The Arctic Patrol Mystery by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

light covering of snow.
    â€œLook sharp,” the pilot said, “and let me know if you see any polar bears.”
    â€œPolar bears?” Frank asked. “I didn’t know there were any in Iceland.”
    â€œUsually not,” the man replied. He explained that the winter had been severe, causing a huge tongue of ice to extend from Greenland around the north coast of Iceland. It curved down along the eastern shore of the country.
    â€œSeveral polar bears were carried down on the ice and they climbed onto our island. One has been caught, but some are still roaming around, as far as the west coast. They have killed sheep, and one farmer had to flee for his life.”
    Frank and Joe kept looking for bears, but all they saw were several small settlements with sod huts and flocks of sheep grazing on the greening pastures.
    Every now and then the boys spotted small ponies. When they questioned the pilot, he said, “Ponies used to be our chief means of transportation. We still use them a lot here. Icelandic ponies are strong and durable.”
    The north coast came into view and the airman pointed to a bay that cut deep inland. “There’s Akureyri!”
    Shortly afterward, he landed the craft in a field not far from the center of town, and the boys got out.
    â€œGood luck to you,” the pilot said, waving good-by. “I’ll make a report to the coast guard in Reykjavik.”
    First, Frank and Joe found a drugstore where they purchased shaving equipment. The next stop was a small hotel, where they registered, cleaned up, and had breakfast in their room.
    Tired out from their harrowing experience, they decided to sleep for a couple of hours. But when they awakened, it was already growing dark.
    Frank was annoyed with himself. “We should have had the clerk buzz us earlier,” he said.
    â€œWell,” Joe replied, stretching luxuriously, “Rex Hallbjornsson probably works, and wouldn’t have been home anyhow.”
    The boys ate supper in the hotel dining room, then set out to find the elusive Icelander. His address was a small one-family house, made of aging brick and plaster, with a steep corrugated roof. It was located on a side street, across from a fish factory.
    As they approached, Frank held his nose. “Phew!” he said. “They must be making fertilizer in there!”
    Joe knocked and the door was opened by a middle-aged woman, who spoke fairly good English. Yes, Hallbjornsson lived there, she said, adding that another American had been looking for him, too.
    â€œAnother?” Frank asked, perplexed.
    â€œYes, come this way,” the landlady said, disregarding his query, and ushered the boys down the hall into a small room. Seated in a well-worn easy chair beside a small cot was a man, completely bald. His blue eyes blinked as he stared at the callers.
    â€œWe’re Frank and Joe Hardy,” Frank said. “Are you Rex Hallbjornsson?”
    â€œJa.” In halting English, Hallbjornsson said he was both excited and glad to see the boys. He motioned for them to sit on his cot, then made a quick phone call in a foreign tongue.
    When he returned, Frank said, “We understand you’re a seaman.”
    â€œYou were shipwrecked, too,” Joe added. “Pretty lucky man to be alive.”
    Hallbjornsson nodded and proceeded to tell them a long story about his travels to Europe. None of the details agreed with the information their father had given them. And the man did not have the weather-beaten face of a sailor.
    â€œI was shipwrecked in Spain,” he went on, “and hit my head on the gunwale of the rescue boat. Then I had—what do you say?—amnesia. For five years I wandered, until one day in Turkey—”
    â€œThat was when you worked for the Greek shipping company,” Joe put in, embroidering the man’s false tale.
    â€œJa. You know about that?”
    Frank nodded and pursued Joe’s tack.