In disgust they went back to Tony’s house and told him of their failure.
“It’s all my fault,” Frank said grimly. “I should have put the swords back into the crate.”
“Look, don’t worry about it,” Tony said. “Let’s wash the dishes and then load the truck before something else happens.”
They had almost finished cleaning up the kitchen when the doorbell rang. Could it be Valez again?
“Joe, keep an eye on the garage from the window,” Tony said. “I’ll answer the bell and Frank can help me in case of trouble.”
The tension was broken when Tony opened the door. The caller was the boys’ chubby friend Chet Morton.
“Did I just miss a meal?” Chet chuckled when Frank appeared from behind the door, still holding a dish towel.
“You did.” Frank laughed. “But you’re just in time to help us load about twenty crates onto Tony’s truck.”
Chet groaned and slumped into a chair.
“Okay,” he said. “I walked right into your trap. I’ll carry the little ones.” Then he added, “But tell me what this is all about.”
After giving him a brief account, the boys started the job. As darkness began to settle, Tony confided in Frank that he would feel better with police protection.
Frank agreed. “Let’s call Chief Collig. He’ll be at headquarters now. He doesn’t go off duty until late in the evening.”
Tony phoned and told the chief what had taken place during the day.
“Seems as if you’ve got some serious trouble on your hands,” Collig said after he heard about the attack on Joe. “I’ll send a patrol car over to escort you to the museum. And keep me posted if anything else happens.”
“Will do,” Tony promised. “And thanks, Chief.”
The four boys worked quickly to have the truck loaded before the arrival of the police car.
“Here it comes!” Joe called as Tony swung the last crate into position.
The squad car pulled over to the curb and the policeman called out to the boys. “Ready?”
“Right,” Tony replied.
“I’ll go ahead, and you follow. Honk if you have any trouble in the back.”
“Okay.”
Tony backed the truck into the street. “Anyone who tries to play games this time will get a hot reception,” he remarked.
On the way to the Howard Museum, the boys talked about the possible dangers that faced them. Tony recalled Valez’s angry threat and wondered if even the police escort would stop the man from attempting a robbery.
“I’d hate to meet a guy with a blowgun out here,” Chet said with a shiver. “He could hide in the bushes. It’s mighty eerie in this area.”
Minutes later the patrol car swung to the right and entered the curving, dimly lighted driveway of the ivy-covered museum. As the truck followed, all eyes searched the shrubbery surrounding the building. But there was no sign of anyone lying in wait.
Tony grunted in relief. “Boy, am I glad that’s over!”
The massive door creaked open and the slender figure of the curator appeared. Mr. Scath hurried down the steps and greeted the boys, then told them to move the crates into the basement.
“Let’s hurry,” Tony urged. “The sooner we get this stuff behind that door, the better I’ll feel.”
As the four lugged the boxes from the truck, the officer kept an alert watch for Tony’s enemy. For fifteen minutes the tense operation continued. Finally Joe picked up the last crate and called to the policeman that the job was finished.
The officer smiled. “In case you run into any more trouble, just call us,” he said and drove off.
Mr. Scath bolted the big door and accompanied the boys to the basement. His eyes flashed with excitement.
“I can hardly wait to make a careful study of these pieces,” he said. “From what you told me, Tony, there might be some real treasures here.”
Tony nodded thoughtfully. “I sure appreciate your help, Mr. Scath,” he said. “And if you can give me an appraisal, I’ll know what the collection is worth.”
The curator opened one of the crates and pulled out a few items. “Some things,” he said, “won’t amount to anything, of course. Like this box, for instance.”
He examined an object that looked like an ordinary cigarette box. It was about four inches long and was made of dark wood, with a sign painted on it in yellow.
He was just about to toss it back into the crate when Frank stopped him. “If Tony doesn’t want it,” he said, “I’ll take it. I like the design.”
“Help yourself,” Tony said. “Well,” the curator said, “it’s getting late. Come back some other time and we’ll check everything out. Okay?”
