Footprints Under the Window

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Joe had a theory. “Maybe to sell the information to a larger power—as part of a deal.”

  Colombo agreed, adding that Posada was known to be friendly with certain anti-American regimes.

  Suddenly the lookout came bursting into the cabin and spoke rapidly to his leader. Colombo scowled and extinguished the lantern.

  “Everyone be silent!” he commanded.

  The Bayporters and the Huellans obeyed. Voices could be heard faintly in the distance, then they died away. The chief relighted the lantern.

  “Who was that?” Joe asked.

  “Posada’s men,” Santilla replied.

  A few more minutes elapsed in tense waiting, but there was no further disturbance. Colombo then bade the visitors relax, and had simple rations of bread and dried beef served for supper. The boys ate hungrily. When they finished, it was growing dark.

  “We have to get back,” said Frank, remembering their promise to Jack.

  Colombo, Santilla, and two other Huellans led the boys through a jungle route toward the docks. The hot tropical night was silent, speckled by fireflies. Miguel Colombo and his aide stopped at the jungle’s edge. They thanked the boys fervently for their support.

  “But what about you and Señor Santilla?” Frank asked in concern.

  “We shall be all right,” Colombo assured them, smiling. “We shall soon escape to the mainland. But one day we will return triumphant.”

  After hearty handshakes with their new friends, the boys hurried to board the waiting launch.

  “I’d like to get my hands on that skunk North right now!” Joe muttered with fierce resolution.

  “We will,” Frank declared. “But we’ve also got to find Gomez and stop Bedoya’s plot against Micro-Eye!”

  In relief the boys finally stepped off the launch in Cayenne. At the hotel Jack Wayne listened to their story in amazement. “So Posada may be behind these suitcase thefts,” he exclaimed, “and be selling the smuggled information to a major power hostile to the United States!”

  Jack whistled. “You fellows have done the work of a squadron. Ready to head back tomorrow?”

  “You bet!” Chet gingerly touched his mosquito-bitten face.

  Jack reported that he had uncovered no leads to Raymond Martin, but that Dykeman’s men would continue the search in French Guiana.

  After a satisfying night’s sleep, the four reached the airport early the next morning. As Jack zoomed into the sun, the boys looked back at the trail of green islands. Could they find, and save, Colombo’s missing friends?

  Following an overnight stop, they landed in Bayport the next afternoon. The Hardys found Aunt Gertrude back home from her visit. She sighed with relief at seeing her nephews safe.

  “Thank goodness!” she gasped. “The newspapers are full of Posada’s villainous threats.”

  She informed the boys that Mrs. Hardy would be home in a week. There was still no clue to the whereabouts of their father.

  “But that rude Mr. North!” she fumed. “Somehow he found out that I was at Mrs. Berter’s. He phoned me there and demanded to know where you boys were!”

  “Did you tell him?” Frank queried.

  “I should say not!”

  After unpacking, Frank and Joe decided to inform Mr. Dykeman at once about their trip. On their way to Micro-Eye the brothers stopped at Corporated Laundries and Joe took in a bundle of soiled clothing. As he was leaving the counter, he noticed a man with thick eyebrows in the back working room who seemed familiar.

  “Funny,” he mused. “I have a feeling I’ve seen him recently somewhere else, yet something’s different.”

  At the Micro-Eye gate the Hardys were quickly admitted, and escorted to the intelligence office. Roy Dykeman welcomed them cordially.

  “Glad to see you back! Mr. Wayne’s report of your theory about spies smuggling secrets in luggage may break our case wide open!”

  Mr. Dykeman listened attentively as the brothers related all that had happened in Cayenne and in the Huellas. At hearing the information on Orrin North and Manuel Bedoya, the intelligence officer grabbed a pencil and jotted down notes.

  “Posada’s master spy—on our soil!” he exclaimed. “He must have been whisked off Orrin North’s Capricorn!”

  “Can North be arrested now?” Joe asked.

  “No. We don’t have an ounce of tangible proof—yet. He’s acted clean as a whistle since we’ve been watching him. But more important, we want to get the whole bunch without risking the lives of these missing Huellans!”

