The Melted Coins

by Franklin W. Dixon

  The boys grinned and went outside.

  “Come on,” Frank said in a low voice. “Let’s give that barn the once-over in daylight.”

  Joe climbed to the dusty hayloft with a pitchfork in his hand and pushed it gently through every pile of hay. It was evident nobody was hiding there.

  Frank and Chet examined the stalls, apparently empty of horses for many years. They smelled of rotting hay, and decaying harnesses hung from pegs on the wall. No clues were uncovered.

  “I still think those professors bear some investigating,” Joe declared.

  “You’re right, but we have nothing to go on. Wish we could talk to them about their research. But we’d better be going.”

  The boys said good-by to the Rideaus and Joe headed the car toward the Senecas’ ancestral lands. Through farmland, the road rose gradually to a high plateau.

  Chet spotted a sign on a dirt road. Zoar College! An arrow pointed to the right toward the woods beyond the fields.

  “Wait a minute!” Chet cried out. “What did I tell you? There is a Zoar College after all! Let’s go see it.”

  “Okay,” said Joe. He pulled into the dirt road. It dipped down, skirted a short knoll, and ended in a cul-de-sac.

  “I don’t see any college,” Frank said.

  The boys glanced around. Joe said, “It can’t be that—that—” He pointed to two low buildings, which looked like overgrown chicken coops. The weeds grew almost to the windowsills, and the front door in one of the structures hung on a broken hinge.

  The three got out of the car and walked over. A weather-beaten sign on the door proclaimed that it was, indeed, Zoar College.

  “Aren’t you glad you’re not enrolled after all?” Frank asked Chet with a chuckle.

  His friend was at a loss for words. He just shook his head in disbelief.

  “Let’s have a look around inside,” Joe suggested.

  The interior consisted of one large room. A blackboard was on one wall. On it a few mathematical problems were barely visible in moldering chalk. A desk laden with dust in the front of the room faced a dozen rickety chairs.

  Chet sneezed sharply and a bird fluttered down from the rafters, streaking out the front door.

  “That’s the ornithology prof,” Frank joked.

  “What a racket!” Chet murmured.

  “You know, this setup might be within the law,” Frank said. “It provides some facilities and it is in the beautiful Zoar Valley, not far from Niagara Falls, just as the catalog pointed out.”

  “I wonder how many other guys were taken in by it,” Chet muttered.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll try to expose this outfit,” Frank said and he looked about for evidence.

  Joe poked among the scraps of paper on the floor. He found a sheet with sketches of Indian masks and Chet came up with a booklet stating that Indian lore was one of the courses given.

  The boys studied the sketches. On the back of the sheet, in faint ink, was the name Nuremberg Museum. Next to it was the figure $5,000.

  “I wonder what all this means,” Frank said thoughtfully.

  Chet shrugged and started to walk out the door. “Come on, fellows. I’ve seen enough,” he said.

  Just then they were startled by the sound of a motor. They dashed out to see their rented hard-top turning around and going down the road.

  Chet gasped. “There’s nobody at the wheel!” he exclaimed.

  “That’s the ornithology prof,” Frank joked

  The trio stopped short in surprise. The apparently driverless car churned up dust and disappeared around the knoll.

  “Well,” said Frank grimly, “I guess we’ll walk!”

  “I could kick myself for leaving the key in the ignition,” Joe muttered. “But whoever thought there would be thieves out this way!”

  “What thieves?” Chet demanded. “It was a ghost!”

  “A ghost who ducked,” Frank declared. “Come on. Let’s get to the highway.”

  The Hardys strode up the hill with Chet puffing along behind. Emerging from the woods, they looked across the fields and could hardly believe what they saw! The car was parked near the highway! All three started to run.

  “Let’s not make any noise,” Frank warned. “That ‘ghost’ might still be inside!”

  Frank and Joe sneaked up on either side of the car. No one was in it, but on the seat lay a miniature Indian mask. It had a twisted nose and a wry mouth! Next to it was a scribbled note:Hardys are evil spirits. We will drive you out!

