The Jungle Pyramid

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER I - Gold Heist

  CHAPTER II - The Subterranean Vault

  CHAPTER III - “Deep Six F.H.”

  CHAPTER IV - Stop Thief!

  CHAPTER V - The Bulging Briefcase

  CHAPTER VI - Over the Cliff!

  CHAPTER VII - The Confrontation

  CHAPTER VIII - A Warning

  CHAPTER IX - Chet’s Mistake

  CHAPTER X - The Boa Constrictor

  CHAPTER XI - A Mysterious Shot

  CHAPTER XII - The Jungle Pyramid

  CHAPTER XIII - A Strange Figure

  CHAPTER XIV - The Aztec War God

  CHAPTER XV - Lethal Reptiles

  CHAPTER XVI - Unexpected Revelation

  CHAPTER XVII - Hypnotized!

  CHAPTER XVIII - The Big Discovery

  CHAPTER XIX - Captured!

  CHAPTER XX - In the Nick of Time

  THE JUNGLE PYRAMID

  GOLD bullion—a million dollars worth-has been stolen from the Wakefield Mint under strange circumstances. Mr. Hardy is asked to investigate but before long his life is threatened, and he asks Frank and Joe to help him.

  The boys fly to Zurich, Switzerland, hoping to get information at the Swiss Gold Syndicate and to find the man who has stolen a valuable ancient gold figurine from a New York museum. Their search on both counts seems futile. They return to the United States, where they uncover new clues that take them to Mexico and a breathtaking adventure at an archaeological dig in the Yucatán jungle.

  But the Hardys travels lead to nothing but new doubts and nagging suspicions. And now their lives are in danger. Their adversaries are cunning, elusive, and determined to eliminate Mr. Hardy, and the boys too!

  Events culminate in a surprising revelation when their enemies are finally outsmarted by the Hardys.

  “Help-me!” Joe yelled.

  Copyright © 1977 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

  Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

  THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-07665-1

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  CHAPTER I

  Gold Heist

  FRANK Hardy turned the controls of a stereo set. “I’ll see if I can find some country music, Joe,” he said to his brother. “Waiting for Dad to phone about a new mystery gives me the jitters.”

  “Same here,” said Joe. “I wonder why he didn’t tell us anything about the case he’s on.”

  “It must be top secret.”

  The Hardy boys were sons of Fenton Hardy, a private detective who worked out of Bayport since retiring from the New York Police Department. Dark-haired Frank was eighteen. Joe was blond and a year younger. Their father had taught them most of what he knew about crime detection, and they sometimes helped him with his investigations but often took cases of their own.

  A Kentucky hoedown came over the stereo, and a nasal voice sang the “Blue Grass Blues.”

  Joe was lying on the floor, his hands cupped behind his head. “It’s just as well that Mother and Aunt Gertrude are out shopping.” He chuckled. “This isn’t their beat.”

  The country-western rhythm rose to a crescendo, then died away. Suddenly footsteps pounded on the front porch of the Hardy home. The door burst open and a plump, freckle-faced youth rushed into the room, clutching a rolled-up paper in one hand. He was Chet Morton, the Hardys’ best friend.

  “I got it!” he cried. “I got it!”

  “Got what, Chet?” Joe demanded.

  “My correspondence-course diploma!”

  Joe turned off the stereo. “A real one? Well, congratulations.”

  “What’s this diploma for?” Frank asked.

  “Collecting more bottle tops than anyone else?” Joe needled their visitor, who always became involved with one hobby after another.

  Chet looked pained. “That’s kid stuff. I thought you guys were detectives.”

  “Give us a clue,” Joe suggested.

  Chet did not reply. Instead he unrolled the paper and held it up for them to see. The words STATE CORRESPONDENCE SCHOOL were blazoned across the top. The diploma certified that Chester Morton was considered adept in gold artifacts, and it was signed by the president of the school.

