The Secret of the Soldier's Gold

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Right away Joe began to weave the motorboat through the water, regardless of the buoys. This was no time to worry about anything except escaping. “See anything on the map?” he shouted.

  Frank glanced down at the map, then scanned the shore of the Tagus. “Yes! I think that’s the Doca do Terreiro do Trigo,” he said, pointing ahead. “You need to go that way.”

  Joe, still zigzagging, headed the motorboat roughly toward the dock.

  “You’re doing a great job dodging bullets,” Frank shouted. “Nothing has . . .” Just then a bullet hit the gas tank, and fuel began leaking onto the floor of the boat. “Joe—I think I spoke too soon!”

  “If a bullet hits the gasoline, it could cause the boat to explode,” Joe shouted. “And we’re too far from the dock to take a chance on trying to make it to shore!”

  “I guess that means only one thing,” Frank said. “We’ll have to swim the rest of the way. Are you up to it?”

  “The same thing happened to us once in Barmet Bay—remember? We made it to shore then, as rough as that water was. So this should be no problem,” Joe said. “I’ll cut the engine so that we don’t go much farther and destroy something in our path.”

  Frank looked at the approaching motorboat. It was still several yards away. “Joe, if there were some way we could slip over the side, unnoticed, and swim underwater before they get here, then I think we might have a chance,” he said.

  Joe looked at the other motorboat. “Hey—looks like they’re slowing down,” he said. “Maybe they think we’re going to spring some kind of trap on them.”

  “Let them think what they want to,” Joe said. “This pause should give us enough time to be far away from this boat before they decide to get closer.”

  Joe turned the motorboat around so that the windshield, though shattered in several places, would hide them as they slipped into the river. “I hadn’t thought about it, Frank, but probably this even looks a little threatening,” he said. “They may think we’re going to take a run at them.”

  “We may just survive this after all,” Frank said.

  The teens quickly took off their shoes, secured their wallets in their clothes as well as they could, and slipped over the side of the motorboat into the murky water.

  “I think the river is just muddy, not polluted,” Frank said, “so we should be able to swim underwater until we’re far enough from the boat to escape detection.”

  Frank and Joe each took several deep breaths before heading underwater toward the dock.

  Frank was sure they hadn’t swum more than fifty yards when he felt a shockwave. It forced him to the surface. He couldn’t believe what he saw—their motorboat had exploded. Pieces of it were starting to fall into the water around them.

  Joe surfaced and took a gulp of air.

  “Dive! Dive!” Frank screamed at him.

  Several large chunks of what used to be the boat were headed right for Joe’s head.

  Joe glanced up, saw what was happening, and dove underwater just in time to save himself.

  Frank dove right after his brother and forced himself to keep his eyes open. It caused a momentary stinging sensation, but Frank could at least see far enough to know that Joe was okay.

  Joe swam as fast as he could, checking his direction each time he came up for air. He wanted to make sure he was headed directly for the docks and not back out into the middle of the Tagus. Frank was right behind him.

  When Frank surfaced again, he heard sirens from what he was sure were police boats converging on the scene of the accident. Frank stopped swimming and started treading water. He looked back in the direction of the enemy boat and saw nothing. Of course, he thought, they’re not about to stay around and explain why they were shooting at the Hardys’ boat.

  Joe had now surfaced and was also treading water. He waved to Frank and Frank waved back. Then Joe pointed to the police boat that was headed toward them. “Let’s keep our story simple,” he shouted to Frank. “There’s no need to complicate matters.”

  “Good idea,” Frank shouted back.

  The police boat first reached Joe, took him aboard, and then picked up Frank. A police officer handed each of them a blanket and then gave them each a small cup of very strong coffee.

  “I told them I didn’t speak Portuguese,” Joe whispered. “I don’t think any of them speak much English.”

  Within minutes they had reached the building that housed the river police. Frank and Joe were taken to a room, given dry blankets, and told in Portuguese and some English to wait until an English-speaking police officer could be located.