  CHAPTER VI

  Masked Stowaway

  FRANK fingered the miniature false face. “Now it looks as if the Indians want to give us the old heave-ho,” he said.

  “I’m getting an inferiority complex,” Joe complained. “Nobody wants us around!”

  “So let’s go home,” Chet urged.

  “What?” Joe asked in mock horror. “And miss Mother Jimerson’s corn soup?”

  “You’ve got a point there,” Chet agreed. “Besides, you two were called the evil spirits, not me!”

  The boys got into the car, and as Joe drove off, they mulled over the events of the last few minutes. Whoever had gone off with the automobile must have been a small fellow who had crouched low behind the wheel. But how did he get away?

  “Maybe another car picked him up,” Joe ventured.

  “Or perhaps he’s still lurking around here,” suggested Chet.

  “What I can’t figure out,” Frank said, “is why did the guy bother to move the car? He could have put the mask in without going through all that trouble.”

  “I suppose he wanted to give us a scare by apparently leaving us without transportation,” Joe deduced.

  “Well, from now on we’d better be very careful,” said Frank.

  Soon they passed a sign marked Yellow Springs and stopped at a small grocery to ask directions to Mrs. Jimerson’s house. It turned out to be a small, one-story dwelling set far back from the road. A sign beside the driveway advertised the fact that the owner, Mrs. Jimerson, sold handwoven Indian baskets.

  The boys drove up the lane and parked. As they approached the door, a stout woman with a round, ruddy face came out. Her hair, black but slightly graying, was pulled back into a braided bun. Her eyes crinkled when she smiled. “Would you like to buy some baskets?” she asked.

  “Well, er—no,” Frank said. “Are you Mrs. Jimerson?”

  “Yes.”

  Frank mentioned her son in Cleveland and she beckoned them into a combination living room and workroom. Indian baskets were stacked up on one side. Most were completed, but others were in various stages of weaving. The boys glanced about, feeling a little uncomfortable at first because the woman did not speak. She just watched them. Finally she said, “Is my son Rod all right?”

  “He’s fine,” Frank replied.

  “A great guy with the steel girders,” Chet put in. He sniffed a culinary aroma in the air and glanced at Joe. He was just about to say something about it, but Joe silently shook his head.

  “Rod told us about Lendo Wallace,” Frank spoke up, “and the disappearance of the Indian masks, Mrs. Jimerson. We’re detectives.”

  “Oh?”

  There was an awkward silence, but Mrs. Jimerson did not volunteer any information. Finally Chet said, “Something smells real good around here.” His eyes rolled. “I think it might be corn soup!”

  Mrs. Jimerson smiled. “Do you like corn soup?”

  “You bet! It’s my favorite!”

  “Well”—Mrs. Jimerson studied Chet’s plump, earnest face—“you shall have some.”

  She pulled three chairs to a table in one corner of the room and motioned for the boys to be seated. Then she went into the kitchen, and soon returned with a tray on which were three deep bowls of piping hot soup.

  The young sleuths ate with relish, dipping in thick slices of homemade bread. Chet, who was finished first, looked appreciatively at Mrs. Jimerson.

  “Would you like some more?” she asked.

&
nbsp; At Chet’s happy nod she quickly refilled the bowl. Then she began shyly to ask them questions. What were their names and where were they from? What were they doing in Seneca country and how did they happen to know about Rod?

  Frank, as spokesman, gave her a general idea of their mission. “We’d like to help solve the mystery of the missing masks,” he said.

  The look on Mrs. Jimerson’s face indicated that she might be opposed to outside interference.

  Just then Joe glanced at Chet who was spooning the final mouthful of soup. “Chet, you look just like Spoon Mouth!” he quipped.

  “No,” Mrs. Jimerson objected. “Chet is a fine-looking boy and plump like boys should be!”

  Frank and Joe laughed and so did Chet and the Indian woman. Now that she had relaxed, she began to talk more freely.

  “Many years ago,” she said, “near Lake Erie, lived a man who mistreated Indians. He had two joys in life, the quest for money and the harassment of the redskins in the area.

