out West. He took the Spanish coin with him.

"Perhaps one of the experts down there can identify it," he told his sons. "I'll be back tomorrow. No doubt I'll have something to tell you then.''

The boys spent the rest of the day at home, for Aunt Gertrude insisted that "Mr. Spanish" should not be left unwatched a minute. Their guest, polite and grateful for all the kindness the Hardys had shown him, was quite unaware of the fact that he was an object of such concern. The boys entertained him with stories of some of their detective adventures, and he listened with rapt interest.

"You must be experts in-what do you say- deduction!" cried "Mr. Spanish." "If you have solved other mysteries, who knows but that you can solve this mystery of mine. Who am I? Where do I come from ? Why am I here ?''

"We're trying, 'Mr. Spanish,' " Frank as-

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sured the man. '' You can depend on it, we '11 do the best we can.''

As soon as Mr. Hardy returned from Washington the next day, he told his sons that even a government expert had been unable to give him any information about the strange gold coin.

"For the time being, I'll turn 'Mr. Spanish's' case over to you,'' he said. '' See what you can make out of it. Frank, give this coin back to our guest."

As Mr. Hardy planned to be at home all evening, there was no need for the boys to remain on watch. Immediately after an early dinner they slipped out of the house.

"I have an idea," said Frank mysteriously. '' It might not lead to anything, but I think it's worth trying. Come on.''

He led the way through the streets of Bayport, heading toward the waterfront section.

'' I don't get this,'' said Joe. '' What have you in mind?"

"Tattoo marks," declared Frank. "What type of men go in for tattooing?"

'' Lumberjacks and-and sailors!"

'' Right. And here we are, living in a coastal city, and didn't even think of it. Ten chances to one that hold-up man is or has been a sailor. The place for us to search is along the waterfront."

'' For a man with a Spanish woman's head tattooed on his chest ?''

'' Or for someone who knows of a man with a

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Spanish woman's head tattooed on his chest." Bayport's waterfront was a picturesque but squalid part of the city. The streets were dark and crooked, crowded with second-hand stores, cheap hotels, and shabby restaurants. There was an unpleasant odor of strong food in the air. Mahogany-tanned men in caps and pea jackets strode the streets, ambling along with the rolling gait peculiar to sailors.

"Not very pleasant here," said Frank. In front of a shabby restaurant known as The Mariner's Coffee House a car was parked. The boys had almost passed it when Frank suddenly turned and gazed at the automobile.

"I may be wrong," he said quietly, "but this looks mighty like it.'' "Like what?" '' The hold-up man's car!'' Joe whistled softly. '' Are you sure ?'' "I can't be sure. I got only a glimpse of it, but this is the same make and model, same color -and one of the side windows had a crack in it, just like this one.''

Joe looked at The Mariner's Coffee House. "Think your hold-up man may be in there?" '' Could be. Let's go in and look around.'' Joe held his brother back. "If we do that and he recognizes you, he '11 just clear out. Suppose I go in alone. If the man's there, he won't recognize me."

'' How are you going to find out if he has a tattooed chest?"

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'' I have an idea about that. You wait around the corner and keep an eye on this car.''

Joe opened the restaurant door and stepped inside. It was a noisy, smoky place. Two or three sailors were perched on stools at a small lunch counter. Others were sitting around tables at the back of the restaurant. There was a good deal of hearty talk and argument. A mechanical piano was jangling away, adding to the cheerful racket.

Joe felt a little out of his element at first, but he had resolved on the part he was to play, so he did the best he could. He pulled his hat down over one eye, swaggered up to a table and sat down. He ordered a sandwich. While waiting to be served, he noticed an elderly sailor at the next table. The man's hands were blue with tattoo marks.

"Say, old-timer," drawled Joe, "I been thinkin' of gettin' myself tattooed. Where do I go to get a good job like that one o' yours?" he asked.

The old sailor was pleased. He rolled up his sleeves and revealed a complicated design ,of flags and serpents on his arms.

"Can't get a job like this done here in Bayport," he boomed. "Ain't nobody around this town can do a good tattooin' job. New York or New Orleans or Frisco, maybe. But not here."

A dark-skinned man with shifty eyes half turned around from the counter where he was eating, and listened intently. In a few moments

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he left by a side door, hurrying off to the next street.

Joe paid for his sandwich and carried it over to the old sailor's table. "Mind if I sit down?"

"Make yourself at home, sonny." He called over to a companion near by, a youngish, sallow-faced man. "Steve, here's a kid says he wants a tattooin' job. I'm tellin' him to lay off these local experts. That right?"

"Sure, you're right." The sallow man lounged over and pulled open the front of his shirt. Across his chest was tattooed a patriotic design of the Statue of Liberty, completely surrounded by stars. "Now that was done in Eio. Took hours. And did it hurt! But it was worth it,'' he added proudly.

Most of the men in the restaurant knew one another. Everyone suddenly became personally interested in Joe's tattooing problem. They gathered around. Some advised him against being tattooed at all at his age. They said he might regret it later.

Two men gave him the addresses of tattooing experts in other waterfront cities. Several revealed strange marks on their arms and chests, and launched into long stories telling how the operations had been performed.

Joe saw nothing of a tattoo design of a woman's face with a Spanish headdress. He brought up the subject casually.

"Design I had in mind, if I ever do get tattooed, is a woman's head. Do you think a good

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tattoo man could put one on my chest? Something Spanish?"

