The Shattered Helmet

by Franklin W. Dixon

  On the outskirts of town, the boys made inquiries at several gas stations, but nobody had heard of Buster Buckles.

  “I guess only the old-timers know about him,” Joe said. “Before we go any farther, how about some chow? There’s a diner over there and I’m starved.”

  Frank and Evan were, too, and they pulled into the diner’s parking lot. Several trucks were standing in front.

  “Maybe we can find out some scuttlebutt about Buster here,” Joe suggested as they went inside.

  Over steaming plates of stew and crusty bread, the young adventurers relaxed. They asked the waitress about Buckles, but she knew nothing. However, a rancher in a sombrero who had overheard the question said that he had seen Buckles camping near his spread.

  “Where is that, sir?” Joe asked.

  The man smiled and shook his head. “It wouldn’t do you any good if I told you. Buster’s not there now. He just up and disappeared. I was hoping he’d stay a little longer. He’s quite a character.”

  The boys thanked the rancher and started on their apple pie a la mode when suddenly a patron sitting next to the window pointed and cried out, “Stop! You’ll run right over them!”

  CHAPTER IX

  The Disappearing Act

  PATRONS craned at the window to see what was happening. A husky man in a red plaid shirt exclaimed, “That’s my truck! What’s going on?” He made a dash for the door.

  By this time the boys had caught a glimpse of what was happening. A huge trailer truck was backing up to where their cycles were parked.

  “Oh, no!” Joe cried out. “Stop it!”

  The three motorcycles were knocked down and the wheels of the huge truck passed over them with a metallic crunch!

  Customers jumped up and rushed to the door, all trying to get out at the same time for a look at the destruction.

  “Get that guy!” someone called.

  “Where’d he go?”

  When the Hardys reached the truck, nobody was in it. The man in the red shirt looked at the damage to the motorcycles and shook his head. “Now who’d do a thing like that?”

  “I’d like to know, too,” Frank muttered. “These are our bikes!”

  Introductions were made. The trucker’s name was Tim. “It was done on purpose!” he said. “But I still have the keys.” He hefted them in his big hand. “The guy must have been a clever lock-picker.”

  “Oh, oh,” Evan said. “That sounds like Mr. Cole.”

  The boys questioned witnesses, but none of them had had a good look at the culprit, although all agreed that he was a small man.

  Joe pressed through the crowd to a phone booth and called the police. Shortly afterward, a patrol car pulled up with an officer wearing a wide-brimmed hat. He asked questions and took notes.

  “Do you have any enemies?” he said to the Hardys.

  “A few,” Frank replied.

  “Who are they?”

  The boys looked at each other. Enemies indeed. They seemed to have more than a few.

  Frank continued as spokesman. “We had trouble with a motorcycle gang, the Monsters, after we beat them in a hill-climbing race.”

  “I know them,” the patrolman replied. “They haven’t been around here today. Who else?”

  Frank briefly told about their harassment by Kitten Cole. “My guess is he flew out here after us.”

  “And there seems to be a mysterious Greek who’s in the act, too,” added Joe.

  After Frank gave descriptions of the men, the patrolman said he would be on the lookout for them. But he doubted whether he could press charges.

  “It’s only your guess that they did it,” he said. “We don’t have any witnesses to the act. All we know is that a man jumped out of the truck and disappeared before anyone got a good look at him.”

  “We realize that,” Joe said, adding, “Is there a place in town where we can get these bikes repaired?”

  The officer recommended a cycle shop operated by two young proprietors. “Their place is open late,” he said.

  Tim offered his sympathy. “I feel real bad about this,” he said, “since it was my truck that caused the damage.”

  “It wasn’t any fault of yours,” Frank said.

  “Well, anyway, I’ll help you pick up the pieces and haul ‘em to the repair shop. Here, give me a hand with this bike.”

  Together they lifted the wrecked motorcycles onto the truck. Then Tim climbed up behind the wheel. Evan joined him in the cab, while Frank and Joe rode in the back.