  Finally a man named Captain Matos arrived. He greeted the teens pleasantly in English and then apologized profusely for the accident, telling them that he was just glad that two American citizens weren’t killed while on a pleasure cruise down the Tagus River.

  “So are we,” Frank said.

  “Sometimes these rental motorboats aren’t maintained properly,” Captain Matos said. “Of course, this could have just been an unfortunate accident.”

  “You just never know what to expect,” Joe said lamely. He had to admit that he wasn’t prepared for such a simple solution to what had happened. “What do we do now?”

  “There’s not much we can do,” Captain Matos said. “I’ll have one of our officers drop you off at your hotel and you can get cleaned up. We’ll take care of all of the paperwork here.” He gave them a big smile. “Again, I’m just glad that you’re okay.”

  Still wrapped in blankets, the Hardy boys were taken to a car that was parked just outside the front entrance to the police station. Captain Matos opened the door for them, and Frank and Joe climbed into the backseat.

  “Take these young men to the Hotel Lisboa Plaza,” Captain Matos said to the driver.

  “Thanks, Captain Matos,” Joe said.

  “My pleasure,” Captain Matos said. He closed the door and nodded at the driver.

  As the driver pulled out into traffic Frank leaned over as if he were trying to adjust the blanket around his shoulders. He managed to get close enough to Joe’s ear to whisper, “Don’t say anything at all.”

  Frank nodded, then leaned forward. “How far are we from our hotel?” he asked the driver.

  “We’re in the Alfama. Your hotel is in the Baixa, not far from the Bairro Alto,” the driver said. “Maybe five kilometers?”

  “Thanks,” Frank said. “I wasn’t sure.”

  He looked out the window to see if he could read the street signs. He saw that they were on the Avenida Infante Dom Henrique. He knew that this street was a major thoroughfare. Well, he thought, as long as we don’t turn off onto some deserted road, we’ll be fine.

  When the driver turned right onto the Rua Aurea, Frank felt they were probably going to be all right. He knew that this street led directly to the Avenida da Liberdade.

  Finally the driver pulled up in front of their hotel.

  “We’ll just leave the blankets in the car,” Frank said. “We’re still a little wet, but we’ll look less obvious without them.”

  “Okay,” the driver said.

  “Thanks for the ride,” Frank said.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Joe said.

  Once the boys were out of the car, the driver pulled back into traffic, and Frank and Joe headed for the front door of the hotel.

  “Okay, I want to know a couple of things,” Joe said. “First of all, why didn’t you want me to say anything? And second of all, why were you so nervous on the trip back? Are you worried that we’ll have to pay for the boat?”

  “Did you tell Captain Matos where we were staying?” Frank said.

  Joe stopped. “No, I didn’t, but . . . he knew, didn’t he? He told the driver where to take us.”

  “Exactly,” Frank said. He pushed the button for the elevator. “I thought that whole interview was a bit too simple. So I’m thinking he’s connected in some way to what happened.”

  “Are you telling me that you think he’s one of the fascists
too?” Joe said.

  When the elevator car arrived, the teens stepped back to let the passengers off.

  On the way up to their floor, Frank said, “I’m just saying that I don’t know whom to trust anymore. He knew more than we told him and he clearly didn’t want a big investigation.”

  “Well, what I want to do first is get out of these wet clothes and have something to eat,” Joe said, inserting the key into the door of their room. The telephone rang just as they entered. “Hurry! It might be Mom or Dad, wondering where we are. If they know we had a second close call, we’ll probably be on the next plane to Bayport.”

  Joe quickly grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”

  “We want that gold and we want it now,” the voice said. “We’re tired of playing games with you.”

  “Well, I’ve got news for you,” Joe managed to say calmly. He motioned for Frank to move near the receiver. “The de Feira brothers have the gold.”

