A Figure in Hiding

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Joe was excited. “That adds up. Pampton walks into the airport building, and Sinder drives off, as if the person he came to meet never arrived.”

  “Cut out the double-talk, you detectives,” Tony pleaded. “What’s this all about?”

  The Hardys told how they had gone to the airport the day before to keep a watch for the swindler their father was hunting.

  “If you’re right, Frank, that explains why Pampton came back to Bayport,” Joe said. “He was planning to check in at Doc Grafton’s Farm—and hide out until the heat’s off.”

  Tony whistled. “Chet will sure have a shock when he hears this!”

  “There’s a way we may be able to find out quickly,” Frank said.

  “How?” Joe asked.

  “Pampton probably took a taxi out to the health farm.”

  “So we can check the cab companies!” Joe exclaimed. “Swell idea, Frank!”

  “If it works,” said Frank, “we’ll have your info to thank, Tony.”

  Their pal grinned. “You two ‘private Evil Eyes’ go to it! I have to pick up a set of blueprints from an architect.”

  He gunned the truck’s motor, made a U-turn, and sped off down the street.

  The Hardys hurried to a phone booth in a nearby drugstore and called each of the three taxi-cab companies which operated in Bayport. Joe suggested a soda while the dispatchers were checking their drivers’ log sheets from the day before. Then Frank called each company again.

  On the third call, to the Eagle Cab Service, the dispatcher said:

  “Yeah, one of our drivers picked up a fare at the airport at three-fifteen Sunday and drove him out to Doc Grafton’s Health Farm.”

  “Who was the driver?” Frank asked. “Could I get in touch with him?”

  “Sure, he’s out at the airport right now, in fact. A little man named Mike Doyle. Cab twenty-two. I’ll tell him to wait for you.”

  “Thanks a lot!”

  Frank and Joe drove quickly to the airport. They soon found the driver.

  “The health farm ... yesterday afternoon ... lemme see now.” Mike Doyle shoved back his cap and scratched his head. “Oh, sure. I remember now. A red-haired gent, soft-spoken. Wore big horn-rimmed glasses.”

  Frank snapped his fingers. “I remember him, Joe! I saw him get off the plane.” Turning back to the driver, he said, “Clean-shaven fellow, wasn’t he?”

  Mike nodded. “That’s right. What’s he done?”

  “If it’s the man we’re after, he’s wanted for swindling,” Frank replied.

  “Wow!” Mike exclaimed. “Glad I could help.”

  The two boys sped home excitedly.

  “Pampton must have shaved off his beard at the New York air terminal and put on a red wig and glasses,” Joe reasoned.

  Frank gave a tense nod. “And if Rip Sinder knew Pampton was dodging the law, the health farm may be a regular hideout for criminals!”

  Reaching their house, the boys hurried down to the basement and tried calling their father by radio. Luckily he was in his hotel room and responded at once.

  Frank informed him of what they had learned, then said, “Dad, Joe and I have a plan we think you should try!”

  CHAPTER XVI

  The Walking Mummy

  FENTON HARDY was eager to hear the boys’ plan. “If it’s as good as some of the other stunts you two have dreamed up for cracking a case,” he told Frank, “I might give it a whirl.”

  “Well, here goes,” Frank began. “If Doc Grafton is running a criminals’ hideout on the side, you sure can’t walk right in and arrest Pampton.”

  “Probably not,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “They may have a clever warning system in case of a raid, and no doubt some foolproof hiding places on the grounds. In fact, Grafton would be crazy not to, if your theory’s correct.”

  “Then it might help if you could case the layout from the inside first. Right, Dad?”

  “No doubt about it. What do you suggest?”

  Frank said, “By checking into the health farm yourself—say, posing as a tired businessman from St. Louis.”

  Fenton Hardy was instantly taken with the scheme. To avoid suspicion that he might be a detective on Pampton’s trail, Mr. Hardy decided that he would first fly to Cleveland.

  “I’ll make the arrangements from there over the phone, then hop a plane to Bayport and check in at the health farm under a disguise. I’ll call myself—hmm—let’s say, Foster Harlow.”

  Frank said, “Try to keep in touch with us by radio. We’ll tell Chet to be on the lookout, in case you need any help there at the farm.”

  The talk with their father made both boys eager for another look at Doc Grafton’s health resort. Frank also hatched an idea for gleaning further information on Malcolm Izmir.

  “Remember what Bill Braxton was telling us about Zachary Mudge on the way to Long Point?” he remarked to Joe.

  “You mean about Mr. Mudge being a big wheeler-dealer in the financial world?”

  “Right. With his contacts, he could probably find out plenty about Izmir.”

  Joe gave a puzzled nod. “Maybe so, but what makes you think he’d tell us? Businessmen are pretty closemouthed about that sort of thing.”

  “Usually, but I think I know how we can get Mr. Mudge to help us.” As Frank explained his plan, Joe grinned approval.

  As soon as lunch was over, the brothers drove to the health farm. Frank told the gatekeeper who they were and asked if they might see Mr. Zachary Mudge. “It’s about a boat he was thinking of buying, called the Sea Spook,” Frank said.