  “One night his house burned down and he was consumed in the flames. Many people, knowing that he was rich, searched in vain for a cache of gold coins supposedly hidden in his house.”

  Wide-eyed, Chet blurted, “Were they found?”

  “Not at first. But Indians finally found them.”

  “Great!” Joe said.

  “Yes and no,” Mrs. Jimerson continued. “The coins were melted, but strangely they were fused in the form of Spoon Mouth.”

  Frank and Joe exchanged excited glances. “You mean the melted coins and Spoon Mouth are one and the same?” Frank asked.

  “Yes. I assumed you knew.”

  “What an odd coincidence,” Chet said.

  “Maybe not,” Mrs. Jimerson continued. “The Indians felt that this had been done by their creator as a sign. The gold Spoon Mouth was carried into battle as their mascot and brought them exceptional luck. He was handed down from generation to generation.”

  “Hey, look!” Chet interrupted. He had been staring out of the window, idly watching their car. The trunk lid was opening slowly!

  The boys crowded to the window. As the lid opened wider and wider, a slender figure emerged from the trunk and ran off. A nylon stocking had been pulled over his face to hide his features.

  Frank, Joe, and Chet nearly fell over themselves, dashing for the door. Mrs. Jimerson looked on in surprise.

  “Where’d he go?” Frank cried out.

  “I think he ran over this way,” Joe said, and dashed toward a neighboring yard.

  Chet did not know which direction to take. He stood still and looked all about. The intruder was built very much like Creepy, he thought, but why would he follow them to Yellow Springs?

  Frank and Joe came back, panting. “He got away,” Frank declared, “that’s for sure. He must know this territory pretty well.”

  “Which would suggest that he was an Indian,” said Joe.

  “He looked like Creepy to me,” Chet muttered.

  They went back to their car and looked inside the trunk. Everything seemed to be in its place, the spare tire, the tool kit wrapped and secure next to the jack.

  “So he didn’t get a ride at the highway near Zoar College after all and came with us all the way to Yellow Springs,” Frank said.

  “What a nut!” Joe shook his head.

  The boys apologized to Mrs. Jimerson for running off and explained what had happened. They seated themselves at the table again, waiting for her to relate more of the legend about Spoon Mouth.

  She said that the golden relic had been kept at the new Seneca longhouse, a modern frame building nearby.

  “Then he was stolen,” she said sadly. “We don’t know who did it. But many of our people feel now that the tribe is in disfavor with the spirits.”

  “Mrs. Jimerson,” Frank said, “do you have any suspicion at all as to who took the relic?” The woman did not answer right away. Finally she shrugged and said, “No. No suspicions.”

  “Can you tell us some more about Lendo Wallace, the head of the False Face Society?” Frank went on. “Rod mentioned him briefly and—”

  Just then a fierce explosion ripped the air and rattled the windows!

  CHAPTER VII

  No Admittance, Please!

  THE boys and Mrs. Jimerson were momentarily stunned by the blast. They looked out the window and saw that the trunk lid of the Hardys’ car had blown open.

  “Come on!” Frank cried out.

  The three boys hastened outside.

  “Oh, no!” Joe exclaimed. “What a mess!”

  The back seat was blown out, their luggage ripped open, the trunk cover a total loss and a tire punctured.

  The Indian woman came out of the house, shaking her head. “What in the world happened?” she asked.

  “Somebody’s plenty mad at us,” Frank said grimly.

  “You’ve been asking too many embarrassing questions,” Chet said. “Especially in Cleveland. Could be the Zoar College people are worried that you’ll expose their racket.”

  “No doubt we were supposed to be in the car when the charge went off,” Frank mused.

  “And in the hospital now,” Joe added.

  Frank turned to Mrs. Jimerson. “Do you think the Senecas have something against us?”

  “No, of course not. Why should they?”

  Frank inspected the car again. “The bomb was probably hidden in the tool kit,” he said. “Well, let’s see if she’s still running.”

  He turned the key and found out that the mechanical workings, fortunately, were not damaged.