  “We’re sure that’s what you wanted everybody to think,” the voice said. “But the de Feira brothers have a suitcase full of bricks.”

  13 The German Soldier

  * * *

  Joe hung up the receiver. “That guy has to be telling the truth, Frank,” he said. “Why would he call us and tell us something like that?”

  Frank nodded. “I think you’re right, Joe. It also makes sense. Isabel’s source—who said the information about the suitcase with the gold bars had made its way through the underworld network—was probably right on the mark.”

  “Maybe those people who were shooting at us on the river just meant to scare us,” Joe offered. “Maybe they didn’t mean to hit the gas tank.”

  “That fits too,” Frank said. “We both agree that they’re dangerous, but that doesn’t stop them from making mistakes.”

  “That’s the truth,” Joe said. He let out a big sigh. “What now?”

  “We call Isabel and let her know what’s going on,” Frank said.

  “Good idea,” Joe said. He picked up the receiver again and dialed Isabel’s number.

  When Isabel answered, Joe told her about what had happened on the Tagus and then about the telephone call they had just received. “What do you make of it?” he asked.

  “I agree with your assessment,” Isabel said. “There really must have been bricks in the suitcase, or they wouldn’t have called you.”

  “How did the bricks get there?” Joe said.

  “I have a feeling that Senhora Bragança knows more about the gold than we thought,” Isabel said, “but I also have a feeling she’d never tell.”

  “You may be right,” Joe said.

  “So you must be very careful now. I don’t think you should leave the hotel—there are probably a lot of people out there who think you still have the gold,” Isabel continued. “They could try to kidnap you and coerce the information out of you somehow.”

  “That doesn’t sound pretty,” Joe said.

  “Let me talk to some of my father’s undercover police officers,” Isabel said. “They should know what’s going on.”

  “Okay,” Joe said. “We’ll just stay here until we hear from you.”

  Joe hung up the phone and relayed the entire conversation to Frank.

  “While you were talking to Isabel, I was thinking about Senhora Bragança,” Frank said. “I agree with Isabel. I think she knows something about that suitcase. You saw the way she looked when we mentioned the person who had previously lived in that house.”

  Joe nodded. “Do you think she found the gold and then put the bricks in the suitcase, so that it would look like she hadn’t stolen the treasure?” he asked.

  “Well, at first, I’d actually thought that might be what had happened,” Frank said, “but then I thought it had to be somebody else—somebody Senhora Bragança allowed to dig up the suitcase.”

  “She wouldn’t let just anybody do that, Frank,” Joe said. “It would have to be somebody . . .” He stopped. “Hey—are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “If you’re thinking that maybe the German soldier didn’t die after all,” Frank said, “then I sure am.”

  “But how could that be, Frank?” Joe said. “Frau Rilke said that her father saw the Gestapo officer kidnap the soldier in downtown Lisbon.”

  “That’s right,” Frank agreed. “But what she didn’t say is that they received confirmation of his death.”

  “Exactly! And how could they?” Joe said. “They left for the United States almost immediately because they feared the soldier would break under questioning, reveal the hiding place of the gold, and lead the Gestapo to the Fleissner’s home.”

  “A lot of strange things happened during World War II,” Frank said. “People survived things that nobody would have thought possible.”

  “The German soldier could have survived too,” Joe said. “If we had his whole name, we might be able to find out exactly what did happen to him.”

  “Frau Rilke gave it to us—but I can’t recall the whole name,” Frank said. He looked at his watch. “It’s still early in Bayport. Let’s call her and tell her what we suspect.”

  It took only fifteen minutes for the hotel operator to get Frau Rilke on the telephone. Frank told her that they still hadn’t recovered the gold bars, that they were close—but that some information had come to light that made them believe that perhaps the German soldier hadn’t died after all.

  “His name is Heinz-Erich Lüdemann,” Frau Rilke said. “If he’s still alive, it’s a miracle—and, of course, if he is, half of the gold bars belong to him. Oh, it would be so wonderful to see Heinz-Erich after all these years!”

