The Clue in the Embers

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “I heard from a neighbor of Roberto that a large shipment of objects from the shop had been sent to Tony Prito here in Bayport. Figuring the medallions might have been in the shipment, I came on out. I went to Tony’s house as soon as I got into town. He says he’s pretty sure they’re not in the collection. Tony had to take the truck out on a rush job for his dad, so he advised me to come here and talk to you about them.”

  “Did those two medallions belong to you?” Frank asked.

  “Yes,” Wortman replied. “I got them from a buddy who has since been killed. A short time ago, when I was broke, I hocked them with Roberto.”

  “And you’re trying to buy them back?” Frank asked.

  “Y-yes.” His halting reply puzzled the boys. Wortman went on, “I guess I may be a bit foolish about going to such trouble to locate them. I’d just like to get hold of them for the sake of sentiment—something to remember my friend by.”

  “What do the medallions look like?” Frank asked.

  Wortman explained that the medallions were made of some cheap metal, and had a design of curving lines. In addition, the larger one had a fake opal set in it, while the other had the word Texichapi inscribed on it.

  “What does that mean?” Joe asked.

  “I don’t know,” the seaman replied.

  “We went through the whole shipment,” Frank said, “and I’m positive the medallions are not part of it. But we’ll look again. If we find them, you’ll have to make arrangements with Tony.”

  “That’s fair enough,” the visitor replied. “Here’s where you can contact me.” He handed Frank a piece of paper with a New York address. Then he rose from his chair, thanked the boys, and started for the door. Suddenly he stopped short.

  “There’s one more thing,” he said. “I was told in a seaport down in Central America that there’s a curse connected with those medallions.”

  “A curse!” Joe exclaimed.

  “Right. Trouble will come to anyone who sells these objects. That’s the real reason why I want to get them back.”

  The boys accompanied Wortman to the front door, then returned to the dining room to finish their breakfast. They discussed the sailor’s strange story.

  “Do you think he was telling the truth?” Joe asked his brother.

  “I think the part about the curse was trumped up,” Frank replied. “His imagination probably got the better of him. But the rest sounds real enough.”

  “Let’s ask Mr. Cosgrove at the New York bank who’s acting as executor of Prito’s will if he’s come across the medallions.”

  “I’ll call Tony and ask him to get in touch with him,” Frank said.

  Later that morning Tony called back, saying that Mr. Cosgrove had no record of the two medallions.

  Where could they be? What had Roberto Prito done with them? Had he sold them, or was Wortman’s story a fake?

  Their discussion was interrupted by a long-distance call from Mr. Hardy. He was in New York City. He told his sons news of general interest about his latest case, then said, “I was offered an assignment that sounded intriguing, but I had to turn it down because I’m too busy. Upon the recommendation of a detective agency here, a man by the name of Alberto Torres called on me at my hotel.”

  “Who’s he?” Frank asked.

  “He claimed to be the head of a Guatemalan patriotic society,” his father explained. “He says his group is trying to uncover a treasure of antiquity. They don’t know where it is, but suspect that its location is known to some unscrupulous people who are trying to steal it. Naturally, the treasure belongs to the government.”

  “Maybe we could work on it until you’d be ready to take over,” Frank suggested. “Did Torres have any idea where it is at all?”

  “He said that their only lead is a couple of medallions which have disappeared,” Mr. Hardy answered.

  “Medallions!” Frank exclaimed, and quickly related what had happened in the detective’s absence. Mr. Hardy listened intently and told Frank that he would try at once to contact Torres.

  “Hang up,” he said, “and I’ll call you back as soon as I’ve talked with him.”

  Minutes passed. Finally the phone rang.

  “Bad luck,” the boys’ father reported. “Torres checked out of his hotel and left no forwarding address.”

  “Can’t we do something about finding him?” Frank asked. “Maybe he’s going to contact Willie Wortman in New York City.”

  His father agreed that this was a possibility but said that he had to leave for Washington. He suggested that the boys fly to New York and see Wortman, and also check again with the bank’s records regarding the curios. There might be a tie-in between the two men interested in the medallions. Perhaps they could pick up a clue on Torres and Wortman.

