Chapter Two. The Missing Pal!

“Gosh,” Flint Burly said, “it looks like the whole town turned out for the picnic!”
“The whole town except for Lucy Diamond,” said Pixie Powers. “And she and I were bound to win the three-legged race this year!”
“Oh, I’m sure she’ll get here in time,” Flint said.
“She’d better!” Pixie said.
It was Memorial Day, and the people of Balmy Bay had gathered in McCarthy Park for the annual celebration. Music wafted from the bandstand. Some of the younger boys had started up an impromptu softball game, and a group of girls were jumping rope. Adults stood conversing in small knots under the shade of stately elms and maples. Wieners roasted over red-hot coals and Aunt Hortense stood proudly over her prize-winning potato salad, ready to start spooning out portions. Pitchers of lemonade tinkled on the tables. Roscoe, the custodian at the yacht club where the Burly Boys berthed their sloop Shamus, flashed a genial smile for everybody as he scurried here and there, scooping up the trash.
“Now where has that brother of yours gotten to?” Pixie asked.
“Oh, near the music, no doubt,” Flint said. “Probably practicing his dance steps for the sock hop in a couple of weeks.”
Sure enough, they found Chip before the bandstand, where most of Balmy Bay’s teenagers had clustered. Mickey Milk and the Milkmen were holding forth on stage, playing one dance tune after another. As expected, Chip was studiously attempting to master the Mashed Potato. Pixie ran to his side and joined in.
“Shootin’ spitballs!” Chip cried. “How’s my favorite gal?”
Flint was soon joined by Candy Horton, who arrived bearing plates heaped with potato salad and hot dogs.
“It’s another wonderful day, don’t you think, Flint?”
“It sure is, Candy!” Flint said.
“Your aunt’s potato salad is delicious!”
“And so are these hot dogs!” Flint said.
“I hope we do well in the limbo contest!”


“Oh, we’ll show them a thing or two, all right!”
Just then Flint Burly noticed the stranger. Although he didn’t presume to know every citizen of Balmy Bay, he had the man pegged as an outsider in no time. If his swarthy complexion, heavily shadowed jowls, and pointed Italian shoes weren’t enough to make him stick out from the crowd, the way he furtively eyeballed the proceedings was the clincher.
The music stopped, and Flint caught his brother’s eye and motioned him over. Candy, he saw, had struck up an animated conversation with Pixie, and he took the opportunity to lead Chip away from the crowd of teenagers. Discreetly, he indicated the stranger.
“Galloping comets!” Chip said. “That guy sticks out like a letterman sweater on a moose! Do you think he’s up to no good?”
“The way he’s furtively checking everything out makes me think he might be a look-out man,” Flint said. “I suggest we keep an eye on him in turn.”
“Then let’s enlist Jelly Roll’s help,” Chip said. “I want to practice some more dance steps before the games start. That Frug is giving me conniptions!”
The boys went off in search of their friend Jelly Roll Horton. They soon found him sitting on the grass under a tree. With him was Peanuts Salter, the tuba player in the school band, and Eddie Muskie, the captain of the chess club. Jelly Roll was reading aloud from a book, and as the boys drew near they realized that it was their latest adventure, The Mystery of the Cross-Eyed Smuggler, as recounted by Jefferson W. Fairchild, the author of all of their published adventures. Still unnoticed by the trio on the grass, the boys listened for a few moments as Jelly Roll intoned:

The floor creaked under their shoes as the trio prowled through the dark, abandoned lumber mill. Flint, dark and intense, had the lead. Chip, a year younger and impetuous where Flint was cautious and deliberate, had to be restrained from dashing off, and possibly alerting their quarry to their presence. Jelly Roll, their stout chum and frequent assistant on their exciting mystery cases, brought up the rear. Unlike the impetuous younger brother, he had to be constantly urged not to fall too far behind.
Suddenly Flint came to a halt. “What’s that sound?” he hissed warily.
“Gibbering gumdrops!” exclaimed Chip. “I thought we were hearing the floors creak. But we’ve stopped walking and I still hear it!”
“Gosh, fellas,” moaned Jelly Roll in a quavering voice. “That’s my stomach rumbling! We haven’t had a bite to eat in nearly two hours.”
The Burly boys, sons of a famous American detective, threw back their heads and laughed good-naturedly.

