The Mysterious Caravan

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Frank laughed. “To a costume party maybe.”

  Farther on was a stand devoted to sandalwood from Indonesia. “This is burned for incense,” Christine remarked and added, “Look, there is the leather-goods shop.”

  The stall was hung with all kinds of clothing made of leather. “It smells like a new football,” Chet remarked, as he sniffed the air.

  The owner spoke rapidly in French. Frank said, “Do you speak English?”

  “Non, Monsieur,” He looked sadly at them until Christine smiled and addressed him in the melodious language he was accustomed to.

  Acting as their interpreter, she described a beautiful leather coat the boys had seen in the United States. It had carried a Paris label. Who could have bought it?

  The man at first did not seem to understand, but suddenly his face brightened. “Yes,” he said, “I made a few special garments for the French company and inserted the labels myself. But before I could ship them abroad, a customer bought one right here.”

  “Do you remember who he was?” Christine asked.

  The leather man seemed pleased that praise for his work had reached America. “Oui, Mademoiselle.”

  He was about to open his mouth again, when his eyes fell on something in the crowd. A look of fright crossed his face. His mouth shut tight, and with a grim look he turned and walked to the rear of his shop.

  “What’d he see?” Chet asked. “A ghost?”

  “Maybe someone gave him the high sign to quit talking,” was Frank’s guess.

  Christine added, “Perhaps it was the buyer himself!”

  “We’re being spied on,” Joe declared. “There’s no doubt about that!”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Frank said.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Chet said. “I’ve got my eye on that vest over there. Wouldn’t that look great with my checkered sport jacket?”

  Christine smiled and said, “I will stay with Chet and help him bargain.”

  “Okay, we’ll meet you outside,” Frank said, and the boys hurried off. They walked back through the teeming alley of the souq, glancing at everyone who wore European clothing. But Scott was not among them.

  “And to think he may be living right here in Marrakesh,” William said, frustrated.

  “Not only that,” Frank added. “He knows we’re here.”

  “Probably has our photos, too,” Joe put in. “Frank, this could be dangerous.”

  When they emerged from the souq into the glaring sunshine, the first thing they saw was the snake charmer.

  “Let’s watch the act,” Frank suggested, “while Chet’s making up his mind about that vest. No use to look for our elusive friend any more.”

  The snake charmer, bareheaded and dressed in a dirty djellabah, sat cross-legged before an earthen jar. About his shoulders was coiled a large black snake. He picked up a flute and began to play a weird, random tune.

  A cobra’s head appeared from the jar. Its eyes shone like black diamonds, and its tongue flickered as the hood rose ominously. Then, to the delight of the onlookers, the cobra swayed to and fro to the rhythm of the music.

  The crowd, which had been sitting back some fifteen feet or so, pressed in closer to watch the dancing snake. Most were Arabs, but a handful of gaping tourists were among them.

  The music stopped. The snake charmer spoke harshly to the cobra and its head disappeared into the jar. Then he stood up with the large black snake still over his shoulders. He smiled, showing a gleaming gold tooth, and begged for coins.

  The spectators flung a few in his direction, as did the Hardys and William. The man walked up to the trio, pulled the snake from over his head and offered to drape it on one of them.

  William spoke a few words of Swahili, where-upon the man grinned broadly and nodded.

  “I will try it,” William said. “He says it is harmless.”

  With that the snake charmer put the reptile over the Jamaican boy’s head, and William began to stroke it.

  “This baby is really cold,” he said.

  The snake charmer now hissed a few words to his beast. Instantly the snake coiled around William’s chest; then it covered his face, so the boy’s shouts of protest became muffled grunts.

  The man danced around, as Frank and Joe tried to pull the reptile from William’s body. But it was like a band of steel!

  “He’ll be killed!” Joe stormed at the Arab. “Get it off!”

  CHAPTER XVII

  The Purple Vat

  WHILE William and the Hardys struggled with the snake, the Arabs in the crowd laughed gleefully. Finally one of them, with a neat beard and spotless djellabah, touched Frank on the arm. He spoke good English.

