Danger on Vampire Trail

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Frank!” Joe exclaimed after he had scanned the area. “Our car’s not here, either!” Only the camper remained, dimly silhouetted against the eastern sky.

  “Chet and Biff might have parked it somewhere else. Come on.”

  The boys climbed out of the boat. They pulled it ashore, then ran to the trailer. Frank opened the door and they walked inside. They played their flashlights about. The place was empty, except for Sherlock. He lay on the floor in a deep slumber.

  “Frank, something happened here,” Joe said. “That hound’s not sleeping, he’s unconscious!”

  “And where are Biff and Chet?” Frank wondered. “Maybe they’re in trouble!”

  Joe ran back to the boat and got the radio. They tried to raise their friends over the air, but had no success.

  “What now?” Joe asked.

  “Let’s follow the tracks.”

  Frank shone his light on the ground and picked up the tire marks of their car. But instead of heading toward the highway, the trail circled to the left.

  “See here, Frank,” Joe said. “There’s only one set of tracks. Where’d Mungo go?”

  Before they had a chance to ponder this, their car loomed up ahead. The Hardys ran to it and shone their lights inside. Chet and Biff were in the back seat, tied up!

  Frank and Joe swung the doors open and dragged their friends out. Chet was unconscious, but Biff began to mutter. The boys chafed their hands and massaged their necks, until Biff could talk coherently and Chet revived.

  “What happened?” Frank asked.

  Biff explained that Mungo had driven off to get some ice cream. “We thought he was returning the favor for having eaten chow with us,” Biff said.

  “The stuff tasted kind of funny,” Chet put in.

  “I didn’t like it either.” Biff made a face. “And Mungo wouldn’t have any at all. So Sherlock ate most of it.”

  The pair related that they had suddenly become groggy. Unable to defend themselves, Mungo had tied them up, put them into the car, and parked them in the woods.

  “Did you see where he went?” asked Joe.

  “No. How’s Sherlock?” Biff said.

  “In the camper, unconscious. That’s how we knew something was wrong. Well, let’s get back.”

  Frank drove the car to their campsite. Biff ran into the trailer and bent over Sherlock, then he shook his head sadly. “Poor dog’s awfully sick,” he said, stroking the animal’s back. “We’ll have to locate a vet.”

  The boys lifted the dog gently and carried him to the car. The tent was folded away in the trailer and they set off.

  By the time they arrived in the nearest town, the sun was up. They asked a passer-by where they could find a veterinarian and were directed to Dr. Cameron’s Animal Hospital.

  “He lives on the second floor,” the man said. “Just ring the bell.”

  Biff carried the dog to the door and the Hardys followed with Chet. Frank said, “We should really do some sleuthing about that ice cream. You stay here till we get back, Biff.”

  “Okay,” Biff said and rang the doorbell.

  The three boys walked around town until they came to a large ice-cream stand. The man who was cleaning up the place turned out to be the proprietor. Frank asked whether he had sold any ice cream the previous day to a man resembling Mungo.

  Chet and Biff were tied up!

  “Oh yes, I remember him,” the man replied. “He bought a half-gallon brick—strawberry and chocolate with peach ripple in the middle.”

  “You’ve got a good memory,” Joe said, pleased with their quick success.

  “I couldn’t forget that guy,” the man replied. “He walked down the end of the counter, split the brick in the middle, and poured something on it.”

  “Didn’t you think that was strange?” Frank asked.

  “Sure. Why didn’t he wait till he got home before he cut it up and poured syrup over it? But there are all kinds of weird people.”

  “It wasn’t syrup, it was poison!” Joe declared hotly.

  The proprietor blanched. “Are you sure? Did anybody get sick?”

  “Not real bad,” Frank said. “Only our dog.”

  The man looked distressed. “I’m awfully sorry,” he said. He reached into the freezer and pulled out another half-gallon brick. “Maybe you’d like to have this to make up for it,” he said.