  Tim said, “Some guys want to stop you from going wherever you’re going.”

  “Well, they won’t!” Evan said emphatically and the Hardys smiled at his determination.

  The mechanics at the repair shop assessed the damage. The front wheels of the three cycles had been badly crushed. Fortunately, the shop had spare parts on hand. It would take two days, however, to finish the job. Luckily the rental agency’s insurance would cover the damage.

  “We’ll just have to stay in Taos until the bikes are ready,” Frank said.

  Tim dropped them off at a motel, and they thanked him for his help. “It’s my pleasure,” he said. “I’ll be delivering around town and picking up more cargo. Hope to see you again.”

  “Under better circumstances,” Joe said, laughing, and they shook hands.

  The next morning was spent sightseeing around Taos. The historic old town, once a frontier settlement, was now the center of a burgeoning art colony, with shops displaying the works of young artists. Evan browsed around while Frank and Joe went to police headquarters in the afternoon.

  There was still no clue as to who had sabotaged their cycles. When the Hardys asked about Buster Buckles, however, the police knew all about him. A local newspaper reporter had written a feature story several days ago.

  They lifted the wrecked motorcycles onto the truck.

  “I think we still have a copy,” said the sergeant, who was in charge. The boys eagerly read the article, which said that the comedian would be heading back to California by way of Arizona.

  Joe asked the sergeant if he would contact the State Police in Arizona to find out if they had information about Buster’s whereabouts. At first the officer was hesitant. “He’s not a missing person, is he?”

  “Not exactly,” Frank replied, “but we’d sure like to find him. He told of their search for the shattered helmet.

  The sergeant agreed finally and put a query on the teletype machine. Almost immediately an answer came back from Flagstaff.

  Buster Buckles’ camper had broken down on the highway, and the State Police had given him assistance. He was camped not far from the Grand Canyon. Directions for reaching the site were supplied.

  The Hardys thanked the sergeant and hastened off to find Evan. He was in an art gallery, buying a small painting to send back to Greece.

  “You’re going to see more of our beautiful West,” Frank told him. “Lots of rocks, and very few people. We’re going to Arizona.”

  The next day the repairs on their bikes were finished and they started out around lunchtime toward Arizona. They had not gone far before they passed Tim and his truck. He gave several blasts on his big horn and motioned them to stop.

  They pulled off to the side of the road and Tim called out, “I get a little lonesome driving this big hack. How about taking a ride with me?”

  “Okay,” Frank said, and Tim let down a ramp so they could stow their bikes inside. Evan sat in the rear. Frank and Joe sat up front.

  They drove along, talking about everything from baseball to surfing. About a hundred miles farther on, near the Arizona border, a car passed them on the right.

  Joe glanced out the window and looked down at the driver as he flashed by. The man had a pinched face. A passenger was sitting beside him but Joe could not see his face. A third man with blond hair sat in the back.

  “Frank, look!” Joe exclaimed.

  But before his brother could lean over to see any of the occupants, the car had sped
on ahead. It was a maroon Buick sedan with New Mexico license plates. The Hardys memorized the number.

  “I’m sure that the driver was Cole,” Joe said.

  “Luckily we’re in this truck,” Frank said. “If that car had overtaken us when we were on our bikes— Wow!”

  “Where do you suppose they’re going?” Tim asked.

  “That’s another mystery,” Joe said.

  They approached the next truck stop and the Hardys scanned the area for any sign of the maroon car.

  “There it is!” Frank said suddenly as he recognized the license number. “They must be in the restaurant!”

  “Are you going in to see?” Tim asked.

  “Yes, but not through the front door. Joe and I’ll go around the back way. Evan and you had better stay here. This could be dangerous.”

  “You know,” Frank said as he stepped down from the cab, “that guy in the back seat might have been Saffel.”

  “That’s a wild guess,” Joe said. “But we’ll see.”

