“This is mood all right,” Joe said. He set up his tripod and filmed the swirling waters.
Evan said, “I think we could get better shots from high above. Look, there’s a trail going to the top.”
Chet had already started up, and the others followed. The way was steep and rocky, running parallel to the falls which cut a swath through the heavily wooded hillside.
At the foot of the top cascade was a large shallow basin which sloped slightly downward and was dotted with big boulders. Evan jumped nimbly from one to the other until he reached the far side. There he set up his camera.
Chet climbed to one of the boulders in the middle of the rushing water. Perched up high, he had a dizzying view of the two cascades plunging below him to the valley.
Meanwhile, Frank and Joe ventured a little higher on the trail. From Frank’s vantage point, he had a clear shot of almost the entire falls. As his camera began to whir, Joe suddenly cried out, “Look out, Frank!”
A rock, hurled from somewhere above, missed Frank’s head by inches. It continued down the gorge and scored a solid hit on Chet’s camera!
CHAPTER IV
Trailed by an Amazon
THE camera fell from Chet’s hands into the swift-running water. He jumped in and began groping for it. But his fingers clutched only slippery stones. Suddenly his feet shot from under him. He fell and was swept toward the edge of the basin! Wildly he grasped at a rock and slid off. A foot from the drop-off he gave a desperate lurch, wedging himself between two boulders.
In a moment Evan had leaped to his assistance. Both boys worked their way to the side of the falls where Frank and Joe helped them onto the bank.
“That was pretty close,” Frank said soberly.
Chet managed to catch his breath. “Who threw the rock?” he asked. “Did you see it?”
“No. It came from over our heads. Somebody farther up the trail must have heaved it.”
Chet removed his shirt and wrung it out. He looked at Frank from the corner of his eye. “Do you suspect that Saffel did it?”
“It’s possible,” Frank said. “We’ll have to check him out.”
“I think it was somebody from Twister Gerrold’s mob,” Joe said.
They hastened back to Hunt, where some of the students had already arrived with their mood films.
“Let’s have your work,” Jeff said, “and we’ll send it out for rushes.”
“I don’t have any,” Chet said, and told Riker what had happened.
“That’s too bad. There’s a camera shop in town. Perhaps you could rent some equipment.”
At dinner that evening the Hardys made discreet inquiries regarding Saffel. A girl told Joe that Leon had been photographing ducks in the river. But she did not know whether he had spent all afternoon there. Neither did anyone else.
Next morning Jeff continued his lecture on the first motion pictures. “Film was dangerous in the old days,” he said, “because it was made of volatile nitrate. One film, in a vault in Argentina, exploded and blew the whole place apart. In fact, just moving a can of nitrate film could cause it to explode.”
He continued, “But now we have a triple acetate, or safety film. The manufacturers say it has a life span of four hundred years.”
Riker explained that nitrate stock could be copied on acetate, but that it was costly and time consuming. “The old Charlie Chaplin films have been copied that way, and they’re still very popular.”
The boys returned to their room after the lecture. Joe unlocked the door with his key, then stopped short and exclaimed, “Look at this! The place is a mess!”
The others crowded in to see the torn-up condition of their quarters. Desks and chairs had been knocked over. Clothes that had been pulled from dresser drawers were strewn about the floor. Two study lamps lay broken.
“Here’s how the prowler got in,” Frank said, pointing to the open window.
“The cameras!” Evan said. “What happened to our cameras?”
The boys found their equipment where they had left it, safely tucked away in a closet.
“If the intruder was here to steal something, he certainly missed the only thing that was worth a lot,” Frank said.
The Hardys scoured the room for clues. When nothing turned up, Joe stepped out the window onto a brick ledge and dropped down to the ground. There he found footprints. Most were indistinct, but one set of toe prints told him that the intruder had sprung up to grasp the ledge before hoisting himself into the room.
“The place is a mess!” Joe exclaimed.
