The Jungle Pyramid

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “We’re over the Alps!” Joe exclaimed.

  Frank glanced at his watch. “By my reckoning, we’re over Switzerland already.”

  Over the loudspeaker a stewardess advised passengers to fasten their seat belts. The jet hissed over Lake Zurich, which extended from the city to the high mountains. The pilot kept on course and came down for a perfect landing at the airport. He taxied to the terminal, braked to a stop, and shut off the engines.

  Frank and Joe stood up and tried to reach the suspect, but passengers blocked the aisle. The man in the brown suit waited at the head of the line to debark. Within minutes, he was off the plane.

  Watching him through the window, the Hardys saw him hasten to the terminal and into the building. Finally Frank and Joe arrived too. By the time they passed through customs, their quarry was headed toward the exit with long, swift strides. Lugging their suitcases, the Hardys pursued him as fast as they could. They caught up with him at the taxi rank.

  He whirled and glared at them when Frank spoke to him. “We’re interested in what happened in New York,” the boy said.

  An expression of fear came over the man’s face. Suddenly he hurled himself at Joe, bowling him over backwards. Joe collided violently with Frank. The impact caused both the Hardys to lose their footing. They fell to the pavement in a heap.

  A taxi bore down on them at full speed!

  CHAPTER VI

  Over the Cliff!

  INSTINCTIVELY resorting to judo, Joe rolled to the right of the speeding taxi. Frank did a somersault to the left.

  The vehicle careened between them and jolted to a halt. “Was ist los?” the driver shouted at them. “Was machen Sie denn da?”

  The Hardys scrambled to their feet. Frank tried to apologize in his high school German: “Entschuldigen Sie bitte.”

  The driver responded with a tirade in German before going on to pick up a fare.

  Frank straightened his jacket. “Joe, I think he was telling us off for scaring him. What happened to Zemog?”

  “He’s gone!” Joe said glumly, looking at the passengers lining up for taxies. “He must have disappeared while we were nearly getting run over by that cab.”

  They walked to the end of the line and finally got an empty taxi. Frank told the driver to take them to the William Tell Hotel. At the desk, they signed identification cards and received a room key. They set their luggage inside and tidied up their appearance, then went to the Zurich police headquarters.

  Frank explained to an English-speaking captain named Hartl that Pedro Zemog, a suspected thief, was somewhere in the city. Joe inquired whether the Swiss authorities had any information about the man.

  The officer checked through the files and made a phone call. Then he turned back to the Hardys.

  “Pedro Zemog has no criminal record in our country,” he informed them. “But we will watch for him. Tell me where you are staying, and we will call you if we learn anything.”

  “Thank you,” Frank said. “We’re at the William Tell for the next few days.”

  The boys returned to their room and unpacked, then contacted the Swiss Gold Syndicate.

  Mr. Jung’s assistant told them there had been no more anonymous phone calls. “I asked a lot of people around town,” he said, “but found out nothing. I doubt anything will transpire over the weekend. Since Mr. Jung is coming back Monday, perhaps the caller will try to get in touch with him personally.”

  Frank thanked the assistant and hung up. “What do we do now?”

  Joe shrugged. “Let’s see the town.”

  Taking the elevator to the lobby, they found people at the registration desk or following porters who carried their luggage. Others inspected items in the souvenir shop and relaxed in comfortable chairs. The Hardys paused to look at postcards on a revolving stand. Joe twirled it.

  “Hey,” said a young American, “you just took the card I wanted.” A youth about Frank’s age peered at them from behind the revolving stand.

  “Sorry about that,” Joe apologized. “I didn’t know you were on the other side.”

  The two boys started a conversation and Frank joined them. The youth said his name was Rory Harper. He was in Switzerland to see the country and do some skiing.

  “Listen,” Rory said, “I’m here with three girls, my sister Alice, my girl friend Jane Owens, and their friend Karen Temple. They’re standing over there by the window. Want to join us for a soda?”

  Frank and Joe peered in the direction of the window and broke out in grins after glimpsing three very attractive teen-aged girls.