  They entered a screen door in the back of the place, which led to the kitchen. As the chef and a waiter stared at them, they mumbled apologies and entered a hallway leading to the dining room. At the end of the hall was a beaded curtain. From behind it came the murmur of voices.

  “Careful,” Frank whispered. They reached the curtain and peeked through the beads.

  Cole and the mysterious Greek were seated five feet away! But there was no sign of the blond man.

  Frank and Joe eavesdropped as Cole spoke. “So far so good. The boss’ll pat us on the back for bugging the Hardys and the Greek kid.”

  “Don’t get cocky,” the Greek answered in fluent but heavily accented English. “We have to find Buckles before they do or he’ll shoot us in the back!”

  The Hardys were thunderstruck!

  How did these men learn of their plans? Were they after the helmet, too, or did they just want to prevent the Hardys from finding it?

  The Greek, who was fingering a string of worry beads, spoke again. “The kid’s gone for the big stuff. If the Hardys show up again—teliose!”

  “You mean it’s curtains for them?”

  “Right.”

  Suddenly Frank and Joe heard footsteps behind them. Turning, they saw the waiter approaching with a large tray of food held high in his right hand. The boys pressed flat against the wall to give him room to pass, but it was not enough.

  The man stubbed his toe against Joe’s foot. He lost his balance and tumbled toward the boy.

  Joe and the waiter fell headlong into the dining room!

  CHAPTER X

  Flash Flood

  THE food flew into the air, some of it spattering onto Cole and the Greek. Both men jumped to their feet, cursing.

  As Joe arose from the slippery floor, they recognized him and bellowed abusive remarks.

  Joe raced back along the hallway. Frank was ahead of him. The Greek and Cole ran after them, slipped on some mashed potatoes and gravy, and fell to the floor. By the time they reached the back entrance, the Hardys were not in sight.

  Frank and Joe had made a dash for the truck, flung open the door and dived to the floor of the cab.

  “What’s going on?” Tim asked in surprise.

  “Those guys are after us,” Frank said. “I think they were the ones who ran over our bikes. Tim. see what they’re up to.”

  The truck driver reported every movement of the disheveled pair as they searched the parking lot. “They’re looking for your bikes,” Tim said with a chuckle. “And are they mad!”

  Finally Cole and the Greek gave up the search and returned to the restaurant.

  Tim set off down the highway. After several miles he had to turn off in another direction so he stopped to let the Hardys out. The boys unloaded their bikes and thanked him for the ride.

  Tim waved and drove off. Before mounting their cycles, Frank said, “You know, the blond character was not with the two men. Maybe he’s ‘the kid who’s gone for the big stuff.’ I’d like to call Chet and see if Saffel is still at Hunt.”

  “Let’s stop at the next phone booth,” Joe agreed.

  A mile farther on they found a highway telephone. Frank went inside and made a person-to-person call.

  In a few seconds Chet was on the line. He was delighted to hear from the Hardys and began asking questions about their case.

  Frank said, “Listen, Chet, I don’t have much time. What I want to ask you is this: Has Saffel left school?”

  “Matter of fact, yes.”

  “When?”

  “Right after you left.”

  “Have you seen the red car?”

  “No! Not since the day we saw it at the falls.”

  “Thanks, Chet. How’s Thelma?”

  “Great, just great! I’ve gained five pounds eating goodies at her house.”

  “How’s the film course?”

  “Super. I’m taking lots of footage of Thelma.”

  Frank chuckled and hung up. “Joe, Saffel’s gone.”

  “He might have followed us,” Joe said. “Well, let’s go and keep our eyes open.”

  Just before sundown the boys arrived in the area where Buckles had been reported to be camping.

  They made several inquiries about a man with his dog and were directed to a camper which had parked in a shady glen. Driving close to it they stopped and approached the camper. Joe knocked on the door. A woman answered.

  “Sorry,” the boy said. “I think we made a mistake.”

  “Whom are you looking for?” she asked.

  “Buster Buckles, the old actor,” Joe said. “We were told that he’s camping in this area.”