  “What does Torres look like?” Frank asked.

  “Short, slender, dark. He has a prominent chin and a black mustache.”

  “That description fits the blowgun man!” Frank exclaimed.

  Mr. Hardy said that it could not be the same man because Torres had been talking to him in New York at the time the missile had been fired at Joe.

  An hour later Frank, Joe, and Tony were winging toward New York City on a double mission.

  “First thing to do,” Frank suggested, “is to call Wortman.” As soon as they arrived in the city, they looked him up in the telephone book. His number was not listed and the boys went to see Mr. Cosgrove.

  At the bank they were received cordially and given permission to investigate the shopkeeper’s private records.

  Finding nothing, the boys turned to a diary. “Here’s something of interest!” Joe exclaimed.

  “It says, first of all, that Roberto Prito did buy the medallions from Willie Wortman.”

  “That confirms part of Willie’s story,” Tony said.

  “And according to the diary,” Joe continued, “they were actually in the possession of Tony’s uncle when he died. But now listen. In a separate notation it says, ‘These medallions seem old and valuable. The strange design may indicate they are a clue to something. I will study them later.’ ”

  “Mr. Cosgrove,” Frank said abruptly, “may we look Mr. Prito’s store over?”

  “Of course. I’ll get the key for you.”

  “Looking for Torres can wait,” Joe said excitedly as the banker went off. “Let’s try to find the medallions or the reason why they’ve disappeared!”

  Twenty minutes later they were inserting the key into the padlock of the late Roberto Prito’s shop on a Greenwich Village street.

  “I’ll lead the way,” Tony said. “I know where the office is.”

  Bolting the door on the inside, the trio started for the rear of the empty shop.

  Frank, a few paces behind, noticed an unusual showcase standing at an odd angle. His detecting instincts aroused, he moved the case and dropped to his knees. At first glance the floorboards under it looked the same as the others. But after close study Frank thought he could see the outline of what might be a trap door.

  “Maybe there’s a secret cellar under here!” he thought excitedly.

  He tried to pull up the boards with his fingers. Failing, Frank pressed each board separately.

  A moment later the whole section suddenly caved in. Frank lost his balance and crashed downward into inky blackness!

  CHAPTER VI

  Mr. Bones

  PITCHING headlong into the dark cellar below, Frank struck his head sharply against a packing case. He fell onto the concrete floor, unconscioust

  In the store above, Tony had led Joe into the small office at the rear of the long room. A high partition darkened this section of the shop. Tony switched on a light.

  “Where’s Frank?” he asked.

  “He was right behind me—” Joe began, looking out the office door. “I wonder what happened.”

  “Frank!” Tony called. “Frank, where are you?” They retraced their steps, and peered into the street. Frank was not in sight.

&n
bsp; “It’s just as if he were swallowed up in the—” Joe suddenly spotted the black rectangle behind the showcase.

  “Look!” he cried. “A trap door! Frank must have fallen through.” He called his brother’s name but there was no response.

  From his coat pocket Joe took the small flashlight he always carried and beamed it below.

  “There he is!” Joe gasped. “I’ve got to get down and help him! Must be a ladder here somewhere.”

  He beamed his light and found a short ladder hinged flat under the floor. Unhooking it, he let the ladder down. Both boys climbed into the cellar.

  Joe carefully checked Frank’s condition. “Wind’s knocked out of him,” he told Tony a moment later, “and he has a nasty bruise on his head, but I guess that’s all.”

  As Joe spoke, Frank moved for the first time. He shook his head and made an attempt to sit up.

  “Take it easy, fellow,” Joe warned him.

  With the boys’ assistance Frank got to his feet. “What hit me?” he asked dazedly.

  Tony raised the beam of his flashlight to the trap door and explained what had happened. Revived, but still somewhat groggy, Frank started for the ladder. “Guess I touched a secret spring.”

  “Just a second,” Tony said. “Let’s look in these packing cases. We may find something interesting.”