"Sure-a real tattoo artist could make any design you like. Can't say I've ever seen one like the kind you mention, though,'' declared the old sailor.

Apparently none of the others had either. So after a while Joe said good-by and swaggered out of the place. Around the corner he found Frank.

"Any luck?" he asked his brother eagerly.

Joe shook his head. "I learned plenty about tattooing, and saw practically every design in the place. But no Spanish woman's head.''

"I wonder how that car comes to be parked here? Sailors don't usually drive cars. Let's hang around for a while. If it belongs to the hold-up man, he may not have gone into the restaurant at all. He may be in some other joint near by."

The boys sauntered along the street. At the end of the block they turned and strolled back again, keeping the parked automobile under observation. They were nearing The Mariner's Coffee House again when a ragged boy emerged from an alley across the street and whistled to them shrilly.

"Hey-you in the blue suit!" called out the lad to Joe. "You're wanted."

"Who wants me?"

"A man over on the next street gave me a dime to tell you he wants to talk to you. He

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says it's important. Come on-I'll show you the place.''

The Hardy boys were suspicious.

"What's his name?" asked Joe.

"I dunno his name. He's a tattoo man. Hurry up if you 're coming.''

"You'd better be careful," said Frank quietly to his brother. "It may be a trap. But I'd like to know what he wants.''

They crossed the street. The urchin turned swiftly and led them down a dark alley into the next block, then into another alley. There he halted in front of a shabby little building, and beckoned to the boys.

"Come on," he called shrilly. "This is it. The man's waitin'."

'' I don't like the looks of the place,'' muttered Joe, "but I'll go in. You'd better stay outside and watch, Frank," he whispered.

"Don't you think we'd better stick together ?''

"If I'm not out in ten minutes, you'll know something is wrong, and can get help.''

"Right." Frank turned and walked slowly down the alley.

'' What's the matter with him ? Ain 't he coming ?'' demanded the urchin, who was waiting at the top of the steps.

"No. Where is this tattoo man who wants to see me?"

The boy opened the door and went inside. Joe followed him across the threshold into a squalid, foul-smelling place. The windows

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were dirty. The walls were stained and grimy. In a cluttered front room a faded, hand-lettered sign on the wall proclaimed:

'' Expert Tattooing Done Here. Bates Cheap.''

All about the place were musty posters tacked to the walls. They were advertisements from various foreign countries.

Near the door stood a half-naked, dark-skinned man. He waved to the urchin, commanding him to wait outside for further errands. After the lad had gone, this strange person said to Joe:

'' My master is ready.''

He opened a door to an inner room. The Hardy boy gasped in astonishment. At a table sat an immense, coarse-featured man, with a long, bushy black beard. He was dressed in pirate's clothes, and in his belt were stuck a long knife and a cutlass.

The fellow's sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, exposing muscular arms traced with a multitude of blue tattoo marks. His shirt, open at the throat, revealed tattooing on his chest.

"See them!" boomed the swarthy man, holding out his arm. "You ever see a tattooing job like that? Well, don't let anybody tell you a good job can't be done right here in Bayport. I'm as good as any artist in the business, see, and don't let anyone tell you different. And why shouldn't I be?"

Joe realized that somehow or other word had

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come to this queer individual from the Mariner's Coffee House that the boy wanted to be tattooed.

"And why shouldn't I be an artist at putting pictures on the human body that will stay on forever? I'm a descendant of Blackbeard. You've heard of Blackbeard, ain't you?"

'' Blackbeard the pirate ?''

"The same. Bravest pirate that ever sailed the seven seas. My ancestor, him."

Joe gulped. He recalled that Blackbeard was known to have been the cruelest and most ferocious of all the pirates who plundered and tortured in the waters of the Caribbean. The boy remembered stories of how this ugly figure, when making an attack, used to stick slow-burning matches in his beard to light up his evil eyes and frighten his captives. If this person before Joe truly were a descendant of this monster, anything might happen to the youth!

"I'll try to get a look at his chest and see if that tattoo mark with the Spanish woman's head is on there,'' thought Joe. '' Then I '11 get out of here as fast as I can."

"Yes, I'm Blackbeard the pirate, too," gloated the man at the table. "And they say I look like my ancestor."

"Are your tattoo marks the same as his?" asked Joe.

''Dunno,'' said Blackbeard. ''But I got some fine ones. Especially the picture on my chest."

The boy's heart thumped as the man tore

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open his shirt front. Revealed was a weird conglomeration of writhing blue snakes entwined about a ship under full sail.

"Ain't that wonderful?" cried Blackboard,

Joe admired the work, then started for the door. This was not the man who had held up Frank.

'' Now look, sonny-you want to be tattooed,'' Blackboard reminded him. "Well, I'm your man. And it won't cost you much either. Twenty-five dollars, and if you know anything about tattooing, you got to admit that's dirt cheap. In the big cities it would cost you twice as much.''

Joe was evasive. " I 'm not so sure I want the job done right away. I'll let you know."

"I'll make it ten dollars."

"Well, I'll think it over," said Joe, suspicious now, and becoming anxious that he might not get away unmarked.

But Blackboard was not to be put off so easily. He suddenly leaped up and lunged around the table. He seized Joe by the collar.

'' Not so fast,'' he growled menacingly. "You said you wanted to be tattooed, and you're going to be tattooed!"