  “This is part of the act,” he said. “The snake will not hurt your friend. You must pay the owner a fee, however, to get it off.”

  Frank whirled about. “How much?”

  “You have United States dollars?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suggest you give him one.”

  Frank whipped open his wallet and threw a greenback in the direction of the snake charmer. The man stepped forward to retrieve the money. Then he clapped the reptile on the head, spoke rapidly, and the snake let go. With a sinuous movement, it climbed back on its master’s shoulders.

  “Are you all right?” Joe asked William.

  “It did not hurt me, but I was quite startled,” the boy replied.

  They looked about for Chet and Christine, who had not yet appeared. Joe grew impatient. “I’m going back into the shop,” he said. “Meet you here in a little while.”

  He sidled through the murmuring crowd. Finally he saw his friends coming. Chet held a package under his arm.

  “Where’ve you been?” Joe asked.

  “We had to do quite a bit of bargaining after the shopkeeper decided to talk to us again,” Christine explained.

  “He had just what I wanted,” Chet added, affectionately patting his package.

  “Well, come on now,” Joe said, “the fellows are waiting.” He was about to tell them about the snake, when he happened to glance back toward the leather shop. He noticed a man in native dress duck into the place. A ray of sunlight flashed across his face for a split second.

  “It’s Scott! I’m sure it’s Scott!” Joe exclaimed.

  “What? Where?” Chet asked.

  “He went into the shop. Look, you go and get the others. Christine and I will try to eavesdrop.”

  “But——” Chet began to protest.

  “Vamoose!” Joe ordered, and gave him a push. Chet realized that this was no time to argue and left.

  Joe and Christine pushed through toward the merchant’s stall and stopped at the rug bazaar next to it.

  “In here!” the boy whispered.

  They wriggled into the hanging folds of a Persian rug, unnoticed by the proprietor, whose back was turned. Once concealed, they listened intently. Voices were coming from the leather shop. The men were speaking French. The man Joe thought was Scott, was being addressed as Monsieur Dubonnet. His new coat, the shopkeeper said, was not ready yet.

  Christine translated in a hushed whisper.

  “There has to be fine needlework in the lining,” the artisan declared. “Give me a few more days, Monsieur Dubonnet.”

  “But I am very busy,” was the annoyed reply. “I need it right away.”

  “I will send it to your home,” the merchant offered.

  “Good.”

  With his heart pounding, Joe heard the man give his address in French. “Did you get it, Christine?”

  She bobbed her head.

  Joe peeked out of the rug in time to see the man press money into the hand of the artisan.

  “If you see or hear anything of those Americans again,” he said, “let me know.” Then he left.

  The young people stepped out of hiding and Joe declared, “It’s Scott for sure. Let’s go after him!”

  The man had concealed his face in the hood of the djellabah and was striding toward the exit
of the souq.

  “Here come the others now,” Christine said.

  Frank, Chet, and William passed Scott, nearly touching elbows. Joe gestured wildly, but Frank did not get the message. Instead he called out, “Joe, was that really Scott?”

  “Yes!” Joe replied, pressing forward as fast as he could. “He just passed you. Come on, we can still chase him.”

  But the shouting had alerted the man. He dashed in and out among the shoppers, with the pursuers on his heels. The djellabah retarded Scott’s speed somewhat, but nevertheless he kept a safe distance ahead as he crossed over the open area and dashed to a gate in the city wall.

  “Balik! Balik!” Chet cried, and the Arabs melted to one side. Outside the wall, they found themselves on a broad, dusty street. It was cluttered with carts, donkeys, and decrepit old automobiles, chugging along and laden with produce for the market.

  “We’ll catch him this time!” Joe cried out as he tried to keep pace with William’s long strides.