Joe searched to the right and left. Suddenly an object lying under a low bush caught his eye. He pulled out a white work glove. On it was a smudge of black paint. He climbed back into the room and showed it to the others.
“Maybe the guy wore gloves,” Chet said, “so as not to leave fingerprints.”
“But why the black smudge?” Evan asked.
“He might have used them for a paint job,” Frank conjectured.
The boys checked and found nothing missing. “Maybe the fellow wasn’t a thief,” said Joe. “This could be malicious mischief.”
The Hardys reported the vandalism to the school authorities, who notified the campus police.
The boys straightened their room and after lunch drove into town to find the camera shop.
Frank pulled into a parking lot and they walked along the quaint business section, looking into display windows.
Chet glanced over his shoulder and whispered, “Frank, I think somebody is trailing us.”
The quartet lingered in front of a sports shop and looked back to see a tall girl wearing a sweat shirt, dungarees, and sneakers. She had a winsome face, short auburn hair, and large hips. In her right hand she carried a shopping bag.
The girl stopped and looked the other way until the boys moved on. Then she followed again.
Chet said jokingly, “I think she’s got a thing for you, Joe. Maybe she’s just too bashful to speak up!”
“Well, there’s one way to find out,” Joe said. He turned and walked toward the girl. “Is there something we can do for you?” he asked.
She nodded with downcast eyes. “I—I guess I’m a little nervous. I don’t usually talk to strangers.”
“Don’t worry about us,” Joe said. “We’re perfectly harmless. I’m Joe Hardy. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the others.”
Joe walked ahead of her and said, “Fellows, this is—?”
“Thelma Sanger,” she said. “I live here. My father has a farm outside of town.”
Chet brightened. “My family has a farm too! What do you raise?”
“Corn, potatoes, tomatoes, and some tobacco.”
Frank said, “Thelma, we’re taking the film-making course at the college.”
“I know,” she said. “That’s what I want to talk to you about.”
Joe noticed a park across the street and he suggested they all go there and sit on the grass.
When they were settled under a shady elm tree, Frank began, “Now tell us, Thelma, how do you know we’re taking the film course?”
“I was watching you at the falls.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I followed you up the trail, because I wanted to find out what you were doing.”
“We didn’t see you,” Evan said.
“I was sort of hiding,” the girl said shyly and looked at Chet. “I saw what happened.”
“To my camera?”
“Yes. I think I heard a man sneaking off into the woods. But—well, it might have been a deer.”
“I’m glad you told us about it,” Frank said. “Why didn’t you talk to us right then and there?”
“I don’t know. I guess I didn’t have the nerve.” She looked at Chet again. “I know all about the falls. I’ve explored them since I was a little girl.” She put a hand in her shopping bag and pulled out a camera.
Chet looked dumbfounded. “Hey, that’s mine! Where did you get it?”
“When you l
eft, I climbed into the basin where you dropped it. I found it between the rocks.”
“Thanks! That’s great! I guess the film’s ruined, but otherwise it doesn’t look too bad.”
“Let’s take it into the camera shop,” Frank suggested. “They can check it out.”
They all trooped across the street and entered the shop. The proprietor examined the camera carefully. He noticed a dent in the housing, but the lens, spring-wind motor, and shutter were undamaged.
“Thanks again, Thelma,” Chet said. “Can I get you a reward? Something like a chocolate soda?”
“Yes, I’d like that.”
As they started up the street Frank said, “Chet, you go on with Thelma. We’ll see you back at school.”
“Okay.” Chet waved gaily and the two entered a soda shop.
Frank, Joe, and Evan got into the car, drove around a monument in the center of town, and headed over the bridge toward Hunt College.
At the entrance to the campus they passed Jeff Riker driving in the opposite direction. There was a screeching of brakes, then he backed up.
“Hi, fellows,” he called out. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“What’s up?” Joe asked.
“Oh, just an idea I had that might help you. I’ll tell you later. Suppose I come to your room after dinner tonight?”