  “No thanks,” Frank said. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  Their next stop was at police headquarters. The boys told the deputy chief in charge about the poisoned ice cream and the stolen cruiser, and he promised to put out an all-points bulletin for Mungo and his pals at the marina.

  When Frank, Joe, and Chet returned to the animal hospital, Biff was sitting outside on the steps holding his head in his hands.

  “He really loves that dog,” Chet said as they walked up to him.

  “Hi, Biff,” Frank called out. “How’s old Sherlock?”

  Biff replied with a long face, “Not good. I don’t think he’ll make it!”

  CHAPTER X

  Buckskin Clue

  “You mean Sherlock’s going to die?” Chet asked.

  “It looks like it,” Biff replied in a downcast voice.

  All four went inside to speak to the doctor, a kindly-looking man in a white uniform.

  “Don’t be so glum, Biff,” he said.

  Biff’s face brightened. “Is there some hope for my hound?”

  “He’s past the crisis,” the vet replied.

  “Good old gumshoe,” Joe said.

  Frank asked, “Can we take him with us now, Doc?”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible. Sherlock’s in no condition to travel.”

  “But we’ll have to move on,” said Joe.

  Biff spoke up. “In that case I’ll stay until the dog’s ready to go and catch up with you later.”

  The boys looked at one another. Joe shrugged. “That’ll be okay with me,” he said.

  “But,” Chet said, “you can’t carry a dog on a bus. I tried it once. No go.”

  “Leave the details to me,” Biff said. “I’ll get there somehow.”

  “Where will you stay while Sherlock’s recuperating?” Frank inquired.

  The vet smiled when he heard this. “Biff can help me around my hospital and in return he can have a bed in my home,” he said. “The dog’s recovery should only take a couple days.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” Biff said, grinning. Then he turned to the Hardys and Chet. “So long, fellows. Good luck! Try to find Whip Lasher by the time we meet again.”

  It was decided that the trio would have breakfast, then go ahead to Denver and notify Biff where they were staying. The ride was uneventful except for the grandeur of the country which opened up before their eyes. Their car climbed upward to the mile-high city on the eastern slope of the Rockies. The air was crisp and clear and the city sparkled in the late-afternoon sunshine.

  Chet poured over a map. He located a large camping site on the northern fringes of Denver and they pulled in between two other trailers. After the boys had set up their tent, the young couple on their right strolled over.

  “Hi, my name’s Henry,” said the man. “This is my wife Betty.”

  Frank Hardy introduced his group and Henry went on, “You’re just in time for the cook-off competition.”

  “What’s that?” asked Chet.

  “It’s really something to see,” Betty remarked. She told them that a soup company sponsored the Open-Fire Camp Cooking Contest. “Contestants’ recipes are selected for main dish, vegetable, and dessert,” she said.

  As she spoke, the aroma of food drifted over the campsite, and the boys saw other people being drawn to the competition.

  “We’re going over now,” Betty said. “Want to come along?”

  Frank, Joe, and Chet joined the couple and walked to an area behind the campsite. Twenty or more campfires were burning and contestants with skillets, pots, and pans were nearly finished with their masterpieces.

/>   A tall man wearing western boots and a ten-gallon hat spoke over a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen! We have fifteen judges—seven men, seven women, and a little girl. But one of the fellows dropped out. Do we have a volunteer taster?”

  “Here!” Joe cried out and lifted Chet’s arm in the air.

  “Wait a minute!” the stout boy protested.

  “Ah-ha,” the official called out. “That well-fed young man will be perfect.”

  Frank and Joe pushed Chet forward as the emcee went on, “What is your name?”

  “Chet Morton.”

  “You’ll be one of the dessert tasters.”

  A benign smile crossed Chet’s face. Desserts were his favorites!

  “I’m really in luck!” he told the Hardys.

  The aroma of the cook-off was enough to make anybody hungry. The smoke which drifted over the area carried the scent of grilled trout, gingered ham in tantalizing juices, and Twirly Birds, a special chicken recipe. Frank and Joe followed Chet to a table marked Desserts.