  The gatekeeper relayed their message over the telephone. After a few minutes he received Mudge’s reply and turned back to the boys.

  “Okay. Mr. Mudge says he’ll be waiting for you on the terrace. Go straight up the drive.”

  On their way up, the Hardys saw Chet heaving a medicine ball back and forth to several guests on the lawn. The men looked cool and relaxed in shorts and summer shirts, but Chet was red-faced and puffing.

  Joe grinned as they waved to their chum. “Looks as though poor Chet is getting more of a workout than the patients,” he murmured.

  Zachary Mudge was pacing with his cane on the stone-flagged terrace, a large cigar clenched between his teeth.

  “Finally got here, did you?” He shook hands briskly with the boys. “Took you long enough to get up that hill. Could’ve made it twice as fast myself.”

  “I guess we haven’t your energy, sir,” Frank said with a smile.

  Mudge grunted, then followed Joe’s gaze toward two men standing near the front door of the building. One was Rip Sinder. The other was a small, foxy-faced man wearing a large diamond ring. They had been watching the Hardys, but as they saw Mudge looking at them, the smaller man broke into a gold-toothed smile and waved.

  “Who’s that man?” Joe asked.

  “That weaselly little twerp? He’s Doc Grafton, the quack who runs this vegetable farm.” Mr. Mudge sneered. “Nosy, too. Let’s take a stroll.”

  The trio walked out across the lawn.

  “Now then, what’s all this about the Sea Spook?” Mudge asked. “The engineer who checked her out says she broke down on the test.”

  “That’s partly what we came to tell you about,” said Frank. “Braxton believes she was sabotaged and we think he may be right.”

  “Y’ think so? My man Rummel doubts it.”

  “Well, we can’t prove it,” Frank admitted. “But don’t forget, Braxton was attacked at his boathouse and knocked unconscious. There may be no connection, but—well, something mysterious is going on.”

  Mudge paused and peered at Frank from under bushy eyebrows. “What’re you suggesting, son?”

  Frank shrugged. “You remember us mentioning a Mr. Lambert who was interested in the Spook?”

  “Are you saying he was behind the sabotage?”

  “We don’t know,” Frank said. “We’ve been doing some investigating, though, and the trail seems to lead to a wealthy businessman over in O
cean City. His name is Izmir.”

  “Malcolm Izmir?”

  “That’s right,” said Joe. “Do you know him?”

  “I’ve heard the name.” The old man’s eyes kindled with interest as if he sensed a hint of financial skulduggery. Suddenly Mr. Mudge was right in his element. “Let me get this straight, boys—do you think Izmir could have had the Spook sabotaged to keep me from investing money in Braxton’s design?”

  Again Frank shrugged. “We didn’t say that, sir.”

  But the financier had already made up his mind —exactly as the Hardys had hoped.

  “So Izmir thinks he can put one over on me—Zack Mudge, does he?” The old man cackled and thumped his cane on the ground. “Well, we’ll see about that. You leave it to me, sonnies. In twenty-four hours I’ll know all there is to know about Malcolm Izmir, including what he eats for breakfast!”

  The Hardys escorted Mr. Mudge back to the terrace, then said good-by. A smile was twitching at Joe’s lips as the brothers started down the drive. He muttered to Frank:

  “I’ll bet Mr. Mudge is a whirlwind when he goes into action! You sure revved him up with that line you gave him!”

  “I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true,” Frank replied. “For all we know, there may be some connection between Spotty Lemuel and Izmir.”

  “Guess we’d better post Chet on the latest,” said Joe.

  The medicine-ball session was over and Chet was now leading his group of guests in a series of push-ups.

  “Eleven-uh ... twelve-uh ... Ummh-thirteen -uh ...” The last came out in an agonized grunt as Chet, beet-red, barely hoisted himself off the ground.

  Joe chuckled. “We’d better rescue Chet before he folds up.”

  He and Frank caught their pal’s attention and he quickly struggled to his feet. “That’s f-f-fine, gentlemen,” he panted. “You’re doing great. I hate to interrupt these exercises, but I have to see what these two fellows want. Just keep going, please, or take a short rest period.”

  Chet trotted gratefully over to join the Hardys.

  “Looks as if we came just in time,” Frank said.

  “Boy, you’re not kidding!” Chet mopped his forehead. “Whew! I’m not sure I like this job as well as I thought I would! Handball, water polo, body-building, and now this! And the lunch they feed you wouldn’t keep a flea alive. Boy, am I ever sick of cottage cheese and lettuce!”

  “You’ll be down to a mere two-hundred-pound shadow by the time summer’s over,” Joe said.

  Joe chuckled, “We’d better rescue Chet before he folds up.”

  “Lay off, Joe,” Frank said with a smile. “Assistant Morton is really earning his salary.” He lowered his voice and added, “Listen, Chet, did you see a red-haired man check in here yesterday?”

  The stout boy shook his head. “I wasn’t here Sunday. Why?”