  “How about Bedoya, alias Ricardo?” Frank asked.

  “I’m sending out an alert to find him at all costs—also to apprehend Captain Burne and crew immediately in South America.”

  The agent reported that Gomez’s whereabouts were not known, and the Micro-Eye security leak was still a mystery. His men failed to locate the United States headquarters for the Footprints conspiracy.

  “Pryce may be our man,” he admitted, “though I’m not convinced of it. At any rate, we’ve reached the homestretch. Micro-Eye’s satellite camera was completed this morning!”

  The project was finished! Frank and Joe were elated. The top-secret instrument was to be moved under heavy protection to Washington late the following day.

  “We don’t want anybody to get wind of it,” Dykeman added, “so we’re running the usual guard shifts and concession deliveries. Once that camera is on the truck, Micro-Eye’s problems are over.” He gave a dry chuckle. “But not mine!”

  The Hardys vowed to continue their search for Gomez, but the agent cautioned them: “Wherever Gomez is, the Footprints gang is looking for him too. Until we have Bedoya, be very careful!”

  Frank and Joe gave their assurances and drove home. The boys enjoyed a delicious dinner, but all the while were trying to figure out a way to track down Gomez. Later Chet arrived and insisted that they drive out with him to Oak Hollow. The damage to the houses had been repaired.

  “Dad says Mr. Prito’s men finished and left after supper tonight,” Chet said as they rattled along in his jalopy. “Occupancy in a week!”

  It was dusk when the boys reached Oak Hollow. They parked and got out to survey the houses at close range. The hacked doors and windows and broken windows had been completely replaced.

  Frank looked puzzled. “It still beats me why those machete fellows picked on this place.”

  The night watchman strolled by with a wave, then the trio walked to the rear of one house. It overlooked the valley, now in black shadows except for brilliant patches of moonlight.

  “Nice view,” Joe observed.

  Suddenly the boys saw a clump of bushes stir below them to the left. A man’s face looked out, then vanished.

  Gomez!

  “Wait!” Frank yelled.

  They rushed down to the bushes. But there was only silence. Frank called Gomez’s name several times. No response.

  “It’s useless,” Chet muttered. “He has probably high-tailed it into the woods.”

  Just then, through a grove of trees to their right, Joe spotted several upright white objects. “Come on!”

  The others followed him through the grove, emerging at the foot of a grassy hillock. Frank bumped into an iron fence before he recognized the objects as gravestones. “The cemetery!”

  Finding the gate, the boys slipped through and crouched near a large gravestone. Was Gomez hiding somewhere within the cemetery itself? Atop the slope stood a square building with no windows and a single door of bronze and glass. Chet shuddered. “A mausoleum.”

  “This must be a private cemetery,” Frank whispered. “But what’s Gomez doing around here?”

  “W-what are we doing around here? Let’s go!” Chet begged.

  “Nothing doing. If Gomez is here, it’s for a reason.”

  Suddenly Frank felt Chet tug at his arm. “What is it?” he asked.

  The chunky youth pointed up the slope, his eyes glazed with fear. His words would hardly come.

  “Th-that tom
b up th-there! The d-door is opening!”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  A Sinister Meeting

  As if hypnotized, the three boys watched the tomb. Slowly its metal door opened wider.

  They froze as a tall, shadowy figure emerged and walked in long strides to the edge of the hill. The boys crouched lower. Chet tried to swallow the lump of fear in his throat.

  The gaunt figure stood in ghostly silhouette. There was no mistaking the dark-spectacled, hawk-nosed profile.

  Manuel Bedoya!

  The three boys were dumfounded. Had he actually appeared from the tomb! Or were they seeing things?

  “He’s no ghost!” Joe whispered finally.

  The spy appeared to be waiting for someone. He glanced frequently at his wrist.

  Moonlight painted the cemetery in an eerie, silvery glow. As the boys huddled behind the large gravestone, Joe squinted to make out its inscription. He nudged the others. They gaped at the name beneath the birth and death dates:

  JAMES NORTH

  “This might be Orrin North’s private family cemetery! Maybe James was his father.”