  Near him on the floor lay a claw hammer. Tony pried open a single board on each of the cases. “Here’s something I didn’t see on the lists.” He held up a small antique statuette of a Chinese horseman.

  “Evidently Mr. Cosgrove doesn’t know about these boxes,” Joe remarked.

  “Maybe the medallions are in here somewhere!” Tony said excitedly. “Let’s have a look!”

  But Joe noticed that Frank was not steady on his feet. “We’d better wait,” he said. “Frank might have a concussion and should see a doctor.”

  “Okay,” Tony agreed. “We’ll do it tomorrow. Mr. Cosgrove might want to join us, too.”

  Joe examined the trap door and discovered how the hidden spring worked. Then he closed it and the boys departed.

  It turned out that Frank had no serious injuries, but the doctor recommended a day’s rest because of the nasty bump on his head. The trio registered at a hotel and after settling down in their room Tony phoned Mr. Cosgrove. He agreed to accompany the boys to the shop the next morning. The bank knew nothing about the curios in the cellar room, he said, and therefore they had not been listed.

  Frank lay down on the bed, grumbling that he was really feeling fine. “You’ll feel even better tomorrow,” Joe quipped. “Just stay put. Tony and I will do a little looking around for Torres while you relax.”

  At the information desk in the lobby Joe asked for the names of hotels in New York City where Central Americans might stay to be with other Spanish-speaking people, then he and Tony left. First they tried Wortman’s house, but he was not home. Then they checked the hotels. It was several hours later when they returned.

  “Wind’s knocked out of him,” Joe said

  “Any luck?” Frank asked.

  “No,” Joe replied. “Torres has probably left town.”

  After a hearty breakfast the next morning the boys returned to the Prito shop. Mr. Cosgrove and his assistant, Mr. Jones, arrived a short time later and the examination of the secret cellar began. They opened crate after crate.

  “It appears that Mr. Prito stored his queerest objects here,” Mr. Cosgrove remarked, after several cases had been unpacked and revealed an array of skulls, animal teeth, an Egyptian toy ferry, and all kinds of odd theatrical costumes.

  “That’s why I think there’s a good chance of our finding the medallions here,” said Tony.

  “The notation my uncle made proves that he didn’t consider them just routine curios.”

  Working methodically, the group had almost completed the inventory by noon. But there was no sign of the mysterious medallions.

  “Wow!” Frank said as he opened the last crate, a tall wooden box.

  “What is it?” Joe asked.

  Frank thrust one arm into the opening and dragged out a human skeleton! Its white ghostliness at first shocked the group into silence. Then, as Joe realized it was a medical specimen, his humor came to the rescue. “A roommate for you, Tony.” He grinned.

  Frank lowered the skeleton to the floor. “Anybody who wants this bag of bones can have him!”

  No one did. The executors inspected the skeleton and concluded from some penciled markings on the bones that it had been sold to Mr. Prito by some hard-up medical student.

  “How about giving him to a medical school?” Mr. Cosgrove suggested. “He’s a rattlin’ good specimen.”

  “Good idea,” Tony concurred.

  Frank inspected the rest of the box. There was nothing in it. “I guess this concludes our search in New York for the medallions,” he said in disappointment.

  After making several calls to medical schools, Mr. Cosgrove said that a small private institution would be glad to accept the skeleton. He gave the boys directions, adding, “Tony, please leave the key to the shop at the bank when you’re through. And I hope you find those medallions.” The executor bade the boys good-by.

  “Who wants to carry Mr. Bones to his next place of residence?” Tony asked.

  Joe looked at his brother. “He can sit on your lap while we ride there. After all, you found him.”

  “Frank it is!” Tony laughed.

  Grinning, Frank clutched the skeleton and climbed the ladder. The others followed him up and Joe stepped out onto the sidewalk to hail a taxi.

  Presently one came along and Joe beckoned to the driver. The other boys with their strange companion were still out of sight in the shop entrance. Now they stepped outside. Tony padlocked the door and thrust the key into his pocket. The taxi pulled up to the curb.