  Chet grinned. “Adept means I’m pretty good with the gold. Go ahead. Ask me questions. Want to know about Aztec masks or—”

  The phone shrilled before he could finish his sentence. Frank seized the instrument and canted it away from his ear so the other two could hear. Fenton Hardy was calling.

  “Frank, Joe,” he said hurriedly, “are you both there?”

  “Yes, Dad,” Frank answered. “Where are you?”

  “I’m in Wakefield. That’s a hundred miles from Bayport on the way to New York City. A consignment of gold has been stolen from the mint here. The case is too big for one detective, and I need your help. Come to the Archway Motel. Tell Mother and Aunt Gertrude where you’ll be, but don’t say there’s any danger involved. Make it fast! Ah-ah-aaa—”

  Mr. Hardy groaned and ended his sentence in a gasp. Then the boys heard a scuffling noise.

  “Dad!” Frank shouted. “Dad, what’s going on?” Something hit the floor with a heavy thump, and there was a dragging sound. A door slammed in the background. Then silence. The three boys stared at one another in dismay.

  “What—?” Chet began.

  “Sh—sh!” Frank said and motioned to the phone.

  Footsteps could be heard approaching. Someone breathing heavily picked up the receiver.

  “Hello!” Frank said. “Hello?”

  The phone clicked, and the line went dead.

  “That wasn’t Dad who hung up!” Frank exclaimed. “Something’s wrong!”

  “That’s for sure,” Joe said grimly.

  “Try the motel desk,” Chet suggested.

  Frank dialed the Archway Motel and asked for Fenton Hardy’s room. A moment later the clerk reported that there was no answer. Frank asked to speak to the manager. He introduced himself, then explained to the man that he had heard strange noises coming from his father’s room.

  “It sounded as if he were being attacked,” Frank concluded.

  “Attacked!” the manager exploded. “I’ll check immediately and will call you back.”

  Frank hung up. “What do you make of it?” he asked his brother.

  “Somebody must have sneaked up on Dad while he was talking on the phone,” Joe said. “Someone he hadn’t counted on.”

  “Probably more than one person,” Chet added. “He could have taken care of himself otherwise.”

  “Not if he were hit by surprise,” Joe argued.

  The phone shrilled again. Frank picked it up.

  “Mr. Hardy’s room is empty,” the motel manager said. “I’ve also had him paged, but he doesn’t answer.”

  “Anything wrong in the room?” Frank asked.

  “No—except that the bedspread was half pulled off and some clothes were lying on the floor. When I see your father, I’ll tell him you called. I’ll also notify the police just in case your suspicions are correct.” The manager hung up, and so did Frank.

  “Dad must have been dragged from the room,” the young detective theorized. “That could account for the bedspread. We’d better do something fast!”

  “We’ll have to go to Wakefield right away!” Joe said.

  “How about my going along?” Chet put in. “I know all about gold. Maybe I can identify the loot.” Th
en he added, “As long as it’s not too dangerous to handle.”

  The Hardys were used to Chet’s shying away from danger, but they knew they could rely on him when the sleuthing became rough. He had been helpful in many of their investigations.

  “Okay, Chet,” Joe said. “Call home and we’ll be off.”

  “Leave your jalopy in our garage,” Frank suggested. “Better get some clean clothes out of it.”

  Chet and the Hardys always carried extra clothes in their cars in case of an emergency.

  Frank quickly scribbled a note telling his mother and Aunt Gertrude that they were on the way to Wakefield to join Mr. Hardy. He added that there was nothing to worry about. “Not much!” he thought to himself. “Just whether Dad’s dead or alive!”

  Joe backed the car out of the garage and soon the three boys were rolling down Main Street. Joe fretted at the wheel because traffic was heavy, but finally they got out of the city. He stepped on the gas and they roared toward Wakefield.

  Mile after mile zipped away beneath their wheels. They passed farmhouses and pastures. At one spot chickens, out of their coops, fled squawking as the car rocketed by them.

  Chet remarked, “If you should run over any of our feathered friends, stop so I can pick some up. Chicken soup is a great dish. I haven’t had anything since breakfast but a couple of hamburgers and a bottle of soda.”

