The Jungle Pyramid

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Mr. Hardy, you sure fooled me last night,” Chet said.

  “That was the idea,” the sleuth told him. “If my disguises didn’t fool everybody, I’d be in big trouble. Boys, suppose we take your car.”

  Frank got behind the wheel. “Where to?”

  “The Wakefield Mint.”

  The mint was a square three-story building. Faced with white stone, it had rows of narrow windows along the second story. The ground floor was sheathed in stone and steeL

  The foyer inside contained a collection of coins and medals produced by the mint. A crowd milled around the main exhibit, a medal representing John Smith at Jamestown.

  Fenton Hardy showed his pass to a guard, who escorted him and the boys down a corridor, through a door lined with steel bars, to the office of the administrative assistant.

  John Armstrong was a friendly looking man who wore horn-rimmed glasses. He got up from the swivel chair behind his big desk and shook hands with Mr. Hardy, then with each boy, as he was introduced.

  “They’ve helped me on previous cases,” the investigator explained, “and I’ll need them to assist me on this one.” He described the kidnap attempt.

  Armstrong expressed concern, then said he had no objections to the boys’ participating. “Perhaps, then, you can solve our problem quicker,” he remarked. “I want this case cracked before Director Wadsworth gets back from his vacation. I’m responsible for the mint while he’s away, you know.”

  “Mr. Armstrong, suppose you clue us in,” Frank suggested.

  Armstrong looked grave. “First, let me remind you that there must be no leaks about the theft. We don’t want any publicity in the news media.”

  “Mum’s the word,” Chet vowed.

  Joe inquired about security precautions.

  “The best,” Armstrong stated. “See this panel on my desk? It monitors the entire mint. We have hidden television cameras watching every square inch of the building. Our security equipment includes trip wires, photoelectric plates, and laser beams. If anybody gets in their way, sirens go off and warning lights flash on the panel.”

  “It sounds as if you’re better protected than Fort Knox,” Joe said. “How come the gold was stolen anyway?”

  “That’s just it,” Armstrong said, looking bewildered. “The equipment must have been turned off. It was back on the next morning, however.”

  “What about the guards?” Frank asked.

  “That’s stranger yet,” Armstrong went on. “One was posted at the outer door, one at the inner steel door, and one here in my office, monitoring the mint through the TV cameras. They were supposed to alert the rest of the night shift if anything happened, but they didn’t.”

  “In other words, they went off with the thieves,” Chet said.

  “No. They’re here!”

  “You mean they helped the thieves get in, then let them escape with the loot, and stayed behind?” Joe was incredulous.

  “Yes. That’s what’s so strange,” Armstrong replied. “They claim nothing unusual happened at any time that night. The police questioned them after they were arrested but they’re sticking to their story.”

  Frank shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. Where was the gold taken from?”

  “The subterranean vault,” Armstrong said. “Come on. I’ll take you down there.”

  He ushered the group to his private elevator and pushed the button. The elevator descended three floors. The doors opened and Armstrong led the way to a steel door, where a guard was on duty. He spun the dial until the combination clicked and pushed the door inward.

  The boys gaped. Gold bars about a foot long were stacked in rows on racks that stretched across most of the room. A yellow gleam shimmered under fluorescent lighting. A couple of men in shirtsleeves were counting the bars and entering figures in a ledger.

  Chet’s eyes bulged. “There’s got to be a million dollars in here,” he practically shouted.

  “More than that, young man,” Armstrong said. “We’re missing twenty-five bars. Each weighs over twenty-seven pounds, and with gold selling on the international market at a very high rate presently, that consignment comes to more than a million.”

  He gestured toward an empty rack near the door. “That’s where the stolen bars were when we closed the vault for the night. The thieves must have carted the gold out of here and around to the outer door at the rear of the building. That’s where they made their getaway.”

  Frank was peering at the nearest row of gold bars. “Why, they’re stamped with the hammer and sickle,” he noted.

  “Same as the missing gold,” Armstrong replied. “The Russians traded it through middlemen in Zurich, who sold it to us.”