  “Look at these!” Chet exclaimed as he read the labels. “Caramel peach crunch, apple dumplings, and peach turnovers.”

  “Will the tasters eat sparingly of the sweets,” the announcer said. “I’m saying this for your own good!”

  Several men and women joined Chet as they sampled the luscious recipes. “Hm!” Chet mused. “Can’t seem to make up my mind!” He went from dish to dish, taking a man-sized portion each time. His eyes rolled and he smacked his lips.

  “Come on, Chet!” Joe prodded him as the onlookers chuckled.

  “They’re all so good,” Chet said. “It’s awfully hard to figure out which is best!”

  “All right,” Frank said. “Just one more time, fellow!”

  Chet patted his stomach and started down the line again, relishing each mouthful. Finally he decided. “I vote for the caramel peach crunch,” he said when the roll was called.

  “Chet’s in for trouble,” Joe whispered to Frank. “Look, he’s getting pale.”

  “I’d say he’s getting green around the gills,” Frank remarked.

  Chet’s smile had vanished. “Fellows,” he said, “I’m going back to our trailer. How far is it?”

  “About ten miles,” Joe said. “Don’t say that!” Chet made his way through the crowd at a half-trot and held his stomach.

  By the time Frank and Joe reached the camper, they found their buddy lying down.

  “How do you feel, my gourmet friend?” Joe asked.

  “Better.”

  But Chet’s illness lasted the balance of the evening. In the morning he was still not his bouncy self.

  “Want to come downtown with us?” Joe asked after breakfast.

  “What for?”

  Frank explained that they were going to visit the Mountain Dogie Store.

  “Don’t ask me to do anything for a while, will you?” Chet begged.

  “Okay, you stay and recuperate,” Frank said. “Joe and I will be back later.”

  With a nod of appreciation, Chet said good-by. The Hardys unhitched their car and drove to a public telephone, where they contacted Biff to tell him of their whereabouts. Sherlock was well enough to travel, Biff reported, and they would leave that morning. Then Frank and Joe went on to downtown Denver. It did not take long to find the Mountain Dogie Store. A sign announced: The World’s Greatest Emporium for Sports and Camping.

  The smell of new cloth and leather goods pervaded the huge store. Crowds moved about inspecting hundreds of items from camping gear to sports clothes.

  At an information booth they obtained directions to the shoe department. Frank asked for the head clerk. He was a young man in his twenties.

  “We’d like to know,” Frank said, “if anybody recently bought shoes here with a Magnacard.”

  The young man was immediately interested. “I think we might have some information on that,” he said. “You’ll have to talk to the general manager. Follow me, please.”

  They went up a flight of stairs to an office located off the mezzanine. There they were introduced to a thin, balding middle-aged man named Jerrold Morris.

  “They have a question about a Magnacard,” the clerk said and excused himself.

  Morris motioned the boys to be seated and looked at them suspiciously. “Now what was that about a Magnacard?” he asked.

  The Hardys identified themselves, explaining they were on the trail of Whip Lasher. “We’re sure he bought a pair of shoes here,” Frank concluded.

  “Well, I don’t know if it’s the same man or not,” Morris said, “but a fellow calling himself Robert Wheeler bought a pair of shoes a couple of months ago. Besides that, he outfitted himself with some of our best merchandise.”

  “On a phony Magnacard?” Frank queried.

  “That’s right. There was another man with him. I wish we could lay our hands on those twol The police are working on the case.”

  “Did you get a description of Wheeler and his companion?” Joe asked.

  Morris nodded. “Our shoe clerk remembered Wheeler quite well.”

  Frank showed him the photograph.

  “This could very well be the same fellow,” Morris said.

  “Did he leave any clues?” Joe wanted to know.

  “No. We questioned our salesmen. They have no idea where the man was from or where he was going.”

  “What about the wrappers?” Frank asked.

  Much to the Hardys’ surprise, the packers had not been questioned.

  “We would like to talk with them,” Frank said.

  “Sure.”