  Food always interested Chet, even in the middle of an investigation. The Hardys usually laughed at his remarks, but this time they said nothing.

  “Okay,” Chet said, “I get the message. I was just testing. Trying to cheer you up.”

  “I could use some cheering,” Frank admitted. “Do you think Dad’s been kidnapped, Joe?”

  “I’m afraid so,” his brother replied glumly. “Probably by the crooks who were responsible for the gold heist.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions,” Chet advised. “Anyway, your father has always managed to get out of tight spots because he’s the smartest detective we know. Right?”

  “Right,” said Frank and Joe in unison.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” Chet said.

  “Like what?” Joe inquired.

  “Like gold!” Chet answered. “Do you know the melting point of gold?”

  Joe grinned. “Over a thousand degrees centigrade.”

  Chet looked crestfallen. “Oh, so you know that. Well, what can you dissolve gold with?”

  “A mixture of hydrochloric and nitric acid.”

  “You Hardys know everything,” Chet complained.

  Frank decided to soothe their friend’s feelings. “Not as much as you do, Chet. It’s just that we ran some lab tests on gold for one of our clients.”

  The Hardys had a criminology laboratory over their garage, where they did scientific analyses for their clients. They matched fingerprints under the microscope and carried out chemical tests of poisons, explosives, and other materials from the scene of a crime.

  While the boys were talking, they approached a hill with a stone wall on the right. Joe drove up as fast as he could within the speed limit. Suddenly a large station wagon hurtled over the crest of the hill. The driver, a burly man, was hunched over the wheel. He was on the wrong side of the road and raced directly at their car!

  “Watch it, Joe!” Frank shouted.

  Because of the wall, Joe could not move any farther to the right. With split-second timing, he swerved to the left. The station wagon swept past on the right. The Hardys’ car skidded out of control for a moment, but Joe pulled it back into the correct lane and went on.

  “Lucky you kept your cool,” Frank complimented his brother. “There wasn’t enough room for a dime between that station wagon and us.”

  “You can say that again,” Chet remarked. “That knucklehead shouldn’t be allowed to drive a kiddie car.”

  The three settled back for the rest of their trip to Wakefield, and Chet continued his lecture on gold. He described how prehistoric people used the yellow metal for jewelry, such as rings and bracelets, and later for money. He added that currently most of the gold was obtained from the deep mines in South Africa.

  “The Russians,” Chet revealed, “mine gold in Siberia and sell it on the international market. Headquarters for the gold exchange is Zurich, Switzerland.”

  “Perhaps the stolen Wakefield gold came originally from Siberia,” Joe reasoned. “But who knows whether or not we’ll ever see it.”

  “Talking about gold,” Chet informed them, “there’s an exhibition at the Early Art Museum in New York. Old Scythian artifacts. I hear it’s fabulous.”

  “Sounds interesting,” Joe said. “Maybe we can go there after we find Dad.”

  He turned left to get off the highway at the Wakefield exit, and ten minutes later drew into the Archway Motel parking lot. The boys went inside, where a teen-age youth stood at the registration desk.

  “Any message from Fenton Hardy?” Joe asked him.

  “Watch it, Joe!” Frank shouted.

  “No. But I have one for Frank and Joe Hardy. Is that you?”

  “Yes,” Frank replied.

  “Somebody called,” the clerk stated. “Didn’t give his name. Just said for Frank and Joe Hardy to come to the Stacy Hotel.”

  “How do we get there?” Frank asked.

  “Go left to the end of the road, make a right, then another right at the second traffic light. It’s a flea-bitten rattrap in a rough neighborhood. Watch your step.”

  “Will do,” Frank said. “And thanks for the tip.”

  The drive to the Stacy took the boys into an area of run-down houses and dismal streets. Local toughs sauntered by, glowering at them.

  “I hope we don’t run into street gangs,” Chet remarked. “A guy could be mugged in this end of town without half trying.”