  “You mean the movie funnyman with his little dog?”

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  A man appeared behind the woman and joined in the conversation. “He wasn’t very sociable,” he said.

  The couple told the boys that other neighbors had reported Buster was on his way to Bald Eagle Mountain.

  “Hardly anybody goes there,” the man said. “No facilities.”

  Frank looked at a road map. Bald Eagle Mountain was not far away. The elevation showed 6,100 feet.

  “Do you think we can make it before dark?” Evan asked.

  “If we push hard,” Frank said.

  They hopped on their bikes again and set off. In the distance a great mass of black clouds began to settle into a valley.

  “That storm’s a long way off,” Joe thought. But minutes later lightning forked through the sky. The valley became dark with rain, and the setting sun produced a full rainbow.

  Frank, in the lead, held up his hand in a signal to stop at a crossroad. They checked their maps again and found that the road leading to Bald Eagle Mountain turned left, into the same valley where they had seen the storm.

  They continued on, riding parallel to an arroyo with only a thread of water trickling through it. But the riders noticed that the stream grew larger by the minute. Now the road dipped down over a bridge to the other side of the broad gulch.

  Frank and Joe crossed the bridge first. Evan was third in line. He stopped, fascinated, and reached for his camera. The Hardys did not notice his absence until they had gone several hundred yards.

  Suddenly Joe shouted and Frank turned to look. To their horror they saw a wall of water swirling down the arroyo.

  “A flash flood!” Frank cried out as he wheeled his cycle around. “Evan, come on, hurry!”

  The Greek boy, however, seemed mesmerized by the oncoming flood. He took some more footage. Frank and Joe raced toward him full speed. They braked to a screaming halt at the edge of the bridge and waved their arms wildly.

  All at once Evan realized the danger. He stowed his camera and hopped aboard his cycle. As he did, the first wave of water swept several inches above the bridge. Evan gunned his machine and the wheels set up a spray as he flew across the span.

  Seconds later three feet of muddy, boiling, sandy water flooded over the bridge, carrying pebbles a
nd debris, just as the three cyclists reached higher ground.

  They stopped to look back at the phenomenon. Evan’s hands were shaking a little. The roof of a cabin swirled against the bridge, tearing apart like matchwood. Three uprooted pine trees followed. The span shuddered as they banged against the superstructure and stuck there.

  “I just got out in time,” Evan said. He promised to be more careful in the future.

  “You’d better,” Frank said with a grin. “We don’t want to send you back to Greece in a coffin!”

  The cyclists followed the uphill road, which gradually became nothing more than an indistinct trail. Off to one side, in a grassy gully, they spied about two dozen cattle being urged along by a lone cowboy. They waved to him and drove over to ask if he had seen Buckles.

  “The old man with the dog?” the man said.

  “Yes,” Frank replied.

  “Are you looking for him, too?”

  “What do you mean, too?”

  The horse grew restless and the cowboy leaned over to pat the animal’s neck. “A young fellow like you asked the same question about an hour ago.”

  “Was he blond?” Evan inquired.

  The cowboy nodded. A smile crossed his wrinkled face. “You’ll find the old guy up there on the mountain,” he said. “But I’m warning you. He’s about as friendly as a wounded grizzly bear.”

  “Thanks,” Frank said. “You’ve been a big help.”

  The trio drove quietly around the cattle, found the dim outline of the trail again, and continued on as evening settled.

  Frank said, “Do you suppose it was Saffel who asked the cowboy about Buster?”

  “We’ll find out,” Joe replied.

  But soon it became too dark to follow the trail. Finding the elusive Buster Buckles would have to wait until morning. They made camp at the base of three towering pine trees, ate some canned food, and crawled into their sleeping bags.

  The sighing of the wind blowing through the treetops lulled the weary travelers to sleep. Frank was awakened at dawn. He had been dreaming that he was swimming in choppy water. Suddenly he realized that something was lapping against his forehead.