  “How many live passengers are you allowed to carry?” Joe asked the driver seriously. Then he saw Frank and Tony, the skeleton supported between them, starting for the cab.

  “What’s this—a joke!” The amused driver chuckled, and pretended to pull away.

  “Wait!” Joe laughed. “Mr. Bones is harmless. We’re taking him to Englander Hospital Medical School. Do you know where it is?”

  “Sure.” The man grinned. “Hop in. I’ll drive carefully so we won’t disturb your friend.”

  Placing Mr. Bones on the outside of the seat next to Frank, the group headed for the medical school. They had gone only a block when a police siren sounded behind them!

  CHAPTER VII

  A Street Chase

  “THE motorcycle cop is after us!” Frank exclaimed. “He must have seen the skeleton!”

  The sound of the siren grew louder and the taxi was ordered to pull over to the curb. The policeman, a big, red-faced man, climbed off his motorcycle and walked slowly back to the taxi. He stared at Mr. Bones.

  “Where’d that come from?” he roared.

  “We—we found him in the cellar,” Tony explained, feeling a little foolish, “at Prito’s Curio Shop.”

  “So!” the policeman exclaimed, looking stern. “That shop’s locked up. I knew old Prito well.”

  Tony suddenly recalled that in his pocket was a letter from Mr. Cosgrove. “Just a minute, Officer. I can explain everything.” The burly policeman read the letter, eyed Tony, then handed it back.

  “So you’re a Prito!” he exclaimed. “Now that I got a good look at you, I can see you’re like Roberto. Same snappy black eyes. Okay, boys, go ahead.”

  Twenty blocks north the taxi driver pulled into a side street and drew up to a white cement building.

  Tony paid the fare and Frank picked up the skeleton. As the cab disappeared into the city’s traffic, the boys walked through the hospital doorway. A young intern grinned as he passed them. “Who’s your air-conditioned pal?” he gibed.

  The boys chuckled and walked to a desk where a nurse was on duty. She directed them to the school, across a wide center court. There, a genial white-hair
ed physician welcomed Mr. Bones and thanked the trio.

  As they walked down the hospital steps, Tony said, “Should we try Wortman again before eating lunch?”

  “Good idea,” Frank said. “Also we must return the key from the shop to Mr. Cosgrove.”

  Wortman was still out. At the bank the boys were told that the newly found curios were being appraised at the shop and Tony could take whatever he wanted.

  The boys went to the hotel, got their bags, and stuffed several of the smaller objects into them. Then they had a bite to eat, hailed a taxi, and set off to try Wortman’s house for the third time. As their cab stopped at a busy intersection near the East River, Frank suddenly gripped his brother’s arm. “Look!” he cried. “Over there on the sidewalk. Willie Wortman!”

  The recent visitor to the Hardy home appeared to be walking with another man. Wortman’s broad shoulders partially blocked his companion from view. But as the taxi passed them, Frank and Joe caught a glimpse of the other man’s face. He was dark-haired and black-mustached.

  “Say, he could be the blowgun man or Torres! Stop here, driver!” Frank called, and the man pulled to the curb.

  Frank paid him and the boys got out. “Tony, you stay here with the suitcases,” Frank instructed. “Joe and I will talk to Willie.”

  “Okay,” Tony agreed, and watched his pals dash after the two men.

  The mustached stranger had now dropped slightly behind Wortman. As the boys hurried after them, the pair turned up a side street.

  The Hardys dodged through the crowd. The red-haired sailor seemed to be enjoying his walk, whistling a tune. But the other man glanced from side to side uneasily. He acted almost as if he suspected someone were trailing him.

  Willie Wortman suddenly looked back. Catching sight of the boys, he called out, “Frank and Joe Hardy!”

  The mustached man also glanced back, then he broke into a run.

  Frank stopped to speak to the sailor, and Joe chased after the stranger. But the man ran through an alley to another street and Joe lost the trail. Disappointed, he walked back to Frank and Wortman.