  Joe parked in front of the Stacy. The boys climbed out and stood on the sidewalk, gazing up at the grimy exterior of the hotel. A bewhiskered tramp strolled up the street toward them. He was dressed in old clothes, battered shoes, and a slouch hat. They stepped aside to let him pass.

  Abreast of them, the tramp suddenly turned and deliberately bumped into Joe. “Follow me,” he snarled, “if you know what’s good for you!”

  CHAPTER II

  The Subterranean Vault

  Reacting instinctively, Frank and Joe grabbed the tramp’s arms to keep him from pulling a knife or a gun. Chet waved a fist under the man’s nose.

  “Fellows, hold it!” said a familiar voice. “I’ll go quietly.”

  The tramp was Fenton Hardy! As the boys showed their surprise, he whispered, “Don’t give me away. Play my game.”

  “Okay,” Frank replied. “But we’re glad to see you.” Aloud he said, “All right, Harry, we’ll buy your dinner.”

  He led the way into the hotel, where they sat down at a table in a secluded corner of the dining room. The other customers looked seedy, and the waitress chewed gum loudly as she took their order. When the food arrived, Chet seized his knife and fork and began to eat with gusto.

  “I was in my room,” Mr. Hardy said in a low tone, “when a couple of men came in—”

  He broke off as he noticed that the waitress was still standing near their table, flipping through her order pad. Then he said loudly, “A couple of men came in and asked me if I wanted to buy an encyclopedia.”

  The waitress went to another table to present the check. Mr. Hardy resumed his story. “They jumped me while I was talking to you on the phone, and slipped a cloth saturated with chloroform over my face.”

  Frank nodded. “We heard a thud and figured somebody was dragging you out of the room.”

  “Right. When I came to, I was in an old abandoned garage. I—” Mr. Hardy suddenly changed the subject and talked about finding a job at the Wakefield lumber company, since the waitress again stood within earshot. After she had left, he continued, “That girl seems rather nosey. Well, anyway, I picked the lock, got out, went to my car, and put on this disguise. Then I called the Ar
chway Motel from a pay phone and left the message about meeting me at the Stacy.”

  “What’s it all about?” Frank asked.

  “The Wakefield Mint has been robbed of a big consignment of gold bars. The haul is worth over a million dollars!”

  Joe whistled. “That’s a big deal!”

  Mr. Hardy agreed. “I’ve been hired by John Armstrong, the administrative assistant to the director of the mint. He asked me to keep this secret. That’s why I couldn’t tell you what the investigation was about. Then I received a threatening phone call warning me to get off the case. At that point, I decided I’d better send you an SOS.”

  “Good thing you did,” Frank said.

  Mr. Hardy went on, “Incidentally, Chet, I’m glad you came along. That fist you waved under my nose seems like a mighty lethal weapon.”

  Chet tried to grin, but was not very successful since his mouth was full of baked potato.

  “Got any leads, Dad?” Joe asked.

  Fenton Hardy shook his head. “Not really. I assume the pair who chloroformed me belong to the gang that stole the gold. Beyond that, nothing.”

  Frank and Joe ruminated over their father’s experience as they finished the meal. Chet downed his last mouthful of apple pie. As the waitress was adding up the tab, Frank handed his father a ten dollar bill.

  “There, Harry, that should help you out for a while,” he said.

  “Thanks, my boy,” Mr. Hardy replied, speaking in the whine of a tramp down on his luck.

  Leaving the hotel, he whispered to Frank, “Stay at the Shadyside Motel down the street tonight. Meet me at my car at nine in the morning. It’s parked in a private garage at ten Pine Street. The people who own it are away, so I’m using it as my dressing room. I can change my disguises there without being seen.”

  The elder Hardy slouched away into the darkness, and the boys drove to the Shadyside Motel, where they spent the night. In the morning they met Mr. Hardy as arranged. The detective no longer looked like a tramp. He had stashed the old clothes and the fake whiskers in the trunk of his car and resumed his usual appearance.