  Finally the fugitive reached a narrow slit cut into the ramparts. It contained a row of steps leading to the top of the wall. The man raced up, with the others in pursuit. William reached the top of the stairs first, in time to see Scott glide over several flat roofs and disappear.

  “There he goes!” William said.

  The others were at the spot in seconds and looked down over the edge to see a strange sight. In an area of several acres stood huge open vats half filled with dyes. They were yellow, red, and purple. A pungent smell rose from them.

  “What crazy swimming pools,” Chet quipped.

  “This is where wool is dyed,” Christine said. “Usually many men work here, but today is a holiday.”

  “Scott must be hiding among those vats!” Frank said. He put a hand on the edge of the wall and vaulted down. The others followed.

  The ground around the vats was mucky from dye that had dripped over the edges, and the boys slipped and slid in their haste to search around the gooey vats.

  Finally Frank shouted, “There he is!”

  Scott jumped up from behind his cover and ran off as fast as he could, the hem of his djellabah splashed with a rainbow of colors.

  Joe was the first to get anywhere near him. With a desperate lunge, the young detective clawed at the cloak and stopped the man short.

  “There he goes!” William said.

  Scott turned on him, cursing in French. With strength that Joe had not anticipated, Scott pinned his arms to his sides and lifted him up to the rim of a purple vat! Looking down into the fluid, the boy flailed about furiously. If he were thrown into the dye, it might be fatal!

  CHAPTER XVIII

  The Sixty-Forty Deal

  JOE struggled desperately. Finally he succeeded. Scott lost his grip and the boy fell down, into the muck outside the vat.

  Scott crouched for a moment before darting off again. By this time the others had reached Joe and helped him up. Both his arms were purple.

  “Hurry!” Christine said. “We must get him cleaned off right away. If the dye has sufficient time to set, his arms might be stained for a year!”

  Too messy to use a taxi, they boosted and pulled one another up to the rooftop again, hurried down the stone steps, and jogged along the road toward the Cellier home.

  Christine’s mother greeted them at the door with a baffled look. “What happened?” she exclaimed.

  “Joe fell near a dye vat,” the girl said. “We need some strong soap, Mother. If you bring it out, I will use the garden hose.”

  Mrs. Cellier returned with laundry soap and a box of washing detergent. Joe scrubbed for ten minutes, while his brother played the hose over his arms.

  “I guess that’s about all that’ll come off now,” Frank remarked finally.

  Joe looked at his arms. They were still rather dark. William broke into a white-toothed smile and said, “Joe, now we are brothers! Can you lend me a dollar?”

  As the others laughed, Joe playfully reached for his wallet. Then a look of horror crossed his face. “It’s gone! My wallet’s gone! It must have dropped beside the vat!”

  “I remember Scott bending down,” Frank said. “I’ll bet he picked it up!”

  “I will go back and look,” William offered.

  “I’m coming with you,” Chet said.

  While the others cleaned their shoes, the two hurried off. Half an hour later they returned to say that a diligent search had failed to produce the missing wallet.

  “That does it!” Joe said in disgust. “Now Scott has the map!”

  “What a rotten break,” Frank agreed. “Lucky I’ve got the other copy.”

  “Now what?” Chet asked.

  “We’re going to Scott’s apartment to see if we can get that map back!” Frank said. “What was the address, Christine?”

  The girl wrote it on a piece of paper. “I would go with you if I could,” she said. “But I have a meeting with a scholarship committee. You see, I intend to study medicine in Paris next fall.”

  “We can find our way,” Frank said. “Besides, we’d better not all go anyway. That would be too obvious.”

  It was decided that he and William would take on the assignment. They were to meet Joe and Chet later at the hotel.

  “But I would advise,” Christine said, “that you wear djellabahs.”

  “Good idea,” Frank agreed. “Where do we get them?”

  “My father has several. They will fit you.”

  Clothed in the Arab costumes, Frank and William set off immediately to the Gueliz, the French quarter where Scott-Dubonnet lived. Using a taxi, they found the street and stopped at the number indicated.