  “Sure, we’ll be glad to,” Frank said.

  After introductions, the Americans sat down at a low table in the lobby and ordered sodas. Rory’s group talked about home and their vacation in Switzerland.

  Karen set her glass down on the table. “Joe,” she said, “do you ski?”

  “A little,” Joe answered. “So does Frank.”

  “That’s great!” Alice exclaimed. “We’re leaving today. Want to join us for the weekend?”

  Frank and Joe looked at each other. “We don’t have to be back till Monday morning, Joe,” Frank said.

  “And there’s nothing we can do here in the meantime,” Joe added.

  “Good. Then it’s all settled,” Rory said. “We can rent our gear at the lodge. Let’s go!”

  The young people went to their rooms and quickly packed warm clothing in an overnight bag, then met in front of the hotel. They hailed a large taxi and the driver let them off at the railroad station.

  On the way to the nearest ski resort, they watched the beautiful landscape as the train snaked up the mountains. They exchanged cheerful banter.

  “I hope you guys are pros,” Rory said. “You’ll have to move fast to keep up with me.”

  “That’s right,” his sister added. “Rory is fast—on his rear end!”

  “Aw, Alice, don’t say that!”

  Jane giggled. “We should modify that statement. Sometimes he’s fast on his stomach, too! I’ll never forget that time in Vermont when he slid down head first.”

  “Oh, that was a bad spill I took,” Rory admitted. “My hat went one way, my goggles another, the poles almost hit another skier, and if the safety straps hadn’t held the skis, they would have arrived at the lodge without me.”

  “What were you trying to do, wind up in the hospital?” Joe kidded.

  “No,” Karen said. “He was just trying to imitate Herman the German, who did a somersault over a three-foot mogul.”

  “He’s one of the instructors up there,” Jane explained. “Only Rory can’t ski nearly as well as he.”

  When they arrived at their destination, they hitched a ride to the lodge with a friendly farmer, who chugged along the road in a pickup truck. As soon as they got there, they rented skis, boots, and poles.

  Rory and the three girls had brought ski clothes. The Hardy boys each bought a pair of warmup pants to wear with their jackets.

  Sunlight glistened on the packed snow of the slopes, and skiers looked like moving colored dots on a white sheet.

  After the Americans had bought their lift tickets, they lined up for one of the chairs. Joe paired off with Karen, Frank with Alice, and Rory got on the lift with Jane.

  “Wait for us when you get up there!” Rory yelled to the first pair.

  “Will do,” Joe called back as he watched a girl in a red suit expertly parallel down the slope.

  When they arrived at the top, they surveyed the mountain. Alpine peaks formed the skyline around them. The snow-clad terrain dropped away at their feet into a steep run. A colorful white sign with an arrow read: AUTOBAHN-EXPERT ONLY.

  Frank held up a hand. The rest gathered around him in a circle.

  “Have any of you skied this slope before?” he asked.

  He received only negative answers,

  “Then we’d better take the Mouse Run over there first. That’s intermediate,” he advised.

  Joe and the girls agreed, but Rory shook
his head vehemently. “No, that’s too easy for me,” he said. “I’m going to take the Autobahn and beat you all to the bottom. See you later!”

  He gave a strong push with his poles and began to parallel over the lightly packed powder.

  “We’d better not let him go alone,” Frank called out. “If you girls think you’re up to it, let’s follow him.”

  “We’ll make it,” Jane said.

  Frank led the way to the starting point and pushed off with his poles. Joe and the girls followed. The slope took them in a long semicircle and once narrowed to a steep trail, where they had to go in single file. When it widened again, Frank swiftly decreased the gap between himself and Rory and caught up with him about three hundred feet from the bottom.

  “Hey, slowpoke!” he yelled as he overtook the other boy.

  Rory tried to catch Frank, but hit a slippery spot and fell.

  This gave Joe and the girls enough time to pass him. and they waited at the bottom with Frank.

  “Did you say you were a pro?” Karen joshed him.