  Morris rose and led the way downstairs to an aisle in the back of the store where several women were busy packing merchandise. He asked if anyone remembered wrapping an order including a buckskin jacket and Mountain Dogie shoes, bought with a Magnacard charge plate. “This might be the man who purchased it,” he said and passed the photo around.

  One woman, Mrs. Jones, identified Wheeler from the picture. “Whenever I see Magnacard on the sales slip,” she said, “I’m interested in the customer. We don’t get millionaires down here very often.”

  “What did the other man look like?” Frank asked.

  “Well, he was kind of chubby, and had dark hair. That’s all I remember about him.”

  “Did they talk to each other while they were waiting?”

  The woman frowned. “They mentioned a place called Foot Meadow a couple of times.”

  “Where’s that?” Joe asked Morris.

  “Never heard of it,” the man replied.

  “Neither have I,” Mrs. Jones added.

  “Well, thank you for your information,” Frank said. “You may have been a big help to us.”

  “If you should capture those fellows, let me know,” Morris said.

  “Will do,” Frank promised.

  The boys returned to their car, then drove out of the store’s parking lot into a busy street which led past the Brown Palace Hotel. Farther on, as they passed a jewelry shop, Frank jammed on the brakes.

  “Joe, look!”

  In front of the shop stood three familiar characters. Juice, Rip, and Fingers!

  “Oh-oh,” Joe said. “They followed us to Denver!”

  “Wonder what they’re doing in front of that shop,” Frank said. He pulled up to the curb.

  “I’d say they’re trying to case the place.” Joe glanced back and saw Fingers walk into the store while the others waited outside.

  Joe looked at his brother. “Frank, do you suppose this is a stick-up?”

  CHAPTER XI

  A Shattering Experience

  FRANK and Joe looked around for a policeman, but there was none in sight. So they hastened toward the jewelry store.

  Frank said, “I’ll go inside just in case there’s trouble. You stay out here to cover me if those two guys try anything funny.”

  When Juice and Rip saw them coming, their mouths dropped open in surprise. Juice held a bottle of orange soda in his hand. Trying to be casual, he t
ook a swig.

  “What are you guys doing here?” Rip asked.

  The Hardys did not reply. Joe stayed outside while Frank strode into the shop. Counters lined both sides and the far end, where Fingers, his back to the door, was talking to the clerk.

  Quietly Frank stepped forward. Fingers reached into his jacket and pulled something out.

  Frank edged closer. “Thank goodness,” he said to himself, “it’s not a holdup.”

  Fingers had a pouch in his hand. He opened it and shook several sapphires onto the velvet pad covering the glass counter. “Want to buy them?” he asked the clerk.

  “Where’d you get these?”

  “In the mountains. Blackfoot country.”

  The clerk picked up the stones one by one to examine them. “These weren’t stolen?”

  “No.”

  Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, Fingers spied Frank. He wheeled around and blanched. “What’re you trailing me for?” he said.

  “Who’s trailing who?” Frank shot back.

  Fingers looked at the clerk and said, “Excuse me a minute.” He motioned Frank toward the front of the store.

  “Look, you’re going to spoil this whole deal for me!” he hissed.

  “How can I spoil anything if you’re on the up-and-up?”

  “We’ll talk about that later,” Fingers replied “Now leave me alone. I need some money.”

  “Okay.” Frank stepped out into the sunlit street. There he found Joe being heckled by Juice and Rip.

  “You’ve got nothing on us,” Juice was saying.

  With an innocent look, Joe said, “Of course not. You three guys are model citizens.”

  “Don’t be wise,” Rip said. “You’ll get what’s coming to you if you keep following us.”

  Frank spoke up. “It’s a free country. We’ll go anywhere we please.”

  Just then Fingers came out of the door, glowering. His forehead was lined with anger. “You blew it for me!” he muttered at Frank.

  Joe noticed that Rip was edging closer to him. Suddenly Rip kicked viciously. Joe hopped nimbly aside and Rip’s foot went through the plate-glass window.

  It shattered as if hit by an explosion. The whole pane fell in, splintering over the display of jewelry and setting off the burglar alarm.