CHAPTER XIV
The Cellar Museum
THE man reacted as if he had walked into a brick wall. “You’re—you’re the boy who was talking to June at the college library,” he said limply to Frank.
Mrs. Steele spoke up. “Why did you call him Professor Von Stolk? This is my husband—Vin—cent Steele.”
“Something needs a lot of explaining,” Frank said. “Your husband called himself Von Stolk when I saw him the first time.” In afterthought he added, “You used the same initials when you changed your name, didn’t you, Mr. Steele?”
Turning to his wife, Vincent Steele said in a placating tone, “Don’t let this upset you, my dear. I hired a young woman to do some research for me.”
His wife looked at him slit-eyed. “Yes, go on!”
“I knew if I told her who I really was, she and all her friends would be plaguing me to get them into the movies.”
“Oh, that again,” she said. “Now I understand.”
To the boys she said apologetically, “Vincent is so publicity shy. You can see why, can’t you?”
She introduced the boys by name and the screenwriter formally offered a hand to each.
Then Frank asked, “Was it you or June Fall who removed four pages from the Master of the Vineyards book, Mr. Steele?”
“Neither,” he replied, looking uncomfortable. “They were already missing.” Suddenly he became belligerent, and fired a burst of questions at the boys.
“Why are you interrogating me like this? What did you come to my house for? What business is it of yours that I go to the library?”
Frank realized that perhaps they had pushed their case too fast. Nothing would be gained by antagonizing the writer, even though he was a suspect. In a calm voice Frank said, “Mr. Steele, we came here to ask your assistance.”
“What assistance? I don’t even know you.”
“It’s about your home. It was once a wine cellar.”
“That’s right. How did you find out?”
“From an old map.”
The Steeles looked confused. Joe felt sorry that the writer’s wife had become involved in the deepening mystery. Would Frank tell them about the sword? Or would he sidestep the real intent of their visit?
When his brother hesitated, Joe said, “You can’t blame us for becoming suspicious when you use two names, Mr. Steele. And about those pages missing from the library book, weren’t you showing them to Harry Madsen at the construction site last evening?”
Steele frowned. “Were you spying on me then?”
“Only by accident,” Joe replied. “We didn’t expect to see you there.”
“What were you doing there?”
“We were watching the bulldozer operator,” Frank put in. “He had been causing us some trouble. But you haven’t answered the question.”
“Look, you’ve got it all wrong,” Steele said with a sigh. “They weren’t the pages from that book. I have a hobby of collecting vineyard implements. For some time I’ve been meaning to go through that building at the housing construction site which was once used to store wine. But I never got around to it.”
He stood up, left the living room, and came back with two sheets of paper.
“These are sketches of a particular type of barrel I’ve been looking for. When I heard that the wine storage place was going to be razed yesterday, I called the contractor.”
“And he promised to postpone the bulldozing,” Joe said.
“Correct. As long as I would pay for the expense. I met with Madsen last night, showed him the sketches, took a look in the building, but did not find what I wanted.”
He put the sketches on a table. “Come,” he offered. “I will show you the museum.”
He led the way to a central hallway and opened a door to a narrow stone stairway leading downward. Flicking a light switch at the top, he descended. Chet went second, then Frank and Joe. Mrs. Steele remained in the living room.
The cellar had been converted into a museum. The rooms were similar in shape to those of the other wine storage building, except there were no cobwebs and the interiors were clean and well illuminated by overhead lights.
“Quite an exhibit,” Frank said, looking around in surprise.
The rooms were crammed with artifacts of grape farming and wine making. There were wooden racks, ancient hand-blown bottles, wine presses, casks of various sizes and shapes, wooden aging vats and many other items.
At the rear of one room the boys spotted an ancient, ornately carved oaken door.
“What’s in there?” Joe asked.
“Nothing,” Steele replied. “It’s merely an empty storage room. We don’t use it. Shall we go upstairs again?”
When they returned to the living room, Steele apologized to Chet for the electric fence incident, and thanked the boys for not getting him in trouble with the police.
“Are you fully recovered?” he asked solicitously.
“Except for a little dizzy spell now and then,” Chet replied. “But I don’t think it’s anything serious.”
Vincent Steele said worriedly, “I’d be glad to pay for a doctor if you want to see one.”
“I’ll be all right,” Chet assured him. Then he had an inspiration. “There’s something else you could do for me, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Get me into the movies!”
The man winced slightly. In a resigned voice he said, “I might have known. Do you have any acting experience?”
“No, but I’m willing to start at the bottom.”
“That would be as an extra,” Steele said. “I might be able to arrange that. This coming Tuesday we’ll start shooting some exteriors and we’ll need a lot of extras as grape pickers. If you could get there at six in the morning, I think I can fix it for all three of you to get jobs.”
“We could sure use the money,” Joe said. “We’re running pretty low. Where do we report?”
“We’re on location at a farm called the San Mathilde Vineyard a little over a hundred miles southeast of here on Highway 99. It’s just beyond Fresno. You’ll see the sign.”
“Whom do we ask for?” Frank inquired.
“Jason Andrews, the casting chief.”