  “And North lets the gang hide out in the tomb!” Frank exclaimed. “That would explain the Oak Hollow sabotage.”

  “To keep people from occupying the houses!” Chet added, “until—”

  The boys spoke in whispers, keeping an eye on Bedoya. Soon they heard faint voices from beyond the cemetery. The gaunt spy disappeared down the other side of the slope.

  “He’s meeting someone!” Frank said.

  “Now’s our chance!” Joe urged. “If they go inside the tomb, we’ll never hear anything.”

  Chet gulped. “You m-mean we go inside?”

  “Yes!”

  “But—but somebody else may be in there,” Chet objected. “We’d better get the police!”

  “Bedoya might leave in the meantime,” said Frank. “Even if two of us stayed, there’d be no car to follow him. I say we chance it!”

  They looked up the hill at the half-opened tomb door. A red glow from within was visible. The boys decided that one of them should remain as lookout at the gravestone. Frank turned to Chet. “Would you rather wait here?”

  “Alone? Not on your life!”

  “I’ll stay,” Joe offered.

  Frank and Chet started cautiously up the slope. Chet, his heart pounding, kept close at Frank’s heels. At the top Frank paused, then broke for the tomb. Reaching it, he signaled Chet, who quickly followed. They peered around one corner toward the rear. Voices still drifted up from below. There was not a sound from inside.

  “Okay, here goes!”

  Frank slipped through the door, then Chet. They stopped and looked around the square, stone chamber.

  The air in the vault was dead and musty. In the middle of the room stood a wooden table strewn with newspapers in Spanish. The reddish glow came from a kerosene lamp on the table. Several machetes lay near a locker stocked with canned foods. A small short-wave set stood in one corner.

  “The last place anybody’d suspect of being a hideout,” Frank murmured. “But no Gomez, or Huellan refugees.”

  Voices could be heard approaching. “Bedoya’s coming back!” Chet quavered. “And he’s not alone!”

  It was too late for the boys to slip out unseen! They looked desperately around for a hiding place. Frank’s keen eyes spotted a small descending spiral stairway in the shadows.

  “Down here!”

  Quickly the boys swung down the metal steps, Chet first. Frank’s head dropped below floor level just as the first man entered the tomb. The two boys crouched tensely.

  In a moment a jumble of voices echoed from above, some speaking in Spanish, others in English. The talking died down as the heavy door clanked shut. Chet’s throat went dry, and Frank felt a twinge of fear. Below them, they discerned several cots in the dimness, but no sign of any prisoners.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” said a suave, accented voice. “Everyone accounted for? Bueno. Let us begin.”

  The voice was undoubtedly Bedoya’s! It continued:

  “Everything is ready to carry out Posada’s order—to get the satellite camera at all costs. By eight tomorrow morning Dykeman’s precautions will have been for nothing and our Footprints mission completed!”

  “Not soon enough for me,” a gruff voice commented. “I’m sick of this bone house!”

  Frank caught his breath. A plot to steal the government camera itself—tomorrow!

  “Never mind that,” the first voice said coldly. “Decker, will 41 be offshore for delivery at the given time?”

  “Precisely. I reached them by radio from the Northerly two hours ago. There will be room for all of you.”

  “Good. We cannot fail! With this fool Pryce under suspicion, the plant may have false confidence in their security. Are your plans set, Valdez?”

  “Si. The smoke bombs are ready. We will knock out the guards. Mr. North has two cars for us—Rodriguez and I will take one, while Greber and Walton will use the other.”

  A voice that sounded vaguely familiar to Frank added, “The uniforms are ready, Senor Bedoya. The change will take only an instant.”

  Frank racked his brain. Where had he heard the voice before? Carefully he mounted the steps until he could just see into the vault.

  Bedoya, alias Ricardo, wearing a white suit, stood at one end of the table, encircled by seven men. Hunched over the flickering red lantern, Posada’s chief spy seemed poised like a vulture. Frank looked over the rest of the group.

  Of three, ill-kempt, swarthy men, he recognized two as those who had vandalized the Oak Hollow houses. One must be Rodriguez. The third was the stocky man with sideburns—Valdez.