Jelly tossed down the book. “Can you believe this garbage?” he demanded. “Not only is it the worst writing on the face of the earth, but this Fairchild bum always makes me out to be a food-obsessed maniac!”
“But you are a food-obsessed maniac,” Chip said, stepping forward. He and Flint laughed.
“Go ahead and laugh,” Jelly said. “But the last laugh’s on you chumps! Think about it for a minute. You’re both practically grown men. But what does it say on the back of all your books? For boys aged 10-14, that’s what. Doesn’t that tell you something?”
The brothers were no longer laughing. Flint shrugged and said, “Well, boys read about boy detectives. What’s wrong with that?”
“What’s wrong is that we’re not boys anymore! They publish mysteries that adults read too, you know! Why can’t that damn Fairchild start taking us seriously? Sure, we were thirteen and twelve when the series started, but that was five years ago! We’ve grown up, damn it!”

Jelly Roll reached into his back pocket and pulled out a battered paperback. The boys saw that it was entitled One Fearful Yellow Eye, and it was written by somebody named John D. MacDonald. “This is what our books should be written like!” Jelly Roll said, waving the book in the air. “A book about men. And women. Real women!”
“Hey, can I see that?” Peanuts said.
Flint and Chip exchanged a glance. Neither spoke.
“Ah, the hell with it,” Jelly Roll said. “Let’s go scrounge up some hot dogs.”
“Not just yet,” Flint said. “Look over past the bandstand. See that man with the furtive look?”
“No.”
“The fellow with the three-day growth of whiskers,” Chip added.
“I still don’t see him.”
“With the dark complexion,” Flint pointed out.
“Okay, I got him pegged,” Jelly Roll said. “What about him?”
“We need you to help us keep an eye on him,” Flint said.
“Why? Because he looks like a foreigner?”
“Not just that,” Flint said. “I suspect he might be a look-out man for some hold-up artists!”
But before Flint could elucidate further the speeches started. Pastor Whitehead mounted the bandstand and led everybody in a prayer. He was followed by Charley Langendorf, the head of the local chapter of the American Legion, who spoke of the need for our armed forces to halt the Domino Effect in Vietnam, no matter what a few crazy protesters in other cities might say. His speech drew a prolonged hurrah.

Finally Chief of Police Chalk took the stage. He sang Balmy Bay’s praises, specifically citing the city’s low crime rate, and concluded that one family was largely responsible for this shining record, the Burlys. “I know Slate Burly is wrapping up a case and couldn’t be here,” he concluded, “but let’s give those swell boys of his a great big hand. Flint! Chip! Step forward and be counted.”
But suddenly the boys were not to be found.
During the prayer, Flint had noticed that the stranger was acting particularly agitated. On a hunch, he’d whispered to Jelly Roll to start walking toward the ticket booth, which had been set up at the Hoover Street entrance to the park.
“You think somebody’s going to rob the proceeds?” Jelly Roll had whispered back.
“Why, that’s dastardly!” Chip had hissed. “The proceeds are slated to help out underprivileged Negro children in a neighboring community!”
“And they still will, if we have anything to say about it!” Flint had said.
No sooner had Jelly Roll ambled off than Flint observed that the stranger had noticed him and his eyes widened in consternation. The stranger lost no time in taking off after their stout chum.
“This way!” Flint said to his brother, and they rounded the bandstand and made a beeline for a copse of trees, all the while endeavoring to stay out of the stranger’s line of sight. Once under cover of the foliage, the boys broke into a run and soon emerged near the Hoover Street entrance. Before their horrified eyes they saw Jelly Roll sprawled on the ground, apparently knocked unconscious, and just beyond him Miss Sheets wrestling with three men for possession of the day’s receipts.
Running on the balls of their feet, they made not a sound as they dashed toward the tableau. Just as one of the swarthy man’s companions wrested the lockbox from Miss Sheets’s hands Flint brought him down with a flying tackle. That left the other two, but fortunately for Chip they were grouped closely together and he was able to topple them both with a hook slide. One of his victims, he heard more than saw, smacked his head against the table. As he pounced on the other one he saw Flint’s meaty fist land on his opponent’s jaw. The one below Chip was still squirming, but a rabbit-punch to the thief’s throat took care of that.
Back at the bandstand, Chief Chalk was calling for the boys to step forward for the third time, a puzzled look on his grizzled face. And suddenly they were there. But to everyone’s shocked surprise, they herded before them three dark strangers, all with hands bound behind their backs with their own neckties. Next to them marched Miss Sheets, the cashbox cradled in her arms, and a woozy-looking Jelly Roll Horton, who had nevertheless latched onto a hot dog on the way.
Explanations and congratulations followed, and when Chief Chalk left to cart the three thieves off to the jailhouse, Mrs. Edelweiss, who was in charge of the entertainment that year, called for the games to begin.
The water balloon toss and Hula Hoop contest were first, and the teenagers gathered together to watch their younger siblings participate. The limbo contest was slated next, to be followed by the three-legged race.
“I just don’t understand it!” Pixie Powers said. “Why hasn’t anyone seen Lucy?”
“Oh, haven’t you heard?” said Albie Snow, another of their classmates. Albie, Pixie remembered, was also Lucy’s next-door neighbor.