Mrs. Steele changed the subject. “The main reason the boys came here tonight is to ask you about the sword Adalante.”
For the second time that night, Steele was brought up short. He stared from one boy to another in dumbfounded silence.
“A teacher of theirs is doing a magazine article on the history of swords,” Mrs. Steele explained. “The boys are helping with the research. I happened to mention the title of your current movie and they thought their teacher might use something about the sword in his article.”
“Oh,” Vincent Steele said with evident relief. “Actually I don’t know a great deal about the sword. It was broken in a duel and lost many years ago. The tip end eventually was found, and now is in the possession of Russo’s family in Switzerland. The guard end was never recovered.”
A phone on a small table next to Mrs. Steele rang. She answered it.
“Someone’s asking for either Frank or Joe Hardy,” she said.
Frank looked perplexed. They had told no one where they were going.
Taking out the pocket recorder, Joe said, “I guess we ought to tape this.”
He took the phone from Mrs. Steele, switched on the recorder, and held it close to the receiver. As Frank and Chet crowded around him, he said, “Joe Hardy speaking.”
“This is a warning. Get out of California if you want to continue breathing!” a disguised voice said. Then there was a click as the caller hung up.
Joe winked at Chet for silence and Frank, too, betrayed no reaction.
“Anything wrong?” Mrs. Steele asked in a motherly tone.
When Joe shook his head, the woman continued, “Why did you tape the call?”
“It’s our hobby,” Frank said. “Well, I guess we’d better be going.”
T
he boys thanked the Steeles for their hospitality and departed. On the way back to their motel, they discussed the second threat.
“Probably the same goon as before,” Chet said.
Joe disagreed. “His voice was not as deep as the first man’s,” he said.
Frank, who was driving, asked, “Any sign of a tail?”
“No,” Joe replied. “I’ve been watching ever since we left.”
“What do you think about Steele?” Chet wanted to know. “He looks clean to me. His explanations seemed okay.”
Frank and Joe were dubious.
Joe said, “He was glib enough, but there’s something about that man I don’t trust.”
Frank had a more specific reason. “Did you notice,” he said, “that Steele never pressed us for the real reason for our first visit?”
“Searching for the broken blade, you mean?” Chet said.
“Right.”
“I never thought of that,” Joe stated. “Frank asked for his assistance at one point, and Steele never came back to it.”
“He did that on purpose,” Frank said. “Didn’t want to raise the issue. I think he suspects we’re looking for the Adalante.”
“Then we’ve got to be careful of him,” Chet said.
“Very careful,” Frank agreed.
When they reached the motel, Chet said, “Are we going to move again?”
“We’ve already paid for tonight,” Frank pointed out. “And we’re running pretty low on money. Let’s stay here and stand watch again.”
Joe played back the taped conversation. The caller’s voice came over strong and Clear.
“That’s good enough to make a spectrograph,” Frank said with satisfaction. “Tomorrow we’ll run into San Francisco and use the police department’s machine.”
Again they divided the night into three shifts, but it passed peacefully. Next morning they checked out of the motel and drove to San Francisco.
Chief of Detectives Henry Copeland was glad to see them. They had no trouble getting permission to use the spectrograph. Frank made three voiceprints. They left one with Copeland, mailed the second to Chief Collig, and kept the third.
Instead of returning to Stockton, they decided to drive to Fresno so that they would be near the movie location Tuesday morning. Again there was no sign of a tail, but they took no chances. In their Fresno motel they repeated their night watch. Nothing happened.
Promptly at six the next morning they arrived at the San Mathilde Vineyard. It consisted of several thousand acres. There was a Spanish-style hacienda in which the owner and his family lived, but the grape pickers were housed in a row of tar paper shacks. Row after row of grapevines stretched off into the distance.
A number of trailers were parked near the workers’ shacks. These were being used as dressing rooms for actors. Several Nissen huts had also been set up to serve as offices. One of them had a sign on its door: Casting Office.
The boys went in and found a thin, harried-looking man seated behind a desk. He glanced up from the magazine he was reading.
“Mr. Andrews?” Frank asked.
“Yes, yes,” the man replied somewhat testily, as if he were annoyed by the interruption. “What do you want?”
“I’m Frank Hardy, this is my brother Joe and our buddy Chet Morton. Mr. Steele told us to report to you for extra work.”
The casting chief squinted his eyes as if searching his memory. “Oh yes,” he said. “Vincent mentioned it.” He looked the boys up and down.
“You’ll need some old clothes,” he added, “because you’ll be cast as pickers.”
“Where do we get’em?” Chet inquired.
“Maybe you can borrow some from the vineyard workers. Report back tomorrow at six.”
“Tomorrow?” Frank said. “Mr. Steele told us shooting was supposed to start today.”
“It was, but there’s been a delay.”
The boys looked disappointed and were about to leave when Joe turned to the movie man. “There’s nothing seriously wrong, I hope,” he said.
“Serious enough,” Andrews grunted.
The Hardys’ curiosity was piqued.
“Can you tell us what’s wrong, sir?” Frank asked.
“Ettore’s been injured.”
“Ettore?” Frank said, puzzled.