  “I hit an icy spot,” Rory said lamely. “My luck!”

  “No excuses,” Jane said and laughed. “Just do better next time.”

  Rory looked at the Hardys. “You guys ski well,” he admitted.

  “We go to Vermont quite a bit,” Frank said.

  They spent an hour or so skiing the Autobahn and surrounding slopes, then they rode up a different lift, which took them to a trail called St. Gotthart’s Pass. A barricade blocked the way and a sign read: DANGEROUS SNOW CONDITIONS. TRAIL CLOSED.

  “We don’t want to ski down there,” Frank observed. “Let’s go to the right and get another run.”

  “Aw, that sign doesn’t mean a thing,” Rory said flatly. “I’m not afraid to ski down there. According to the map, this connects with a slope called Rim Run, which sounds interesting. Let’s go anyway!”

  He quickly slipped around the barricade and was halfway through the first turn before Frank could convince him not to go.

  “Girls,” Frank said, “Take another run. We’ll meet you at the bottom.”

  “Okay,” Jane said. “But be careful.”

  Joe followed his brother, who was having trouble on the slippery surface. “Rory is crazy!” he fumed. “He’s going to kill himself and us along with him by going down this death trap!”

  Uneven and rocky under the snow, the trail was narrow, the ridges precipitous, and the gorges deep.

  “This is like Russian roulette,” Frank muttered to himself. “Guess wrong, and it’s your last chance. It’s over the edge, and somebody else picks up the pieces at the foot of the cliff!”

  He was relieved when he saw he was catching up with Rory. “I’ll head him off,” Frank thought.

  But Rory seemed determined not to be passed. He skied at top speed along ridges and past gorges. Reaching a steep decline flanked by an icy cliff, he looked back over his shoulder to see how close Frank was.

  The gesture caused him to lose his balance. He slipped head over heels on the ice and lay still!

  Wondering how badly his friend was hurt, Frank drove himself forward with his ski poles, his eyes on the crumpled form in front of him. His left ski hit a boulder hidden in the snow. His feet shot out from under him and he landed on his back. The momentum carried him into a long slide on the ice. Frantically he tried to stop himself, but it was no use.

  Frank Hardy slid over the cliff!

  CHAPTER VII

  The Confrontation

  JOE skidded to a stop near the top of the cliff, where he had seen Frank vanish.

  Rory rose and shook his head woozily. “What happened?”

  Joe did not explain. “Go get the ski patrol, prontol” he yelled.

  Rory realized the seriousness of the situation instantly and quickly fixed his skis. Then he schussed down the treacherous trail as fast as he could.

  Joe, meanwhile, had taken off his skis and edged himself over the cliff. Frank was clinging by his fingers to a stone ledge about two feet from the top. Beneath him there was a ragged drop.

  “Hold on, Frank!” Joe shouted. He climbed onto the ledge. Planting his feet as firmly as he could, he gripped his brother by the arms and struggled to pull him up.

  Frank tried to anchor his feet against the cliff, but it was of no use. His skis, dangling on his ankles by the safety straps, clattered on the rock.

  “Just hold still,” Joe advised. “I sent Rory to get help.”

  A few minutes later two men from the ski patrol arrived. A rope was dropped over the edge of the cliff, and Joe reached out to catch it. He tied it around Frank, who was drawn to safety by the men above.

  “Thanks,” Frank said gratefully. “Thanks a lot.”

  “You should have more sense than to ski down here,” one of the men chided. “Don’t you realize we close these trails for a good reason?”

  “It wasn’t Frank’s idea.” Joe came to his brother’s defense. “Rory wanted to get the connection to Rim Run—”

  “You can get it another way,” the man said curtly. “Now follow us down and don’t try it again!”

  The boys put their skis back on and made it safely to the intersection of Rim Run. From there it was not far to the bottom, where they met Rory and the girls in the lodge. He was drinking a mug of hot chocolate and was glumly stroking the pigeon’s egg on his forehead.

  “Boy, do I have a few choice words for you!” Frank said, anger welling up in him again.