  He conducted them out of the gold room and through the subterranean vault to a freight elevator. They emerged at the rear door of the mint. A guard let them through into a receiving area, where some armored cars were parked.

  “I’m late for a meeting,” Armstrong said and excused himself. “Please look around all you want and we’ll talk later.” He went back to his office.

  Frank quickly surveyed the lot. “Nothing to stop the crooks once they got the gold this far,” he concluded.

  “Right,” Joe agreed. “But how did they get this far? We’ll have to talk to the guards.”

  “You go ahead,” Mr. Hardy said. “I’ll carry on my investigation here at the mint and talk to the employees.”

  “And I’m going to have breakfast,” Chet stated.

  Frank chuckled. “Your second breakfast, Chet.”

  “Got to keep my strength up if I’m going to solve this case,” the stout boy replied airily.

  Frank and Joe dropped Chet at a diner and drove to police headquarters. They identified themselves to the sergeant at the desk.

  “You’re Fenton Hardy’s sons?” the officer asked. “That’s good enough for me. Around here, we admire your father’s work. Come on! I’ll let you speak to the prisoners from the mint. Funny thing about them.”

  “Funny?” Joe prodded.

  “They’ve got to be guilty,” the sergeant said, “but they’ve taken a polygraph, or lie-detector, test. It says they’re telling the truth!”

  The three men looked sullen. They were Herb Ponty, Fred Walters, and Mike Nicholson. Ponty did most of the talking.

  He admitted they had been on duty the night the gold had vanished. He himself had been stationed in Armstrong’s office at the monitor. “Walters was posted at the outer door to the receiving area. Nicholson guarded the steel door to the gold room.”

  The Hardys cross-examined the men. Had they left their posts during the night? Had they gone to sleep?

  “No, not us,” Ponty replied defensively. “It’s our job to stay awake. Anyway, it wouldn’t have made any difference. A thief trying to get in would have kicked off the alarm system.”

  “You could have turned off the alarm,” Joe asserted. “The control button is on the panel in Mr. Armstrong’s office.”

  “If I had,” Ponty argued belligerently, “would I have hung around to be arrested? I’d have left with the thieves.”

  “Yes,” Frank said, “but the gold is gone. Have you three any idea how the crooks pulled off the heist?”

  “No, we don’t remember seeing anything unusual all night,” Ponty declared. “When Mr. Armstrong opened the vault the next morning, the gold wasn’t there and we were arrested.”

  Frank and Joe realized they could not get any more information from the prisoners and headed back to the Wakefield Mint.

  “This is the most mysterious case we’ve ever been on,” Joe commented.

  “It sure is,” Frank agreed. “A consignment of gold vanishes. The guards say they don’t know a thing about it. And a polygraph confirms it.”

  The boys picked up Chet at the diner as he was drinking his third malted. Then they rode back to the mint, where they told Fenton Hardy and John Armstrong about their talk with the accused men.

  “How many people know the combin
ation of the vault door?” Frank asked Armstrong.

  “As I told your father, only Director Wadsworth and I. You see—”

  A screaming siren cut him off. Red and blue lights flashed on the monitor panel. A moving blur appeared on one TV screen.

  Armstrong gasped. “There’s a thief in the vault!” he cried.

  CHAPTER III

  “Deep Six F.H.”

  JOHN Armstrong rushed into his private elevator. Fenton Hardy and the boys crowded in on his heels. The elevator descended three floors and the doors opened.

  The noise of the siren was nearly deafening in the subterranean vault. A guard stood at the door of the gold room, which was wide open. He turned toward Armstrong.

  “Unauthorized person inside, sir,” he announced. “The door was open and he got in.”

  “I left it open, Porter,” Armstrong confessed. “I thought Millard and Lajinski had nearly finished counting the gold and would close it when they came out. My mistake.”

  “They hadn’t finished when the siren went off,” Porter replied.

  He led the way inside. The two men in shirtsleeves were still there, talking to a third, who looked embarrassed.

  “I didn’t know a laser beam crossed the gold room,” he protested. “I got in the way by accident when I came in to see why the door was open.”