Jason Andrews seemed impatient that they did not know whom he was talking about.
“The fencing master who acts as the star’s double,” he explained. “Ettore Rossi.”
“You mean Ettore Russo?” Chet said weakly.
“Of course not. Trouble is, you young people don’t listen. I said Ettore Rossi!”
CHAPTER XV
Star-Struck!
THE Hardys and Chet were amazed at the similarity of names between Hollywood’s fencing master and their own coach.
Frank said, “We know a fencing master named Ettore Russo. Is this man a Swiss?”
“No. He’s an Italian.” Andrews replied. “Ettore has been a stuntman for years. Also drives race cars.”
“Where do we find Mr. Rossi?” Frank asked. “We’d like to talk with him.”
“In trailer four,” the casting chief said.
As they started out, the door opened and a beautiful blond woman dressed in a Spanish costume came in. The boys stepped aside to let her pass.
The woman gave them a dazzling smile as she swept by.
“Do you know who that was?” Chet said in an awed voice, when they were out of the office.
“Sure.” Frank grinned. “Brenda White. She must be starring in the picture.”
Chet halted and stared at his two friends. “Aren’t you impressed?”
“Of course we are,” Joe replied. “She’s very beautiful. But we’re not going to go ape over her.”
“You guys have no feelings,” Chet retorted. “Don’t you realize we’re going to be working in the same picture as Brenda White?”
“She won’t even notice us,” Frank said. “We’re only going to be extras.”
They moved on to trailer number four. When Frank knocked on the door, a strong voice called, “Come in!”
Inside they found a black-haired man in a half-reclining position on a bunk with a pillow under his back.
“Mr. Rossi?” Frank asked.
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
Frank introduced himself and the others. Then he said, “We’ve just been hired as extras. Mr. Andrews told us you were hurt, so we dropped by to cheer you up. What happened?”
“A practical joke,” the stuntman said ruefully. “Someone sprayed banana oil on the trailer floor while I was asleep. When I got up this morning, I slipped and wrenched my back.”
“That wasn’t a very funny joke,” Chet commented.
“None of them are,” Ettore Rossi said grimly. “If I ever find out who’s behind all this, I’ll teach him what’s funny and what isn’t.”
Joe said, “Things like this have happened before?”
“Twice. Once the brakes on my racing car were tampered with, almost causing a crash. Another time a sandbag was dropped from an overhead catwalk on an interior set, nearly braining me.”
“They don’t sound like practical jokes!” Frank exclaimed. “It looks as if somebody’s out to kill you!”
All at once the Italian’s expression became withdrawn. “I shouldn’t be talking about it anyway,” he said. “Mr. Zeller told me not to.”
“Who’s Mr. Zeller?” Joe asked.
“The director of the movie.”
“Why doesn’t he want you to discuss it?”
“He’s afraid it’ll give the picture bad publicity. He’s having a quiet investigation made.”
There was a knock on the door and a short, fat man came in. He looked worried. Rossi introduced him to the boys as movie director Gene Zeller.
After shaking hands, Mr. Zeller said, “I just learned of your mishap, Ettore. How long will you be laid up this time?”
“At least two or three days, accordi
ng to the doctor. You’ll have to get someone else to double in the fencing scenes you planned to shoot today and tomorrow.”
“Where?” the director said, wrinkling his brow. “There’s no one around here who knows how to fence. I’ll have to send either to Hollywood or San Francisco. By the time we locate somebody you’ll be up and around again.”
Frank said, “We know how to fence.”
The director looked him up and down. “You’re about the same height and weight as Douglas Clark, our leading man. Makeup can take care of other physical differences. Are you good at fencing?”
Joe answered for him. “He sure is.”
“Any experience with sabers?” Rossi asked.
“We know all three weapons,” Joe replied. “Saber, foil, and épée.”
“But these will be real sabers, not fencing sabers,” Rossi told him. “Of course the points and blades will be dulled, but you’ll wear no masks or gloves. Before the camera your performance has to look like real dueling. You have to be pretty expert not to hurt your opponent or get hurt yourself.”
“I’m sure my brother and I could put on a good act,” Frank said. “We’ve fenced together so often. I don’t know how it would be with some stranger, though.”
“Your brother could work as your opponent in the scenes we shoot today—and tomorrow—if you’re good enough,” the director said. “It involves a duel with a bandit who doesn’t appear in any other scenes.”
“Gene, why don’t you get a pair of sabers and let them show what they can do right outside my window?” Rossi suggested.
“Good idea,” Zeller replied and called a prop man. He instructed him to bring the weapons.
Soon the man returned with the sabers. They were thirty-four and a half inches long, the tournament length to which the Hardys were accustomed.
After hefting them, Frank and Joe were sure they could handle the bout.
“Okay, go to it,” Zeller said.
The boys took up positions outside the window next to Rossi’s bunk.
“We’d better warn each other what to expect before each attack,” Frank suggested. “This way the defendant will know what type of parry to make.”
“Right,” Joe said. “On guard!”
“Beat attack!” Frank called out, striking Joe’s blade aside.
The Clue of the Broken Blade Page 8