“Heard what?” Chip said.
“Lucy’s been missing for three days!”
“What’s that you say?” Flint asked intently.
“I’m surprised you hadn’t heard,” Albie said. “I thought for sure Mrs. Diamond would hire you fellows to find her.”
“You mean to say Lucy Diamond has vanished?!” Chip said.
“I thought I’d already said that,” said Albie.
“No wonder I haven’t seen her!” Pixie cried. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Mrs. Diamond, either. The poor dear must be worried sick!”
“I’ll say,” Albie said. “To make matters worse, Lucy was acting quite strange in the days leading up to her disappearance!”
“How so?” Flint demanded, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
“Well, I have that on second hand,” Albie said. “From her mother, in fact. But I know this much for sure. She was dressing really strangely, and she’d let her grooming go entirely!”
“Not a living doll like Lucy!” Jelly Roll said, around a mouthful of wiener.
“I don’t believe it!” Candy said.
“So are we going to take on the case?” asked Jelly Roll.
Flint looked thoughtful, and after a moment shook his head. “We don’t handle cases like that, Jelly.”
“Like what?” Jelly demanded.
Flint fumbled for the right words. “You know the cases we usually work on as well as I do, Jelly. Smuggling operations. Missing Aztec idols. Weird goings-on in abandoned towers and ziggurats. Tracking down a teenaged girl who’s been acting strangely is a whole other ball of wax, best left to adult authorities.”
They all fell silent as Roscoe shambled by, stooping to pick up the three hot dog wrappers discarded by Jelly Roll. They all sensed it wouldn’t be right to talk about poor Lucy’s problems in front of a hired hand. But as soon as Roscoe had moved on, grinning and bobbing his head, Jelly Roll said, “That’s ridiculous, Flint Burly! It’s like I was saying earlier, we’re grown men now. How will we ever be taken seriously if we don’t take ourselves seriously?” Angrily, he yanked the paperback from his back pocket again and brandished it in the air. “Travis McGee wouldn’t hesitate to take on a case like this! In fact, it’s tailor made for him. Lookee here. Right here on the cover it describes him as ‘an amiable and incurable tilter at conformity, a hopeless sucker for starving kittens and women in distress!’ Why can’t we be like that? Why in hell can’t we help out a school chum in distress?”
“He might have a point there, Flint,” said the younger brother.
Flint again looked thoughtful. Finally he said, “We’ll do this. When dad gets home we’ll see what he has to say. That suit you, Jelly?”
“I guess it’ll have to,” Jelly Roll said.
Just then Mrs. Frost announced that the limbo contest was commencing. Flint took Candy’s hand and said, “Ready?”
“You bet I am!” Candy said.
And off they went, ending the discussion for the present.