  Frank stared at him. “If you’re an employee of the mint, why don’t you know about the alarm system in the vault?”

  “I’m new here,” the man replied sulkily.

  Porter nodded. “That’s true. We took him on three days ago. He hasn’t had time to learn the ropes, but he’ll catch on.”

  Armstrong ordered that the siren be turned off and sent the man to his post; then he escorted his visitors to his office. He sat down in his swivel chair and mopped his brow with a large handkerchief from his breast pocket. Mr. Hardy took a stuffed leather easy chair. The boys occupied a couch.

  “Mr. Armstrong,” Frank began the conversation, “you were saying that only you and Mr. Wadsworth, the director, know the combination to the steel door of the gold room. Do you think somebody else could have learned it?”

  “I suppose someone could in spite of all our precautions,” Armstrong admitted. He added, “The gold was shipped from the Swiss Gold Syndicate in Zurich. The bars might be smuggled back there for resale by a shady international financier. I’d better send an agent to Zurich to investigate.”

  Fenton Hardy smiled. “Two agents,” he suggested. “I dare say Frank and Joe will volunteer. They’re on their spring vacation.”

  “Will you, boys?” Armstrong asked eagerly.

  The Hardys quickly agreed. Chet looked crestfallen, but said nothing. Armstrong turned to him. “You’re included if you want to be.”

  “Oh, great!” Chet said, and smiled again.

  “The place to begin is the Swiss Gold Syndicate,” Armstrong pointed out. “They handle transactions on the world-wide gold market, and know about this theft. I’m sure they’ll be glad to cooperate. I’ll set up an interview for you.”

  He made a long distance call to Zurich. While he spoke, the expression on his face changed from a frown to utter surprise. When he hung up, he said, “I think we have our first clue!”

  “What happened?” Fenton Hardy asked.

  “I didn’t speak to Johann Jung, the director of the syndicate. He’s in South Africa, inspecting gold mines, and won’t be back till next Monday. But his assistant just told me that he received a phone call from a man who said that he should watch out for the Wakefield gold. It is expected to be sold in Zurich illegally in about two weeks.”

  “Wow!” Frank said. “Who was the caller?”

  “He didn’t identify himself. But I hope you can find out. You’re supposed to be in Jung’s office Monday at two in the afternoon.”

  Fenton Hardy arose. “That gives us some time for sleuthing here before you leave,” he said. “I have a notion the crooks have already flown the gold out of the Wakefield area or are about to. Transporting it by truck on the highway would be too risky. I’ll alert the airlines. You boys check the charter carriers. Also scout around and see if you can find a private airstrip where a plane could take off with a cargo of gold bullion. I’ll meet you at the garage later.”

  The three boys went out and got into the Hardys’ car. Frank turned on the ignition and headed toward the center of town. Suddenly he circled around the block and stopped at a phone on the corner.

  “Frank, what’s up?” Chet asked.

  “I think we should check out Mr. Armstrong’s story.”

  Chet’s eyes widened in astonishment. “He isn’t a suspect!”

  Joe spoke up. “Frank’s right, Chet. Everybody’s a suspect in this case.”

  Frank found Armstrong’s address in the phone book and the address of Wakefield’s only charter airline. They drove first to the man’s house. A motherly woman answered the door.

  “Mr. Armstrong is not at home,” she told them. “I’m Mrs. Wright, his housekeeper. Mr. Armstrong is a bachelor.”

  Frank mentioned the night of the gold theft. “Was Mr. Armstrong at home that night?”

  “Oh yes. He returned from the mint in time for dinner, as usual. And he didn’t leave the house till the following morning.”

  Frank thanked the housekeeper and the boys resumed their drive to the center of Wakefield.

  “That clears Mr. Armstrong,” Frank commented. “He was in bed when the gold vanished from the mint.” In a few minutes Frank parked in front of the Carrier Consolidated office on Main Street. The boys went inside. They looked around in surprise. The office was a dusty cubbyhole. A pile of burlap bags lay in one corner, and a half-filled coke bottle stood on the counter. An old plaque on the wall proclaimed that Carrier Consolidated would ferry any cargo anywhere.

