TELEPHONE CODE
As he regained consciousness, Tom's eyes fluttered open. Sparks of pain
shot through his head. A groan escaped his lips.
"Oo-o! What hit me?" Tom wondered.
He was lying on a sofa in a strange room. Someone was seated nearby,
watching him. Tom tried to move his limbs and sit up. Then he discovered
that his wrists and ankles were tied with sash cord.
"Better lie still, sonny boy," a gruff voice advised. "You ain't goin'
nowhere."
The man who had spoken got up from his chair and came over to the sofa.
He was of medium height, very muscular looking, with cold, glittering
eyes. Rolled-up shirt sleeves revealed his powerful, hairy arms.
"Where am I?" Tom asked, suddenly remembering the events on the road
before he blacked out. "And what's this all about?"
The man said with a mirthless grin, "You're a prisoner. And you're goin'
to stay here until the cops let Dimitri Mirov go. It's up to you how
fast they spring him."
The huge man lifted a telephone from an end table adjoining the sofa and
set it on the floor alongside Tom.
"Here's a phone. Go ahead and use it, but don't try any funny stuff."
In spite of his headache, Tom's brain was racing. What to do now? He
shut his eyes and screwed up his face in an expression of pain,
pretending to be still groggy while he stalled for time to figure out
his next move.
"How can _I_ get Mirov out of jail?" Tom faltered.
"You figure it out!" the man snarled. "And you'd better get results if
you want to stay healthy!"
Through half-slitted eyes, Tom noted the telephone number printed on the
dial. Evidently his captor had not thought to remove it from the
instrument. A lucky break!
If only, Tom thought, he could devise some way to transmit the number to
Ames without arousing his captor's suspicion--the phone's location could
then be traced!
What about some sort of double-talk code? For instance, Tom told
himself, keep slipping numbers into the conversation in order to
transmit the digits of the telephone number. Would Ames catch on?
The number shown was BArwick 3-7156. BA on the dial would be the same as
"2, 2."
"Come on! Quit stalling!" the man said threateningly.
"How can I dial with my hands tied?" Tom objected.
"I'll do the dialing, wise guy!"
He lifted the phone from its cradle and extended it to his prisoner. Tom
told him the Enterprises number, then asked for Ames's extension as the
switchboard operator answered. A moment later the security chief's voice
came over the line.
"Ames speaking."
"This is Tom Jr., Harlan." His captor bent close to the receiver as Tom
replied, in order to overhear what was being said. "I've been thinking,"
the young inventor went on, "that it might be smart to have Mirov
released."
"_Released!_" Ames gasped in surprise. "But why, skipper?"
"Well ... er ... as a good-will gesture," Tom said. "I think it might
prevent future trouble with the Brungarians, don't you?"
"I do not!" Ames exploded. "The idea sounds crazy!"
"I don't think it's _too_ crazy or _too_ risky," Tom argued. By
emphasizing the words, he hoped to impress them on Ames's mind.
[Illustration: _"Come on! Quit stalling," the man threatened_]
Tom's tone of voice and the farfetched nature of what he was saying had
already triggered the security chief's suspicions. "Where are you
calling from?" Ames asked after a tense pause.
"Shopton," Tom replied. "I just drove in for a haircut." With a chuckle,
he added, "Haven't had one in _three_ months. That's a whole _week_
longer than I usually go!"
Would Ames understand that by "week" he meant _seven_ days?... "_It's
the best I can do_," Tom thought.
"Look, skipper, are you sure you want Mirov let out?" Ames said slowly.
"I still think it's unwise."
"Consider it an order!" Tom snapped. "This is _one_ thing I insist upon,
Harlan. Shouldn't take more than _five_ or _six_ hours, should it, even
if he has to wire the Brungarian Embassy to put up bail?"
"It can probably be handled faster than that--if he has any friends
around town," Ames said.
Tom took the cue. "Could be," he replied meaningfully.
Tom's captor snatched the phone away and slammed it back on the hook.
"All right, smart boy! That's enough!" he growled, glaring at Tom.
Back at Enterprises, Ames hung up thoughtfully. Tom's reply to his last
question about Mirov having "friends around town" had convinced Ames
that the young inventor was a prisoner, speaking under duress. Moreover,
it had seemed as if someone else's breathing was faintly audible in the
background, close to the phone.
_But what message had Tom tried to convey?_
As a routine security-department precaution, Ames's phone was connected
to a recorder which automatically taped all calls. Now, while he
pondered the problem, Ames pressed a foot-treadle switch to play back
the conversation.