Click on Older Posts to see Chapter 3!

Chapter Three. Danger Comes to Balmy Bay!

“Yes, I know,” Slate Burly said. “I’m sure Mrs. Diamond must be very concerned.”

Chip gaped open-mouthed at his father. Flint’s reaction, as ever, was less apparent, but he was no less surprised than his brother.

“How long have you known?” Chip asked.

“Mrs. Diamond called the police three nights ago,” Slate said, “when Lucy didn’t get home in time to watch Family Affair. Chief Chalk spoke to me about it the next morning.”

“Then you’re helping the police look for her?” Flint asked.

Slate looked uncomfortable for an instant, then turned back to the book he was reading, a well-worn copy of Modern Methods of Detection. “I don’t think my help is called for in this case,” he said.

“Not called for!” Chip cried. “But whillikers, Dad! You’re one of the best-known private investigators in the country—after having served for years at the ace detective of the Baltimore Police Force—and are famous for all the seemingly unsolvable missing persons cases you’ve cracked!”

Slate looked sharply at him. Too sharply, Chip thought. “That’s very well put, son,” he said slowly. “But not every case of a missing young person is necessarily a mystery. Nor will a detective, no matter how skilled, necessarily be able to help.”

“But we don’t understand, Dad,” Flint said. “How can it not be a mystery when a nifty gal like Lucy Diamond suddenly leaves the hometown she loves?”

Slate closed the book. He looked thoughtful. “Yes,” he said softly. “A mystery indeed. But not in the sense you boys understand.” Then he looked at them again, first Flint and then Chip, but with something in his eyes that looked like a deep sadness. “This is a mystery that even the greatest detective cannot solve.”

“But dad!” Chip said. “We were going to ask you if you thought we should take on the case ourselves!”

“No!” Slate snapped. Then, catching himself, he softened his voice. “Listen, boys, I know how much you want to prove to me that you’re mature and capable enough to become private investigators in your own right—"

“You said it, Dad!” Chip said. “Ever since Flint and I cracked our first case, The Mystery of the Whistling Whirligig, when we were fourteen and thirteen years old respectively, we’ve been trying to convince you that your detective firm should be Burly and Sons!”

“I understand that,” Slate said patiently. “And after you’ve gone to college and grown up a bit more, we’ll discuss it again. But there are some things that are simply not appropriate for boys of your age to investigate.”


Flint nodded soberly. “That’s what I was saying, Dad.”

“Okay, okay!” Chip said. “But gibbering krill, this is one of our classmates who’s disappeared! And one of the keenest girls you’d ever hope to—"

“She was,” Slate said. “I’m sure Lucy was as ‘keen’ as they come, as you youngsters say. But people change, son. Especially these days. I think you should just try to remember your friend as she was.”

“What do you mean, Dad?” Chip asked. His voice was quiet, like a little boy’s.

Slate looked at him for a long time, apparently weighing a great decision in his mind. At last he closed his book, rose up out of his easy chair, and stepped to the window. He gazed at the perfectly even lawn and neat hedges of the Burly home as they glowed in the light of sunset. Across the street old Mrs. Ash tilted a watering can over her roses. The Colgate boy, Skip, zipped past on his paper route. Slate reluctantly turned away from the window and said, “All right. I suppose it’s time you boys learned the truth. You’ve probably heard some mention of it on television or in those pop songs you kids listen to anyway.”

Some of Chip’s favorite songs ran through his head—Happy Together by the Turtles, Sweet Pea by Tommy Roe, Wooly Bully by Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs—but if any held a clue to his Dad’s meaning, he just wasn’t seeing it.

“Whatever it is, Dad,” Flint said, “we can handle it.”

Chip nodded and looked as resolute as he could through his fear.