“Any time you say,” Tony replied.
Mr. Scath walked to the door and beckoned the boys to precede him. Then he locked up. Joe led the way upstairs to the main hall.
Suddenly he stopped short. He held out his hand for silence and gazed toward the room where a mummy and several sarcophagi were on display.
“Mr. Scath,” he said in a low voice, “is anyone working in the building?”
“No,” the curator assured him. “Nobody’s here except us.”
“Sh.h!” Joe warned.
A sharp scraping noise came from the mummy room. A muffled sound followed.
As Mr. Scath switched on all the hall lights, the Hardys, Chet, and Tony ran toward the room. Frank stopped at the door, flicked the light switch, and quickly surveyed the pillared exhibition hall. There was no sign of an intruder.
“There must be someone in the museum!” Mr. Scath whispered nervously. “Quick! One of you inspect upstairs. The rest search this floor!”
Chet, nearest to the spiral steps, gripped the iron rail and started up. Frank and Joe dashed to the left of the Egyptian Room. Mr. Scath and Tony headed through the middle of the hall.
“What a spooky place!” Joe exclaimed in hushed tones to his brother. He was looking into an open sarcophagus and saw the painted face of the mummy which lay in an inner coffin.
“Don’t worry about the spooks!” Frank replied. “But do you smell smoke?” he asked, sniffing.
“I sure do,” Joe answered, alarmed.
A strong odor of smoke soon filled their nostrils. It was hard to tell where it was coming from, but both boys dashed among the sarcophagi to locate its source.
“Here it is!” Joe cried out a moment later. “Mr. Scath, Frank—come here quick!”
As the curator appeared in the aisle, followed by Frank and Tony, Joe pointed to a slightly opened, ornately designed sarcophagus. Gray-white smoke was pouring from it.
“Give me a hand!” Mr. Scath cried. “Lift up the cover!”
Tony and Joe put their shoulders against the lid and forced it upward. The smoke thinned into a column, exposing, atop the coffin inside, a cone-shaped pile of embers!
Frank took off his sports shirt and smothered the glow that remained in the embers.
“Whoever made this fire must still be in the building!” Mr. Scath warned. “No one could get in or out of here without the keys that I have in my pocket. That means someone must have hidden in here before nine o’clock.”
“Say!” Joe exclaimed. “Wonder if Chet’s found out anything.” He called out, but there was no reply from the second floor.
“We’ll search the entire building for the intruder,” Mr. Scath said grimly. “He can’t get away. We’ll start in the basement.”
The Hardys, worried about Chet’s failure to answer, decided that one of them should run upstairs to check on their friend.
“I’ll go,” Frank volunteered. “Joe, you help Mr. Scath and Tony.” Frank headed for the same staircase that Chet had taken.
As the others were about to go down to the basement, Mr. Scath decided to remove the embers from the sarcophagus. “There’s too much danger of their containing a spark or two. Wait here.”
The curator got a small shovel and an empty metal wastebasket from his office and r
eturned to the sarcophagus. He was about to drop the ashes into the basket when Joe suddenly stopped him.
“Mr. Scath, I’d like to take the ashes to our lab to study them.”
“Certainly,” the curator agreed. “Mighty good idea.” He had heard of the modern, fully equipped, crime-detection laboratory that the Hardys had set up on the second floor of their garage.
Joe got a museum specimen envelope and the curator carefully poured a large sample of the ashes and charred remains into it. Joe sealed the envelope and slipped it into his pocket.
“Now let’s find the intruder!” Mr. Scath urged, and the trio headed for the basement.
Suddenly, from the second floor, came a crash and a bloodcurdling shriek!
CHAPTER IV
Skylight Escape
ELECTRIFIED by the piercing outcry from upstairs, Joe and Tony dashed up the spiral stairway. Mr. Scath followed as quickly as he could.
