“It’s from William! Listen: ‘George Aker took the second section of that flight to New York. He is on your trail.’”
The boys told Aunt Gertrude and their parents what had happened, and Mr. Hardy immediately turned on the electronic surveillance system that protected their home.
Then Joe pulled the mask out of his camera case. Aunt Gertrude shuddered. “How horrible!” she exclaimed. “A death mask. This can bring nothing but bad luck. Look at those eyes! It just gives me the willies!”
“It won’t bite you,” Joe said with a grin.
“Worse than that,” Aunt Gertrude said. “It’s going to haunt us!”
Later in the evening, Mr. Hardy called his sons into his study. He was a handsome man, graying slightly at the temples. His face was rugged, his shoulders square, and his general demeanor confident. Fenton Hardy had once been a top-ranking detective with the New York Police Department, but had retired to Bayport to raise his family and conduct a private-investigation service that had gained a world-wide reputation.
He sat behind his desk as Frank and Joe slumped into lounge chairs.
“I think you had quite some excitement,” Mr. Hardy said.
“You can say that again,” Joe replied, adding, “can you tell us anything about your new case?”
His father explained that he had been commissioned to work for a number of airlines, acting together. “It’s a pretty serious situation,” he said. “Carriers are losing millions of dollars in ticket thefts. Previously, a few had been stolen by employees every now and then, but now a wholesale pilferage is going on. Cartons of blanks are hijacked from printing plants and wind up in the hands of a crooked network. They even went as far as demanding ransom for the blanks!”
“It wasn’t paid, was it?” Joe asked.
“It was. One airline paid seventy-thousand dollars for tickets that could have been worth two million. This must be stopped and the airlines are going all out to—”
A shrill noise interrupted the detective. The alarm!
All three rushed to the door. Aunt Gertrude screamed that her prediction had come true. The “intruder,” however, was Biff Hooper. He walked briskly up the front steps.
“Hey, it’s only me!” he said. “I was driving by and noticed someone snooping around. Thought you’d like to know.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Aker,” Frank said.
“Aker?” Biff asked. “He’s in Jamaica!”
“Not any more.” Frank showed his friend William’s telegram.
“Wow!” Biff said. “You must really have hit on something with that mask.”
“No doubt it holds a clue that the crooks know about and we don’t,” Frank said. “I’m sure they wouldn’t go to those lengths for just a piece of metal, even if it is an antique.”
The Hardys notified the police immediately, then started a search themselves.
“Frank, you check the shrubs on the other side of the house,” Mr. Hardy said. “Joe and Biff, try the back. I’ll look across the street.”
They rushed out the door and split up. Frank walked through remnants of snow to a dark clump of mountain laurel. As he was about to peer into the shadows, a figure jumped out and clapped a crushing headlock on him!
Frank tried to cry out, but in vain!
CHAPTER VI
Bug on the Window
FRANK struggled with his assailant, but could not break the deadly grip. He felt the man’s muscles flexing as he applied more pressure to the headlock. Spots began to swim before the boy’s eyes, and he knew that he was in danger of passing out.
With one final wrench Frank broke loose from the vise and fell to the ground while the intruder ran toward the street. Moments later, Frank heard the sound of a motor revving up and a car making a fast getaway.
Frank rested on hands and knees until his head cleared, then struggled to his feet and called for help.
Joe and Biff raced over to him to hear what happened.
“We’ll chase that scoundrel!” Biff declared, racing to his car with Joe at his heels. But it was a futile effort. The intruder was long out of sight, and minutes later the two boys returned.
Meanwhile, the police had arrived and were searching the grounds. The only clue was footprints between the mountain laurels and the first-floor windows.
“It was Aker. I feel sure of that,” Frank said. He told his father about the man’s sturdy build. “Powerful arms, as I recall,” he concluded.
At breakfast the next day Fenton Hardy announced that he and Sam Radley, his assistant, were leaving town for a few days to investigate the airline-ticket racket.