  “Oh, please don’t!” Rory said, rolling his eyes and pointing to his head. “I’ve ruined my beauty externally and it doesn’t feel so hot internally either!”

  The Hardys laughed. “Serves you right, my friend,” Joe said. “And I think now we’d better quit!”

  The skiers returned their equipment and found an inexpensive guesthouse in which to spend the night. The following day the Hardys skied till early afternoon, then said good-by to their new friends, who planned to stay for a few more days. Frank and Joe took the train back to Zurich.

  At the William Tell Hotel, Frank phoned police headquarters and spoke to Captain Hard.

  “We’re still looking for Zemog,” he informed the boy.

  “Any clues?”

  “Negative.”

  After lunch the following day the boys walked to the Swiss Gold Syndicate. It was nearby in a gray limestone building.

  “Looks like a fort,” Joe commented.

  “Sure does,” Frank agreed. “It’s made of stone and filled with gold.”

  The brothers identified themselves to one of the guards, who escorted them to the office of the director. It was a large room with a high ceiling, thick rugs on the floor, and small stone-framed windows.

  Johann Jung, a tall, dark-haired man, greeted them in perfect English. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “We’ve had another call this morning.”

  “Anonymous again?” Joe asked.

  “Yes. It seems that a small time crook has gotten wind of the fact that the Wakefield gold is to be traded on the black market and wants to capitalize on his information.”

  “What did he say?” Frank asked eagerly.

  “He told us to deposit five hundred Swiss marks in a small pedestrian tunnel in the old section of town. When he finds the money, he’ll leave the information he has.”

  “Could be a big hoax,” Frank said. “He might take the money and run.”

  Jung nodded. “That’s possible,” he said. “On the other hand, the Wakefield gold heist is not known to anyone here except myself and the staff. How did he find out about it?”

  “Shall we take a chance and pay him, then?” Joe asked.

  “I have already,” Jung said. “He wanted the money at two o’clock. I sent someone to deposit it.”

  “Can your man stake out the place and see who our anonymous friend is?” Frank asked.

  “I doubt it. The fellow picked an excellent spot for this type of thing. The tunnel is short, narrow, and dark, and many people use it. Anyo
ne waiting inside or on either end would be obvious.”

  It was not long before there was a knock on the door. A young man entered and handed Jung an envelope. “I deposited the money, sir. This is what I got in return.”

  Jung took the envelope. “Thank you, Hans. Did you see the man?”

  Hans shook his head. “I waited about ten minutes after I left the money before going into the tunnel again. In the meantime, too many people walked through it. I have no idea who took the five hundred marks and left this envelope.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  Hans left and Jung opened the message. It read: “If you want to find out about the Wakefield gold, go to Auerbach’s.”

  “What does that mean?” Frank asked, puzzled.

  “Auerbach’s is a restaurant in Niederdorf,” Jung said. “Maybe you’d better check it out. I’ll give you directions.”

  Half an hour later Frank and Joe walked into Auerbach’s. A few people sat at scrubbed wooden tables. The boys approached the elderly man in an apron, who waited on them, and started a conversation in their high school German.

  The wrinkle-faced Swiss grinned. “You Americans?” he asked.

  Frank nodded. “I’m glad you speak English.”

  “I lived in Chicago for ten years,” the man said.

  They found out he was Xaver Auerbach, the owner. After some general comments on Zurich and their travels, Frank said, “We hear people around here trade in gold.”

  The man looked at him suspiciously. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Joe pulled out a ten dollar bill. “A friend told us to come here if we wanted to buy gold.”

  Slowly Auerbach took the money. “The only person I hear talking about gold around here is Karl Pfeiffer, and it seems to me he’s more talk than action. He usually drops in at five for something to eat.”

  “Thanks,” Frank said. “We’ll see him then.”

  But at five Karl Pfeiffer did not appear. At six there was still no sign of him. Frank slipped Auerbach another bill. “Maybe we could talk to Pfeiffer at his house,” he said. “We really can’t wait any longer.”