  It was a small modern apartment house. The names of the tenants were listed above the mail-boxes in the foyer.

  “Here it is,” William said. “Dubonnet. Second floor, apartment B.”

  The companions ascended the narrow stairs quietly and moved along the hall about half-a-dozen paces until they faced 2B. Voices could be heard inside.

  “I’m glad they’re speaking English!” Frank whispered.

  Tossing back the hoods of their djellabahs, the boys pressed close to the door to eavesdrop. Unmistakably, two of the voices belonged to Scott and Sam Brown! The words of several others were indistinct.

  Brown said, “Come in on the deal with us. When we capture the Hardys tonight, we’ll force the secret of the mask from them.”

  Scott laughed as if enjoying a big joke.

  “What’s so funny about that?” Brown demanded, obviously annoyed.

  “I have your secret already,” was the reply.

  Now Frank and William heard the crinkle of unfolding tissue. “Here it is,” Scott said.

  There was a moment of silence, followed by murmurs of disbelief.

  “How did you get it?” This was Tiffany Stribling.

  “How? Well, it took some doing, but that’s my secret.”

  “Wait a minute,” Brown said. “Here’s the mask. Let’s check this out.”

  Again silence, and the boys realized that the criminals must be confused by the upside-down reading of the lines traced on the tissue. After a few minutes, Stribling discovered what Chet had stumbled upon. “Pretty clever. It’s reversed. This seems to be authentic.”

  Scott spoke again. “Now listen. We have money to finance this treasure hunt, and the map. We’ll make a sixty-forty split. Sixty for us.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” Brown said, his voice rising.

  “Have it your way, then. We’ll part company.”

  Mumbling and grumbling followed, after which Stribling said, “Aker took care of that gumshoe Hardy. What more do you want?”

  “I want sixty-forty!” Scott replied harshly. “How do I know that your man really rubbed out the detective?”

  “He did. George has never failed an assignment.”

  Frank turned ashen. Had his father paid with his life to pursue this case?

  William whispered, “I am sorry, man. I am really sorry.”
r />   “All right, you win.” Stribling said finally.

  “Good,” Scott said. “Here’s money to get a couple of jeeps and supplies. We’ll leave——”

  Just then footsteps sounded at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Let’s go,” Frank said quietly, pulling up his hood. The two boys started down the stairway. Frank stole a look at the man who pushed past them.

  The cab driver from Casablanca!

  “Pardon,” he said and looked directly at the young detective. Then he cried out in alarm. “Dubonnet! Hurry!”

  As the boys reached the foot of the stairs and raced out the door, they could hear a commotion behind them.

  “There they go! Frank Hardy and an Arab!”

  The boys found an alley and dashed through to a parallel street. A taxi passed by and they leaped into it. As it started off, their enemies, waving their arms and shouting, tried in vain to pursue them.

  When the boys arrived at the hotel, they met Joe and Chet in the lobby.

  “Did you get my wallet?” Joe asked. Then he noticed his brother’s disturbed expression. “What’s the matter? Did anything happen?”

  “It’s Dad,” Frank replied, hardly able to control his voice. “They got him!”

  “What?”

  “Hold it. Now wait,” William objected, trying to calm the grief-stricken boy. “Remember, Stribling said that Aker was supposed to get your father. But there is no proof! Even Tiffany does not know if his man was successful.”

  With tears welling in his eyes, Joe hastened to a telephone booth. “I’m phoning home.”

  It took twenty minutes for the call to go through, giving the boys anxious moments to consider their predicament.

  “If anything has happened to Dad,” Frank said, “we’ll have to return to the States right away.”

  “Of course,” William said. “But do not give up yet!”

  Mrs. Hardy finally answered and was surprised to hear from the boys.

  “How’s Dad? Is he all right?” Joe blurted.

  “Oh, I suppose so. But he isn’t here right now.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I really don’t know. He took an overnight bag with him and said he’d get in touch with me later.”

  Joe bit his lip. What should he say?