Frank had already reached Chet, who admitted yelling. He said he had not heard Joe calling him. “B-but I wish I had,” he added, slowly getting to his feet and leaning against the wall opposite the American Indian Gallery. His face was white and he rubbed the side of his head.
“When I looked into the American Indian hall I saw that figure start to move!” He pointed to the tall statue of a Cherokee chieftain lying across the passageway.
“What?” Joe asked.
“It walked!” Chet insisted. “Then suddenly it toppled over.”
“No doubt the intruder moved it!” Scath said.
“Right,” Chet said. “When it fell over, it hit me on the side of my head. It knocked me down and the guy got away!”
“He can’t be far,” Frank said grimly. “Let’s keep looking!”
The search continued for half an hour. Methodically the group went from top to bottom of the museum. There were no windows on the first floor, and those on the second floor were locked.
“I’d better call the police,” Mr. Scath finally decided.
But Frank was reluctant to admit defeat yet.
“If every door and window is locked, I want to find out how that intruder got away.”
“How about the skylight?” Joe suggested.
“There’s just the one in the prints gallery on the top floor,” Mr. Scath answered. “I never thought of that. It’s not fitted with a special lock!”
Frank and Joe went up to the third floor and looked at the skylight. It was open!
“The intruder went across the roof and down the ivy vines,” Joe said.
Frank nodded. “No doubt. We don’t have a chance of catching up with him now.”
The Hardys returned to the second floor and told Mr. Scath of their discovery. The curator explained that the skylight was checked every evening at closing time. “Obviously the intruder must have hidden in the museum before the staff left,” he concluded. “Well, we’ve done all we can. Better get some sleep,” he advised. “We can discuss the mystery another time.”
“Did you report this incident to Chief Collig?” Frank asked.
“Yes. I told him you were out here working on it.”
“Maybe when we analyze the ashes from the fire in the sarcophagus we’ll find a clue,” Joe said.
After Frank climbed up and locked the skylight, the group headed for the ground floor. Mr. Scath asked if Tony would mind following his car in the truck. “With all the odd things going on around here tonight, I don’t feel much like driving home alone,” he said.
Joe offered to ride with the curator. Tony would follow. The car moved slowly along the driveway and turned into the main road.
Its two passengers rode for a couple of blocks in silence. Then Joe remembered the arrowhead that had been fired at him from the blowgun earlier that day. It was still in his pocket. He pulled it out.
“Mr. Scath,” he said when the curator stopped for a red light, “do you know what country this comes from?”
Scath picked up the object from Joe’s palm. He examined it carefully. “Hm! I have never seen one quite like this before,” he said slowly.
“Where would you guess it’s from?” Joe prodded.
“That would be hard to say,” Scath replied. “Could be from South America. But I can’t be sure.”
Joe slipped the arrowhead back into his pocket. After getting out at Mr. Scath’s home, he stepped up into the truck. On the way to Chet’s house he told his brother about his conversation with the curator.
“Maybe that’s where Valez is from,” Frank said thoughtfully.
Tony dropped Chet off, then the Hardys.
“Let us know if you hear from Valez again,” Frank called as he drove off.
The boys went upstairs to their bedroom. Joe noticed it was past midnight. Then he eyed Frank, who stood in the middle of the room, lost in thought.
“Hey, for a fellow who’s been on the go since eight o’clock yesterday morning, you don’t seem very sleepy, Frank!” he said.
“I’m not. Why don’t we analyze those ashes you sampled?”
Joe yawned. “Okay. But let’s try not to wake up Mother. She’ll think we’re crazy to work so late.”
The boys removed their shoes, put on moccasins, and headed for the laboratory.
“Set up the microtome,” Frank suggested. “I’ll get the photomicrograph ready.”
Joe shook out the contents of the envelope and selected one of the firmer tiny charred pieces. He clamped this in place on the microtome. Then, running a finely honed knife blade delicately through it, Joe cut off a section.
“What thickness?” he asked.
“About two thousandths of an inch,” Frank replied.