“The times,” Slate said. “They are changing. And not for the better, I’m afraid. Every day, everywhere, in the best towns and the best families in America, young people are suddenly abandoning everything they’ve held dear and striking out for who knows where. It’s as if they are turning on some deadly device within their minds, tuning in to some strange broadcast the rest of us can’t hear, and dropping out of normal life. Some are swallowed up in the anti-war movement, or phony organizations claiming to defend ‘free speech’ or a ‘democratic society.’ I honestly don’t know where they go, and I don’t know that I want to know. I only know that few go of their own volition. And those who are tracked down and brought home…just don’t seem to fit anymore somehow.”

There was a long silence. At last, Flint asked, “Then you think Lucy is one of those kids?”

“If she had simply disappeared, I wouldn’t be so sure,” Slate said. “But her mother told Chief Chalk that Lucy had been dressing strangely for weeks before her disappearance, and spending time with some peculiar people from out of town. Including a young man who…played the guitar.”

“But who could they be, Dad? What could they be doing to kids like Lucy? How are they tricking them into leaving Balmy Bay?”

Slate fixed his gaze on Flint, and there was a terrible light in his eyes. “There are mighty forces out there, son. I’m sure you’ve heard them whispered about. Forces devoted to undermining our American way of life. Infiltration, propaganda, and brainwashing are only a few of the tools they have mastered in order to carry out their ends. Our brave agents in the FBI and CIA are doing all they can to counter their efforts, but there’s a limit to what they can do—since our side is committed to honesty and legality in all our tactics.”

“Whillikers,” Chip said. “It’s almost like there’s a disadvantage to being the good guy!”

“You could argue that,” Slate said. “But the rewards of hewing to the strait and narrow are well worth the cost. You wouldn’t want to be like them, would you?”

“But what can we do against such forces, Dad?” Flint asked. “How do we protect kids like Lucy?”

“Vigilance,” Slate said. “And a willingness to expose evil whenever you see it. These groups always hide behind the same sorts of disguises. ‘Peace’ movements. Political agitators. Chemical gurus. College organizations that aren’t fraternities, sororities, or sports teams. Couples cohabiting out of wedlock. Folk music.”

“But there’s nothing we can do for Lucy now?” Chip asked.

“There is one thing you can do,” Slate said. He stepped up to his sons and put a hand on the shoulder of each. He paused for a moment, looking from one to the other. Then he said, “You can pray, boys. You can pray.”

***

After praying, the boys decided they needed to get out of the house to clear their heads. Although their father’s talk had sobered them, and they’d put away all thoughts of investigating the Lucy Diamond disappearance, both felt subtly troubled in ways they couldn’t identify. Chip suggested that they go see their girls and talk about the sock-hop, but Flint pointed out that they’d already talked to their girls about the sock-hop all day. Flint suggested that they drop in on one of their friends, like Jelly Roll Horton or Buff Powers or Vinnie Frito, and this time it was Chip who reminded his brother that they’d spent ample time with each of the aforementioned chums at the picnic. Finally they decided to just take their motor bikes for a spin.

But before they could make their exit they were confronted by their Aunt Hortense. “Why the long faces?” she bellowed. Aunt Hortense had a voice like a bullhorn, which caused people meeting her for the first time to think her ill-tempered. Yet in reality she was a kindly old maid, and very solicitous of her nephews’ well being.

Flint shrugged. “Dad just talked us out of taking a case, is all.”

“Well, father knows best,” Aunt Hortense said. “But where are you restless jitterbugs off to now? You’d think you’d be all done in after the way you cavorted at the picnic.”

“We’re just taking the motor bikes for a spin, Aunt Hortense,” Chip said.

“Well, don’t be gone too long, unless you’re not interested in trying some of my fresh-baked cherry pie.”

“Stuttering magpies!” Chip cried. “Fresh cherry pie!”

“You bet we won’t be gone long!” Flint said.

True to their word, the boys kept their ride short. They took the Old Coast Road south, but turned back when they reached the bridge over Smoky Creek, only a few miles out of town. Ordinarily, they were vigilant motorists, but the wind in their faces, the lowering red ball of the sun, and the wavelets lapping on the shore lulled their senses.