  The boys thanked Mrs. Jimerson for her hospitality. Chet assured her that the corn soup was the best he had ever tasted. Then they climbed into the front seat and drove off.

  “We’ll have to find a motel,” Frank said. “And then I suggest that one of us drive this car back to Cleveland and pick up our own.”

  “I’ll go,” Chet volunteered.

  “Okay,” said Frank. He drove to a long, low building bearing the name Sunset Motel. It advertised fourteen rooms and two suites.

  As they applied at the desk for accommodations, the affable manager smiled. “You’re kind of early, aren’t you?” he said.

  Frank looked blank. “What do you mean?”

  “Aren’t you college boys? Several students from Zoar College stayed here last summer,” the man replied. He jerked his thumb toward the back of the motel. “One of them left his motorcycle behind.”

  Joe snapped his fingers. “That may answer a question for us,” he said. “We’re going to need transportation. Our friend is taking the car back to Cleveland where we rented it.”

  “Is the motorcycle in working order?” Frank asked.

  “I think so. It was kept under a tarpaulin all winter.”

  “May we use it?”

  “Help yourselves, fellows.”

  The boys took their broken baggage to their room, then said good-by to Chet, who set off for Ohio.

  “The car is undoubtedly covered by insurance,” Frank told him. “If there is any trouble about it, have the rental company contact Sam Radley.”

  Chet waved as he drove away and Joe turned to his brother. “What now, fearless leader?”

  “I’d say Lendo Wallace is next on our list. We’ll beard the lion in his den.”

  “Okay, let’s see if we can get this motorcycle started.”

  They walked around to the back of the motel, pulled the tarpaulin off the machine, then checked the spark plugs and the gas tank.

  “No reason why she shouldn’t turn over,” Joe declared as he wheeled the cycle toward the driveway in front of the motel.

  He got on and kicked it a couple of times. The machine backfired, sending out a puff of white smoke. On the next try Joe was successful. At first the noisy engine sounded like a helicopter, then settled down to a throaty roar.

  Frank, meanwhile, had gone inside to get directions for Lendo Wallace’s place. He returned, hopped on the back, and they shot off down the road. Soon they re
ached the lane leading to Wallace’s house. It was more of a shack than Mrs. Jimerson’s and the Hardys felt sorry for the way some Indians had to live.

  The two dismounted, set the machine on the kickstand, and approached the shanty.

  “This job may be ticklish,” Joe said.

  Frank nodded as they strode on. “All the same, let’s not beat around the bush.”

  They knocked on the screen door. A man pushed it open and stepped outside. He was short with a tanned face and square shoulders. His general appearance was one of lean agility.

  “Mr. Wallace?” Frank asked.

  The man nodded.

  Frank introduced himself and Joe, then said, “We’d like to talk with you. May we come in?”

  Lendo Wallace eyed them coolly. “If you have something to discuss, we can do it out here.”

  The hostility in his voice indicated that getting information from the Indian was going to be more difficult than they had anticipated.

  “All right,” Frank said. “We’ll talk out here.”

  Seeing a chopping block with a hatchet bedded in its surface, he walked over to it and sat down casually.

  Wallace glared at him for a moment, but when Joe hunkered down beside his brother, the Indian relaxed a bit and said, “All right. Talk. What do you want?”

  Frank decided to aim the first question right on target. “Mr. Wallace,” he said, “what do you know about Spoon Mouth?”

  The Indian stiffened. His eyes darted from one boy to the other. The only reply was a shrug. Before the Hardys had a chance to ask another question, a chauffeured Cadillac drove slowly past Wallace’s shack. It stopped two hundred yards down the road, turned about, and came back again.

  A youth in the back seat was leaning out the window. He cupped his hands and shouted something unintelligible.

  “What does he want?” asked Joe.

  The youth tapped the chauffeur on the shoulder, said something, and the limousine drove on.

  “What was that all about?” said Frank, scratching his head.

  “Maybe that guy thought he knew us,” Joe suggested.

  The young detectives turned their attention to Wallace once more. He was scowling. “I don’t intend to talk about Spoon Mouth or anything else,” he declared.