Working carefully, Joe cut other tissue-thin sections from several angles, letting them drop onto a glass slide. In a few moments Frank had prepared several photomicrographs of them, showing distinct wood grains.
“Now we’ll see what was burning in the sarcophagus,” Frank said as he prepared to project the first lantern slide.
The enlarged curves in the picture revealed clear patterns. Frank compared them with a chart in an encyclopedia.
“The grain matches the mahogany,” he said. The boys examined the pattern again and compared it with further angle shots. “It’s Central American mahogany!” Frank concluded. “And Valez could be from there!”
“And the arrowhead!” Joe added. “It all points to Central and South America!”
“First thing tomorrow we’ll airmail that arrowhead to Dad’s friend Mr. Hopewell in Chicago,” Frank decided. “He’ll be able to identify it. He’s a specialist in primitive weapons.”
After storing the packet of ashes and the lantern slides in their small safe, the boys tiptoed back to their bedroom. A few moments later they were sleeping soundly.
In the morning Joe woke up first. “Hm! I smell bacon and eggs,” he said and jumped out of bed.
Fifteen minutes later both brothers were in the kitchen, saying good morning to their Aunt Gertrude, Mr. Hardy’s tall, angular sister, who stood at the stove.
Presently their mother joined them and they all sat down at the dining-room table.
“What are you two up to now?” Aunt Gertrude asked as she passed bacon and buns.
Frank gave an account of the curios, the missile, the chase, and the events at the museum.
“Too bad your father’s out of town,” Mrs. Hardy remarked. “I’m sure he’d be interested in this.” Then, with a note of anxiety in her voice, she added, “Please be careful. Especially of this man who walks around with a blowgun!”
“Don’t worry, Mom,” Frank said. “We’ll be on guard every minute.”
Breakfast was almost over when the telephone rang.
“Might be Fenton,” Aunt Gertrude suggested.
“Or Mr. Scath,” Frank said.
“I’ll get it,” Joe offered, pushing back his chair. He disappeared and picked up the phone.
“Hello.”
“Joe,” replied the excited voice of Tony Prito, “Valez just
phoned again.”
“Boy! He doesn’t waste any time, does he? What did he say?”
“He made threats against Frank and you!”
CHAPTER V
Missing Valuables
“VALEZ threatened us?” Joe exclaimed. “Why, Tony?”
“He says that you’re interfering with my selling him the collection. I told him you had nothing to do with it. I wouldn’t sell it, anyway. Boy, was he mad! Told me in no uncertain terms that if I didn’t give him what he wanted and you guys didn’t keep out of this deal he’d get all of us!”
“Wonder how Valez knows that we’re friends,” Joe asked.
“He must have found out somehow. Called you those Hardy boys.”
When Frank heard about the threat he began to speculate about what to do next.
“Now listen to me!” Aunt Gertrude interrupted. “You’d better pay attention to that warning. There’s no sense in waiting until danger’s right on top of you.”
The front doorbell sounded and the lecture ended. A tall, broad-shouldered stranger with red hair was standing on the porch. Several tattoo marks covered his thick bared forearms.
“Good morning,” Frank said politely.
“Are you one of the Hardy boys?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Willie Wortman,” the man began in a voice that seemed no less friendly than his handshake. “I’m from New York.”
“Did you arrive here this morning?” Joe asked as they entered the living room. Frank swung a chair around for the caller.
“Yes.”
Wortman explained that he was a seaman on a freighter plying to Central and South America. At the mention of these last words Joe and Frank exchanged glances.
“Well,” Wortman continued, “my ship docked in New York last week. After I was paid off, I went to visit an old shopkeeper friend of mine—a man named Roberto Prito.”
“Prito!” Frank exclaimed.
“Yes,” Wortman went on. “But my friend had died and his shop was locked tight. I sure felt bad. He was a good guy.” After a pause the sailor continued. “I was disappointed, too, because I’d hoped to pick up two medallions there—one the size of a half dollar, the other somewhat larger.
The Clue in the Embers Page 2