“Fine,” Frank said and drove on.
Chet arrived just before dinner. He had thumbed a ride back to school and met Frank and Joe who were strolling across the campus. They had left Evan reading in the lounge.
Chet was smiling, and patted his stomach with satisfaction.
“Did you enjoy your soda?” Frank said.
“You bet. All three of them. And brother, can Thelma pack ‘em away! She kept up with me!”
“Yes, I would say she looks well-fed,” Joe said. “Does she play tackle or guard on the high school team?”
“Cut it out,” said Chet. “She may be big, but she sure has personality. Besides, she likes me!”
Banter about Chet’s new girl friend continued through the dinner hour. When they finally left the cafeteria, Jeff Riker joined them. They went to their dorm and closed the door. The four boys sprawled on the two lower bunks, while Riker straddled a straight-back chair.
“I think I can help you locate a clue to The Persian Glory,” he began.
“How?” Joe asked.
“There’s an old film actress living in New York named Betty Love. Her hobby is collecting movie posters from way back. If she has one about The Persian Glory, it might list the names of the actors, producers, and writers. If any of those old-timers are still living, they might give you some kind of clue.”
“Great!” Frank said. “By contacting them we could perhaps learn who has a copy of the film.”
“Precisely.”
“Do you know Betty Love’s address?”
Jeff nodded. “When you met me on the road I was going to the telephone company office. I found her name and address in a Manhattan directory.”
“Suppose we go see her tomorrow!” Evan said enthusiastically. “It’s Sunday, and we won’t miss any classes.”
“Why not?” Frank said. “The sooner the better.”
Footsteps sounded in the hall and disappeared as the boys discussed their plans. Suddenly Evan put a finger to his lips. “Listen!”
There was a rustling noise outside the door.
Frank got up, quietly turned the knob, then suddenly flung the door open.
Leon Saffel fell into the room!
CHAPTER V
Tricky Leon
SAFFEL fell to the floor, then scrambled to his feet, red-faced.
“Welcome to our room,” Joe said. “Why didn’t you knock?”
“I know why,” Chet said. “He had his ear to the keyhole.”
“That’s not true!” Saffel protested. “I was just about to knock when the door opened.”
“All right, cut the baloney,” Frank said. “What do you want?”
“I want to talk to Jeff.” Saffel admitted that he had seen the Hardys and the instructor leaving the cafeteria together.
Riker seemed more amused than annoyed. “Okay, Saffel, what is it?”
“You know I’ve got connections,” Leon replied. “I know where we can get those rushes done very cheap.”
“We already have a good film lab,” Jeff said. “Even if I could get a lower price, I wouldn’t want to change at this point.”
Saffel shrugged. “I’m only trying to help.”
“Thanks just the same,” Jeff said as Saffel left.
“Why is he spying on you?” Riker asked the Hardys. “Do you have any idea?”
Evan told of the unpleasant scene at the airport. “I don’t think he likes us because of that,” he said.
“But that wouldn’t explain the eavesdropping,” Jeff said with a frown.
“’He’s trying to harass us for some unknown reason, perhaps,” Joe said, and told about their room being ransacked.
“I don’t like to see things of this sort going on at Hunt,” Jeff said. “If there’s any more trouble, please let me know.”
“Roger!” said Frank. “Thanks for the information about Betty Love. We’ll fly to New York and talk with her.”
“I’ll come with you,” Evan offered.
“Me too,” said Chet. “I’d rather stay here and shoot some film, but I don’t want to be the only one.”
“But you’ll have Thelma,” Joe needled.
Evan rubbed his chin. “Okay, Chet, we’ll both stay. But, Frank, can’t we help in some way?”
“Sure,” Frank said. “See what Saffel’s up to. And remember, lock the room and the window when you leave.”
“Just as Aunt Gertrude told us,” Joe added with a wry grin.
The next morning the Hardys rose first. “We’re off to see Lady Love,” Frank said. “Dress neatly, Joe.”