  “This place could use a cleanup,” Frank muttered. “If only Aunt Gertrude were here! She’d give the guy in charge a piece of her mind.”

  “I’ll see if he’s in the back room,” Joe said. He went around behind the counter. Suddenly a hand pointed a round metal barrel at him through the doorway!

  “Watch out!” Chet whispered hoarsely. “He’s got a gun.”

  Before Joe could move, a heavyset individual came through the doorway. “Look here,” he said. “This is our newest fire extinguisher. Point it like a pistol, pull the trigger, and presto! It shoots foam all over the blaze. Neat idea, eh?”

  “Neat is right,” Joe answered. “I thought it was a real pistol.”

  The man put the fire extinguisher on the shelf behind him. “Carrier Consolidated, at your service,” he said.

  “Any flights to Zurich, Switzerland?” Frank asked.

  “Sure. What’s on your mind?”

  “We’re working on a deal involving a shipment,” Frank said.

  The man reached for a ledger. “We had two flights to Zurich this month: a cargo of tin and a lumber shipment. The next flight will be in approximately a week. What’s the weight going to be?”

  “Uh—about two hundred pounds.”

  “No problem.”

  “Okay. We’ll let you know when the deal goes through,” Frank said, and thanked the man for the information.

  As the boys were leaving the office, they almost ran into a woman who came through the door and walked up to the counter. She was the waitress from the Stacy Hotel!

  Frank nudged Joe as he started to close the door behind him. “What do you know about that?” he whispered.

  “Let’s see if we can hear any of their conversation,” Joe replied and left the door open a crack.

  The three friends stood still and pressed their ears against the door, but there was only the sound of muffled voices.

  “What now?” Chet asked. “This is strange.”

  “Let’s go to the Stacy and check up on the waitress,” Frank suggested. “Maybe she had a reason for being nosey last night.”

  They went to the hotel and spoke to the manager. “We’d like to ta
lk to your pretty, red-haired waitress,” Frank began. “Is she in?”

  “No, it’s her day off,” the man replied with a grin. “But there’s no use in trying to date her.”

  “Oh?” said Frank.

  “Sure. Her husband runs the Carrier Consolidated office. He’d give you a hard time.”

  The boys wanted to roar with laughter, but instead pretended to be embarrassed and left quickly.

  “What do you know!” Frank said when the boys were back in the car.

  “That you’re some smoothy,” Chet needled him.

  Joe was serious. “Maybe both the husband and the wife are involved in our case.”

  “What do we do now?” Chet asked.

  Frank started the engine. “Let’s see if we can find a private airstrip.”

  The superhighway curved around Wakefield to the north, east, and south. An undeveloped area lay to the west. They decided to scout in that direction. Frank parked at a dead end, and the boys crossed a field on foot. Then they plunged into the woods.

  For two hours they tramped between groves of trees and thick bushes. They stumbled over stones and fallen tree trunks. Brambles tore at their clothing and scratched their hands. Doggedly they puffed up hills and down into ravines.

  Finally Chet halted and sat down on a boulder, perspiration streaming down his face. His breath came in great gasps. He held up a hand and let it fall limply into his lap. “Fellows, I’ve had it!” he announced.

  Joe grinned. “Don’t give up now, Chet! You’re getting rid of that spare tire around your middle. Besides, you’ve got to walk back out of the woods.”

  Chet groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

  Frank was surveying the ground beyond the boulder. Suddenly he called to the others. Joe raced over. Chet followed slowly.

  “What’s up?” Joe asked eagerly.

  “Tire marks on the ground!” Frank exclaimed. “A car went right through the woods!”

  “It probably came from the dirt road we crossed a couple of miles back,” Joe theorized, “Where did it go?”

  “Let’s find out,” Frank urged.

  Trained woodsmen, the boys followed the tire marks. They noted how the dried-out, brown grass was flattened, and how the vehicle had run over bushes and around trees. Silently the three sleuths pursued the trail through a thicket to where the woods ended. All the trees and shrubs had recently been cleared away in the shape of an oblong.