Neither noticed the black car until it was too late. Flint, in fact, didn’t notice anything until he happened to glance to his left and saw his brother’s bike veer off the road and carom off the hillside. It took a moment for the fact that the bike was riderless to penetrate his mind. Finally he heard a whoosh and felt a blast of air as a black car passed him on his right, barreling along at a good seventy-mile-an-hour clip. Flint turned in time to see the driver glance over his shoulder at him, a man wearing dark sunglasses.

A moment later the car vanished around a curve in the road. Finally, Flint slammed on his brakes and turned to see what had become of his brother, a lump lodged in his throat. But the first thing he saw was Chip lifting himself off the road, apparently none the worse for wear. As Flint tooled back his brother was brushing angrily at his slacks and v-neck sweater.

“Flappin’ flapjacks!” Chip said. “That guy clipped me as he shot past!”

“And he didn’t even have the decency to stop,” Flint said. “You all right?”

“I’m fine. But, golly, I hope my bike isn’t busted!”

A little paint had been scraped off the rear fender, but other than that the bike seemed to be undamaged.

“What say we try to head that guy off?” Flint suggested, a grim look darkening his visage.

“You mean go over the hill? Sounds good to me!”

Although the hills bordering the western edge of the Old Coast Road were quite steep, the boys had often tackled the ascent on their motor bikes. They did so now, and after following the curve of the crest for a couple of minutes, they spotted the black car in the distance just as it was entering the town of Balmy Bay proper. Keeping their quarry in sight, they proceeded to fly down the far slope, having cut the black car’s lead significantly by the judicious use of this shortcut. When they had jolted back to ground level they momentarily lost sight of the black car. Putting on a burst of speed, they raced up Harding Boulevard, slowing slightly at each intersection to peer up and down the street.

Finally, at the third one, they spotted their baby. They spun a left onto Dulles Avenue just as the car was making a sharp right.

Suddenly Flint was holding up his hand, motioning for Chip to slow down. “He turned up Coolidge Avenue!” Flint cried. “Lucy’s street!”

“What the heck?” said Chip.

The boys screeched to a stop just shy of the intersection. Leaving their bikes parked at the curb, they edged to the corner and squatted down behind a parked car, from which they commanded a view of Coolidge Avenue. The black car, they saw, had pulled to a stop right in front of Lucy’s house.

“Your hunch was right!” Chip said.

“Maybe he’s one of Lucy’s new friends that dad was telling us about,” Flint said.

“Wouldn’t surprise me a bit,” Chip said. “They sound like the sort of people who would knock a teenager off his motor bike!”

But then the man in the dark sunglasses was climbing out of his car and the boys were forced to revise their opinions. Decked out in a natty black suit and glistening black shoes, his stride bold and imperious, he exuded an air of power and authority.

“Hmm,” Flint said. “He doesn’t look like any college student I’ve ever seen.”

“Or like any folk singer I ever saw on Hullabaloo,” Chip said. “I wonder. Could there be more to this than even Dad suspects?”

“You really think so?” Chip said, clearly troubled by the possibility. “Jumpin’ jeepers, I can’t ever remember dad being wrong!”

They watched the man approach the Diamond residence. He cut across the lawn toward the front door, but suddenly veered left and, after casting a furtive glance up and down the street, made straight for the side yard. The boys watched in stupefaction as he disappeared around the far side of the house.

“What in Sam hill?” Chip cried. “Do you think he’s a burglar?”

“Don’t know,” Flint said, his brow beetling. “But I think it’s time we had a little talk with this man in black, whoever he is.”

As one, the boys broke into a run and the made for the side yard of the Diamond residence. When they rounded the corner, however, their quarry was nowhere to be seen. They sped down the side of the house and emerged in the back yard. Once again, there was no sign of the man in black.

They were pondering where to look next when they heard the sound of a car engine starting up front.

“C’mon!” Flint yelled.

They rounded the front of the house just in time to see the black car screeching around a corner.

“He gave us the slip!” said Chip.

“Yes,” Flint agreed. “But what I want to know is, what could he have wanted with the Diamonds?!”