Chet rolled over in his bunk, rubbed his eyes, and sat up on one elbow. “Quit kidding me about my lady love,” he said.
The Hardys laughed and Frank threw a pillow at Chet. “Down, boy. We’re not talking about your Thelma.”
Evan was awake by now and wished the Hardys good luck.
The boys said good-by, drove to the nearby airport, and parked the car. Their flight would leave in half an hour and return from La Guardia Airport early in the afternoon.
They picked up their tickets, had a quick breakfast, and boarded the plane. Soon they were winging over the green countryside.
The pilot set his course along the Hudson River, which glistened like a silver ribbon. But near New York City, the atmosphere became cloudy.
When the buildings of Manhattan loomed out of the haze, Frank checked the address which Jeff had given him.
“Let’s take a taxi direct from the airport,” he suggested.
On the way to the city, the driver was talkative.
“That address is in a good neighborhood,” he said. “Nice old brownstone houses. You gonna visit your grandmother?”
“How did you know?” Joe asked.
“A lot of nice elderly ladies live in them buildings,” the driver replied. “Most of ‘em have dogs. They gotta be careful. Lots of burglaries around here.”
The taxi stopped in front of a quaint building. The boys paid the driver, mounted the front steps, and Frank pushed the button under the name B. Love.
Soon a buzzer sounded and the Hardys entered. Halfway down the hall a door opened a crack, and a high, trilling voice said, “Who’s there?”
It was accompanied by the sharp barking of a dog.
Frank announced who they were and that they would like to talk about old movie posters. The dog yapped some more and Miss Love commanded silence. “Are you from Hunt College?” she asked.
The boys were taken aback. “Yes,” Joe said. “But how—?”
“Come on in,” she interrupted. “Greta won’t hurt you.”
The door opened wide to reveal a fragile woman. Betty Lo
ve’s face still retained traces of the beauty of her youth. She was short, prim, with fading blond hair and a small straight nose.
Greta proved to be a saucy Pekingese. She sniffed the boys’ trouser legs, then curled up on a velvet hassock and eyed them suspiciously.
“Have a seat,” Miss Love said cordially. “This Is just the strangest coincidence. An hour ago I sold a number of my posters to a very nice young man. He was also from Hunt College. Why do you look so startled?”
Frank tried to gain his composure, “We were looking for The Persian Glory. Did you—?”
“Yes. That was among them. Are you the young man’s friends?”
“Was he tall, blond, and a little on the heavy side?”
“Oh, yes. And he had such delightful manners. He was so fond of Greta—even guessed she was named for Garbo.” The actress petted the dog. “His name was Segal—Oh no, Sapphire—”
“You mean Saffel? Leon Saffel?” Joe spoke up.
“Yes, that’s it. He’s already a film director and intends to produce a spectacular.”
“That sounds like him,” Frank muttered. “Well, we were trying to find an authentic Greek helmet used in that old movie. We don’t know what it looks like. And now—”
“Persian Glory was one of the finest,” Betty Love said. “In fact, it was my very favorite. I played the princess.”
“Then you remember the director?” Joe said.
“Certainly,” the actress said. She knew not only the director, but the entire cast and the production people.
As Frank made notes, Miss Love rattled off name after name, then gave a big sigh and let her hand fall limply into her lap. “That was yesteryear, I’m afraid. Only one person from all of those is still alive.”
“Who’s that?” Joe asked eagerly.
“Buster Buckles.”
“Oh, we know about him,” Joe said. “His movies are being revived right now. Can you tell us where he lives? Maybe he has a copy of the film.”
Betty Love laughed and her hands fluttered. “Oh, that’s impossible,” she said. “There are no more copies of The Persian Glory. But Buster—I think you might find out something about him from Actors Equity, even though he’s retired.”
She jotted down the name, address, and phone number. “They keep tabs on those old-timers,” she said.
The Shattered Helmet Page 3