“There’s a printing outfit in Connecticut,” the detective explained, “that supplies blanks to several airlines. A truck from this plant was hijacked, and the thieves stole thousands of tickets.”
“Sounds like an inside job,” Frank said.
“That’s what we think. Sam and I will give the place a thorough check to see if any employees are involved.”
“Can we help you, Dad?” Joe asked.
“Later, perhaps,” Mr. Hardy replied. “So far Sam and I can handle this alone.”
Frank and Joe decided to go to the local library to look up African history. Perhaps they would find a clue to the gold-salt reference carved into the back of the mask.
Half a dozen volumes were available, but the librarian recommended one title in particular, The Golden Trade of the Moors.
Frank obtained it and they walked into the hushed and carpeted reading room. Sitting side-by-side, they pored over the events in North and West Africa from the fourteenth century on.
“Look, here’s something about Mansa Musa, King of Mali,” Joe pointed out. “No wonder William admired him so much.”
Their excited voices could be heard by one of the librarians. She looked up and cautioned them to speak lower. They nodded in embarrassment and quietly devoured the pages devoted to the fabulous Mansa Musa.
The black king, who was a Muslim, set out on a hadj, or pilgrimage, to Mecca in 1324. Mounted on horseback, he was preceded by five-hundred slaves. Each slave carried a staff of gold weighing five hundred mithqual. A footnote explained that a mithqual, or mithkal, was about one-eighth of an ounce of gold. They proceeded in a camel caravan numbering nearly one-thousand camels.
“Holy catfish!” Joe whispered. “Can you imagine what that’s worth at today’s prices?”
When the king passed through Cairo, he gave away so much gold as gifts that the country was thrown into a terrible inflation that lasted many years.
“What a guy,” Frank said.
The report went on to say that Mansa Musa was a good, just king, greatly loved by his subjects.
“Do you know how far that trip was?” Frank asked. “Let’s look it up on the map.”
“Wow! On foot and with camels? It seems impossible.”
Joe went through the indexes of the remaining books and finally said, “Frank, look at this. Salt was carried south from Sijilmasa and exchanged for equal weights of gold in West Africa! That’s what the inscription on the mask refers to.”
Further reading told them that Sijilmasa had long since become a lost city.
“Perhaps that’s where the mysterious caravan vanished,” Frank conjectured.
The hours had flown by quickly, and it was noon before the Hardys realized it.
“We’d better get home for lunch,” Joe said. “My stomach’s growling.”
“Mine, too.”
The boys arrived to find their mother and Aunt Gertrude in a state of excitement.
“You’ve had a phone call,” Mrs. Hardy said, “from Jamaica!”
The brothers looked at each other in amazement.
“Who was it?” Frank asked.
“Your friend William. He wants you to call him back right away.”
Mrs. Hardy handed Frank the number, and he had no difficulty reaching William.
“Hi, this is Frank Hardy. What’s going on down there?”
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Frank listened for more than a minute, then said. “Sure. That’s fine. You let us know and we’ll meet you at the airport.”
After Frank hung up, the others were eager to hear the news.
“Is he coming to visit us?” Mrs. Hardy asked.
“Yes. He shadowed Stribling and Brown and found out that they want to get the mask at any cost. They’re leaving Jamaica for New York tomorrow morning. Whether they’ll come on to Bayport, William doesn’t know.”
“Our buddy’s really on the ball!” Joe said with admiration.
“Sure is. He’ll take the same flight and follow them wherever they go. He’ll call us from New York and let us know what’s up.”
“My goodness, that’s very dangerous!” Aunt Gertrude said. “He should stay in Jamaica. What if those terrible cutthroats come to Bayport?”
“We’ll take care of them!” Joe vowed.
“It also solves the problem of the mask,” Frank said. “William can take it back to Jamaica when he leaves.”
“And it’ll give us more time to study it,” Joe added.