Meanwhile, Tom and his captor waited tensely. From time to time the
latter glanced at his watch. "Better hope that call does the trick,
Swift," he muttered. "It's the only hope you got of leavin' here alive!"
"How will you know if they've turned Mirov loose?" Tom asked. He was
wondering if he might persuade his captor to let him make a second call.
"Don't worry. Mirov knows how to contact me."
Half an hour dragged by--then forty minutes. Suddenly the door buzzer
rang sharply. The man jerked to attention, obviously startled. He
glanced at Tom, then toward the direction of the sound, moistening his
lips nervously.
"He must have been expecting just a phone call," Tom decided.
The buzzer shrilled again. This time the man got up from his chair,
gagged Tom hastily with a handkerchief, and went to the door.
"Who's there?" he asked loudly.
"Mirov! Let me in, Duffy!" replied an accented voice from outside.
With a look of relief, Duffy started to open the door--then froze as he
saw not only Mirov, but two police officers and Ames accompanying him.
"Are you the one who's going to put up bail?" one of the officers
demanded.
Duffy floundered, scenting danger but unable to pick up any clue from
Mirov's face. "Why--uh--yeah, maybe. How much is it?"
"Ten million! Can you raise it?" Ames snapped sarcastically.
As Duffy gaped in confusion, the officers suddenly flung their weight
forward. The door flew open and Duffy was thrown back, almost losing his
balance. Beyond, through the small vestibule, Ames caught a glimpse of
Tom on the sofa.
"There he is!" Ames shouted.
Moments later, Tom was untied. Mirov and Duffy were handcuffed together.
The young inventor shook hands joyfully with his rescuers. "Nice going,
Harlan! Boy, I was sweating icicles here, wondering if you'd be able to
decipher all my double talk!"
"You made the numbers clear enough," the security chief said with a
grin, "but it took a while to guess what they stood for. And then, of
course, we had to trace the address through the telephone company."
Eying the ugly bruise on Tom's forehead, Ames added, "Sure you're all
right?"
"Right now I feel swell!" Tom declared, chuckling. He told of his
kidnaping, while one of the officers took down the details.
The prisoners were taken off to jail in the police squad car. Tom and
Ames, meanwhile, in the security chief's high-powered sedan, drove to
the scene of Tom's capture.
They found his sports car badly damaged. The right side was wedged
against the utility pole, which was leaning at a crazy angle.
Ames whistled and shook his head. "Boy! You're lucky you got off with
just a bruise, Tom!"
"You're telling me," the young inventor agreed ruefully.
After calling a repair garage to send out a wrecker, they drove to the
Swifts' home. Mrs. Swift and Sandy, previously unaware of Tom's plight,
were horrified to hear what had happened. The sight of Tom's bruise also
upset them.
Tom did his best to allay their concern, but finally allowed himself to
be hustled up to bed. Dr. Emerson, the Swifts' family physician, was
immediately summoned to the house. He pronounced the bruise not serious,
but advised that Tom remain quiet, at least for the rest of the day.
Bud came to visit the young inventor that evening, just as Sandy was
bringing up a tray. On it was a sizzling T-bone steak.
"Wow! Wish I could have that kind of service," Bud said jokingly. Then
he became serious. "I'd sure like to meet that creep who snagged you,
Tom. What a fiendish trick! You realize you might have been killed?"
"I realize it, all right," Tom said wryly.
The next morning Tom felt no ill effects from his grim adventure and
insisted upon driving to Enterprises. He phoned Admiral Walter, whose
report was bleak--the searchers had still gleaned no trace of the buried
missile.
Refusing to be discouraged by the news, or lack of news, Tom went to his
private laboratory and applied himself once again to the problem of
building an "invisible" submarine. But again success eluded him.
At last Tom shook his head in disgust. "May as well get that haircut I
started out for yesterday," he decided.
Before leaving, Tom phoned Phyl Newton to thank her for the gift of
fruit and nuts she had brought over the previous evening after learning
of his dangerous experience. They chatted for a while and wound up by
making a date for lunch.
Tom drove back to town in the family car and got a haircut. Then he
picked up Phyl at her home and took her to the yacht club. Here they
lunched on the terrace overlooking the sparkling blue waters of Lake
Carlopa.
The young inventor's spirits were high when he finally returned to his
laboratory and buckled down to work.
"I'll lick this problem yet," he muttered. "Those enemies of ours are
clever, but if they can produce an undetectable sub, there's no reason
why I can't do the same."
Deep in thought, Tom idly fingered a microphone on his workbench.
"In fact," the young inventor mused, "why not go them one better? I'll
invent a submarine that's not only invisible to sonar, but equipped to
_see them_!"