  “Well, we don’t know for sure that he’s alive—we’re just speculating,” Frank reminded her. “But now that we have his full name, we are going to do our best to find out what happened to him.”

  Frank promised Frau Rilke that he would telephone her as soon as they found out something more definite. After he hung up the phone, he turned to his brother. “In the morning we need to let Dad know about this too.”

  • • •

  When Mr. Hardy called Frank and Joe the next morning to ask them if they wanted to have breakfast, he was surprised to learn that they were already dressed and waiting for his call.

  As everyone headed down to the restaurant Frank and Joe filled Mr. Hardy in on everything that had happened the day before. Since Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude were several paces behind them, engaged in a discussion about what to do first that morning, Frank and Joe decided to include the part about the exploding boat.

  “Now we’re thinking that the German soldier didn’t die after all, Dad,” Joe said. “We called Frau Rilke last night and got his name.”

  “I think your theory has some merit,” Fenton Hardy said. “I have a meeting at the Central Police Station later this morning. I can ask about how to start looking for this Heinz-Erich Lüdemann.”

  • • •

  After breakfast Frank and Joe returned to their room, as they had told Isabel they would, while Mr. Hardy went to his meeting and Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude left to go shopping. After finding nothing on television they were interested in—or could understand—they both decided that they hadn’t had enough sleep the night before and that now would be a good time to catch up on it.

  Three hours later the telephone awakened them both. Joe picked it up. It was Mr. Hardy.

  “Well, right away I was able to find an official who could help me try to locate this Heinz-Erich Lüdemann,” he said, “but unfortunately he didn’t come up with anything.”

  “Nothing?” Joe said, crestfallen.

  “Nothing,” Mr. Hardy repeated. “We even tried a database that contains names in all of the countries in the European Union. There was no Heinz-Erich Lüdemann who would have been a soldier in World War II. Sorry.”

  “Okay, Dad. Thanks for trying,” Joe said. “Talk to you later.”

  Frank shook his head. “I was certain that would solve the problem for us, Joe,” he said. “N
ow I don’t know which way to turn.”

  Joe slammed his fist into his pillow. “We can’t go home empty-handed, Frank. Frau Rilke is counting on us.”

  “Okay, let’s take stock of what we do know. And let’s forget everything that’s happened and put ourselves in Heinz-Erich Lüdemann’s shoes for a moment,” Frank said. “Maybe that’ll help us come up with a new game plan.”

  “Good idea! You’ve just been captured by the Gestapo. You’re taken to a really horrible place where people do really horrible things to you,” Joe said. “But you will yourself to stay alive. You’re not going to let these monsters end your life.”

  “Right. Now let’s say you do manage to stay alive until the end of the war, and when the Nazis surrender, you’re released,” Frank continued. “You have nothing, you’re weak from hunger, and your family is all gone.”

  “What sort of life do you go back to?” Joe said.

  Frank jumped up from the bed. “Hang on! I just remembered something I saw in an old black-and-white movie,” he said. “This woman was in a concentration camp and she took care of another sick woman. When the sick woman died, the protagonist assumed the other woman’s identity because the dead woman had relatives in San Francisco. She’d never seen the relatives, but they’d invited her to come to their home and live with them after the war.”

  “Heinz-Erich Lüdemann might not have returned to life as Heinz-Erich Lüdemann! He might have come back with another name,” Joe said.

  “Right. The most important things you could have back then were papers that would allow you to cross borders,” Frank said. “Let’s suppose that somehow he made it back to Portugal because he would want to find out if the Fleissners were still here—and when he found that they weren’t, maybe he somehow convinced Senhora Bragança that the suitcase buried in her backyard belonged to him and the people who used to live there. He dug it up and replaced the gold bars with bricks.”

  “That’s what I don’t understand,” Joe said. “Why would he rebury the suitcase with bricks?”