“Right. By the way, Ali’s back in his shop and feeling much better.”
After lunch Joe said, “You know, Frank, I think Callie and Iola would get a great charge out of this mask. Why don’t we invite them over? They can help us polish it.”
“Good idea.”
Iola Morton, Chet’s sister, dated Joe, while Callie Shaw was Frank’s favorite girl. When Frank phoned the Morton farm, Callie was there and both accepted the invitation readily. Iola said, “Chet’s coming to see you later this afternoon anyway. We’ll drive over with him.”
“And stay for supper, okay?” Frank asked, raising his eyebrows and nodding to his mother.
Mrs. Hardy smiled a quiet consent. She, too, was fond of the girls.
When Aunt Gertrude heard the news, she bustled about the kitchen to make Chet a pie. His appetite was usually appeased by Aunt Gertrude’s goodies, and he praised her cooking all over Bayport and its environs.
At four o’clock a few heavy backfires announced the arrival of Chet’s jalopy. The girls were bundled up in ski jackets, and their faces were bright and rosy from the cold air as they entered the Hardys’ living room. Chet followed, a bright-yellow skating cap perched on his head.
“I wish I were back in Jamaica,” he said. “How would you like to swim in that warm surf today, Joe?”
Callie and Iola were intrigued by the mask, and after a delicious supper suggested that Frank and Joe drive them back to the Morton farm, where Iola had a special cleaning fluid.
“It’ll make Bwana Brutus’s face shine,” Iola said. All agreed, and by seven-thirty were on their way to Chet’s place, snow tires humming against the highway.
Frank and Joe kept looking behind to see if anyone was tailing them. Several cars passed, but far back, dim headlights seemed to be holding their position.
“You think that’s someone following us?” asked Iola.
“It’s probably Chet,” Frank said. “He left with us but dropped off the pace.”
Conversation turned to winter sports. Skiing had not been good, but the ice skating was the best in years.
“Our pond’s like glass,” Iola said. “Why don’t we have a skating party soon?”
“Fine with us,” Joe said as they pulled into the long driveway on the Morton farm. Chet arrived a few minutes later.
It was not until the mask lay on sheets of newspaper on the kitchen table and the girls, using cotton-tipped swabs, were cleaning every crevice in the beard, that the Hardys told them about William’s plan to visit.
“You’ll like him,” Joe said. “He’s tops.”
“Listen!” Callie said suddenly.
“What is it?”
“I thought I heard a little tap on the window.”
None of the others had, but nevertheless the Hardys and Chet hurried out into the biting cold to look around. No one was in sight.
When they were back inside with the girls, Iola inquired, “When is William coming?”
“He’s leaving on the nine fifteen A.M. flight to New York tomorrow morning, and will call us when he arrives.”
“Maybe he can teach you Swahili,” Chet said, looking at the girls. “And I’m warning you. It’s not easy!”
Everyone laughed; then Iola held up the mask. The face seemed to be more expressive than ever. Tilted at a certain angle, the mouth even appeared to have a faint smile.
“I still think it’s spooky,” Chet said.
Later, when the boys got ready to leave, Frank said, “It looks like old Brutus here had a real good beauty treatment.” He thanked the girls and offered Callie a ride home.
Just then Chet glanced out the window, which offered a view of the country road that curved around the farm.
“Look at this, guys,” he said. “A car just turned on its lights. It must have been parked.”
The Hardys became apprehensive. Why would a car be standing there at this time of night? Frank had a hunch, which he hardly dared think about. “Callie,” he said, “which window did you hear that noise at?”
She pointed to the one nearest the kitchen table. After putting on their coats, the Hardys went outside. They scanned every bit of the glass. Suddenly Frank saw it!
Far in the left-hand corner was a tiny suction disk. Attached to it was a small matchbox-size instrument and a long, trailing wire.
“The place has been bugged!” Frank cried out.
“You know what that means?” Joe said. “Someone in that car heard our conversation about William!”