  The huge, bushy-haired thug, Walton, was present, and a short, bald man whom Frank also recognized—the impostor who had tried to arrest Gomez.

  To Bedoya’s left, near the door, sat the pilot of North’s yacht. “He must be Decker,” Frank reasoned, “since he has the ‘offshore’ job.”

  The boy’s attention was finally riveted on a thin, heavy-browed man speaking at the opposite end of the table. His was the voice Frank had recalled hearing before.

  The man complained, “This luggage business has been too sticky—and now we find out from the boss those blueprints we photographed were phonies!”

  “That camera will be no phony,” Bedoya remarked gloatingly. “You are sure it will fit into our waterproof bag, Al?”

  “Certain of it,” was the reply.

  Suddenly Frank visualized a mustache on Al’s clean-shaven face and stiffened. Of course!

  “He’s the guard who stopped Joe and me near the plant’s maintenance building on our tour!” Frank recalled. “He’s the Micro-Eye security leak. We must stop them!”

  Bedoya and his henchmen spoke for some time in Spanish. Frank caught the name “Martin” several times. Now the chief spy leaned forward.

  “One unpleasant item,” he said, raising his voice. “I received word tonight that those meddling sons of Fenton Hardy went to Baredo seeking Gomez, and two subversives, both of whom I regret to say escaped to French Guiana. Posada is not pleased.”

  The men muttered uneasily. Chet had crept up behind Frank. The two boys felt a surge of joy. Colombo and Santilla had gotten away!

  “Those young punks,” Walton growled. “Too bad Greber and Valdez and me didn’t finish ’em off at the boathouse.”

  Bedoya’s lips curled scornfully. “You were all fools to muff the chance!”

  “Next time I get my hands on the Hardy pests and their fat friend—” Walton clenched and unclenched his huge fists. Chet felt a trickle of sweat running down his brow.

  There was a sudden sharp cry from outside the tomb. Manuel Bedoya straightened up. “That was José! He must have caught somebody snooping!”

  An icy chill went through Frank and Chet. Was Joe in the enemy’s clutches? The next instant Bedoya doused the lantern and the eight men rushed outside.

  “Chet! Come on!”

>   Frank whipped up the stairway and leaped for the closing tomb door, but too late. It clanked firmly shut! Frantically the boys pushed against it to no avail. They were sealed in!

  Chet gasped. “We’ll never get out alive!”

  Frank noticed a fine slot near the door handle. “Bedoya must have had a key!”

  Suddenly a click sounded from outside, and the door began to open. The two boys braced themselves for battle.

  “It’s all right—it’s me!”

  “Joe!”

  “Thank heavens!” Chet sighed, faint with relief.

  Frank started to speak, but his brother motioned them out of the tomb. In the woods to their right, the boys could hear a commotion of voices. They circled to the back of the vault and ran down the slope into a stand of pine trees.

  “They’ve—got—Gomez,” Joe panted.

  “What?”

  “Yes. Bedoya had two guards hidden near the cemetery. I saw Gomez a second before they captured him. The others rushed out of the tomb before I could do anything!”

  “Joe, they’ve hatched a plot to get the Micro-Eye camera tomorrow morning!” Quickly Frank recounted all they had heard. “We’ve got to tell Dykeman—but we can’t leave Gomez helpless!”

  The boys listened intently. Now only silence met their ears. Swiftly and silently, the Hardys and Chet circled the cemetery. Still no sounds, or sign of anyone.

  “Funny,” Joe muttered. “I didn’t hear a car start up.”

  Chet again urged they go for the police.

  “Guess we’ll need help,” Frank agreed. “And we have to warn Micro-Eye!”

  They pushed through the dark woods, Chet plowing ahead like a tank in a thicket. “Boy, am I glad to get out of here!”

  Joe had just started up the rise toward the housing development when a beam of light flashed out from the right. Then another! To their left, still another!

  “Look out!”

  Before the boys could retreat, rough arms seized all three from behind. Frank and Joe bucked and kicked at the men holding them. Joe grimaced with pain as his captor applied a vicious arm lock. Frank, helpless in a choking grip, saw Chet had been thrown to the ground after a valiant struggle against two assailants.