“What’ll we do now?” Chet asked.
“Get in touch with William and map out an alternate strategy,” Frank said.
Both boys were glum as they dropped Callie off. “Cheer up,” she said. “Things can’t be that bad!”
“You win an Oscar for optimism,” Joe said.
When the Hardys arrived home, they telephoned William. But there was no answer.
“I hope we reach him before his flight leaves tomorrow morning,” Joe said, worried.
They tried every hour all night long, but to no avail.
“Maybe he’s staying with his grandfather,” Joe said. “And we don’t even know his name. It’s his mother’s father.”
The next day the boys waited for a call from New York. The minutes ticked by in silence. Neither boy spoke much, and they picked sparingly at the food on their plates.
Mrs. Hardy tried to cheer them with no results.
Finally, late in the evening, the phone rang. Joe ran to pick it up. A look of horror came over his face as he listened to the voice on the other end.
“Give us that mask if you want to see William alive again!” a man rasped.
CHAPTER VII
Frank’s Brainstorm
THE caller hung up, leaving Joe holding the receiver.
“They’ve got William!” he finally burst out.
“How terrible!” Aunt Gertrude wailed. “I told you to have nothing to do with strangers! If you took my advice, you wouldn’t get into these horrid situations.”
“It’s not the boys’ fault,” their mother defended them. She turned to Frank. “Could it be just an empty threat? Maybe these people are only bluffing.”
The phone rang again. This time Aunt Gertrude snatched up the receiver. The voice on the other end was loud enough to be heard by the others.
“I mean business!”
“So do I!” Aunt Gertrude berated. “You villains leave my nephews alone or I’ll—I’ll—”
Click! The caller hung up.
“Those ruffians make me furious!” The woman huffed.
“You’ll never get anywhere talking like that!” Frank said. “We must be calm and find a way to trick them.”
“Whoever it is, he’ll phone again,” was Joe’s guess. “We can’t turn over the mask without knowing when, where, and how.”
The bell sounded once more and Frank took the call. The voice said, “We’re
not going to give you more than a couple of days to decide.”
“We get the message,” Frank said evenly. “And we don’t want anything to happen to William. How soon shall we make the exchange?”
“I’ll contact you tomorrow. We’ll discuss details then.”
Realizing it was impossible to trace the call, Frank and Joe immediately set off on another tack. First Joe telephoned the airline’s New York office. They were told that William Ellis had debarked at Kennedy International Airport. Had he boarded a plane for Bayport? No, he had not.
“Is his baggage in New York?” Joe asked.
After a long wait he got the answer. “No.”
“Then perhaps it went through to Bayport.”
“That’s a possibility.”
“Thanks for your help,” Joe said, and he hung up.
“Let’s find out right away,” Frank said.
They jumped into their car and rode to Bayport Airport.
“If William’s luggage has arrived,” Joe said, “it might give us a clue.”
The terminal was nearly deserted at that time of night, as most flights had already come in. The baggage master gave the boys his prompt attention. Several suitcases were still unclaimed. Could they possibly identify their friend’s luggage?
It proved to be easy because one of the bags, a tan one that looked rather new, had William Ellis’s name on it in bold white letters.
“That’s it,” Joe said. “May we take it?”
“Not without authority.”
Joe went to a pay phone and called Chief Collig of the Bayport Police Department, a friend who had worked closely with them on many cases. He was not there, but the desk sergeant gave the boy his home phone number. When Collig answered, Joe outlined the case and said they were hoping to find a clue in William’s bag.
“Like what?” asked the chief.
“I don’t know. But can’t we at least bring it to headquarters?”
The chief gave his permission and said that a patrol car would arrive shortly to pick up the suitcase.
When it arrived, the officer signed a receipt and drove to headquarters, with the Hardys following.
By the time they got there, Chief Collig himself had arrived. “This is interesting,” he said. “I’d like to see what’s in the bag.”
The Mysterious Caravan Page 4