  Joe hastily told their chum about Ace Pampton and their suspicion that the health farm might secretly be a hideout for wanted criminals. Chet’s face was a picture of consternation.

  “Good grief!” he gulped. “Don’t tell me I’ve got myself mixed up with a nest of crooks! I’m going to quit right now!”

  When he learned, however, of the role Mr. Hardy was to play, Chet promised to stick it out and keep his eyes open for the fugitive swindler, as well as to be on the lookout for the detective.

  As the two young sleuths drove back to town, Joe remarked, “Do you remember Mrs. Lunberry saying she had seen something like that chalked eye before?”

  Frank nodded as he steered the car. “She thought it might have been somewhere in connection with her husband’s work. Why?”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about what Tony told us, and the ‘horned hand’ picture Zatta put up. Do you suppose that drawing of an eye could represent the evil eye?”

  “Maybe. Let’s check with Mrs. Lunberry.”

  The boys drove to their boathouse, took out the Sleuth, and headed up the Willow River to Brockton. Mrs. Lunberry was happy to see them and listened eagerly to Frank’s report of their visit to Fontana’s art shop.

  “That really isn’t why we came, though,” Frank said. “We’d like to know if you’ve ever heard of a superstition about the evil eye.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Lunberry replied. “That’s a very old—” Suddenly she broke off in surprise. “Of course! That’s what that eye chalked under my window reminded me of!”

  She explained that when on digging expeditions with her husband she had often seen similar eyes. “They were carved in mud-brick walls or inlaid in mosaic on ancient ruins.”

  “You mean people would carve evil eyes on their own houses?” Joe asked, puzzled.

  The elderly woman smiled. “It’s hard to explain, but Clarence told me once that it’s a very common kind of superstitious thinking. The idea is that a harmless form of the thing you’re afraid of can help to ward off the real thing.”

  The boys instantly thought of Zatta and the drawing on the hospital door. Aloud Joe asked, “Is there any chance the evil eye could be connected with the curse on the Jeweled Siva?”

  “I’m sure it must be,” she said. “Superstitions about the evil eye have existed in many parts of the world, probably including India.”

  Mention of the curse seemed to upset Mrs. Lunberry, so Frank changed the subject and asked the woman how she had happened to make arrangements with Fontana to sell the precious idol.

  “I wrote to several dealers before making up my mind,” Mrs. Lunberry replied. “In the meantime, I was keeping the Siva in a safe-deposit box at the bank. Then one day Mr. Fontana came all the way to Brockton to see me, and I decided to let him handle the sale.”

  “Did he bring references?” Frank asked. “Or persuade you that he could sell it for the highest price?”

  “Nothing like that, I’m afraid.” The boys asked for a description, which fit the man they had seen in New York. Mrs. Lunberry smiled. “He seemed like such a nice man. Why, he even took me for a ride in his brand-new car. He’d bought it that very day in Ocean City.”

  “Not a new Torpedo?” Joe asked sharply.

  “Why, yes—I believe that was the make.”

  The boys were startled but said nothing, about this new development until they were aboard the Sleuth, heading downriver.

  “This proves to me that Malcolm Izmir, or someone at Izmir Motors, is mixed up in the theft of the Jeweled Siva,” Joe declared.

  “And maybe Fontana himself,” Frank speculated.

  That evening Chet Morton stopped at the Hardys’ house in his jalopy and honked his horn urgently. Frank and Joe rushed outside.

  “What’s up?” Frank asked.

  “Plenty!” The stout youth’s eyes were wide with fear. “I j-just saw a walking mummy!”

  CHAPTER XVII

  Secret Signals

  “A WALKING mummy?” Joe echoed. Then he grinned. “Seems to me I recall we were going to be kidnapped once. What’s the joke this time?”

  “It’s no joke!” Chet retorted indignantly. “I tell you I saw a walking mummyl”

  “Okay, okay. Where?” Frank asked.

  “At the health farm, that’s where. It was all on account of you guys, too.”

  “How come?” Joe said.

  Chet explained that he had had no luck in finding out if a new guest had checked in at the health resort on Sunday, nor had he seen anyone answering Ace Pampton’s description. And so he had purposely hung around on the job until long after his usual quitting time.

  “I figured I might be able to do some snooping while dinner was being served,” Chet went on. “There was one particular building I wanted to get a look at.”

  “Which one?” Frank put in.

  “I don’t think you fellows have seen it. An old, two-story frame building, set back among the trees on the north side of the grounds.”

  “What’s special about it?” Joe asked.

  “The place is always kept locked. I’ve seen only one other person at the farm bes
ides Doc Grafton and Rip Sinder ever go in there—in fact, today Doc told me it was off limits.”

  Frank and Joe looked at each other with rising excitement.

  “Well, go on! What happened?” Joe urged as Chet paused to munch a candy bar.

  “For Pete’s sake, don’t rush me!” Chet retorted. “I’m half starved. I haven’t even had dinner yet.”

  He went on, “Anyhow, I thought I’d try to peek inside, so I sneaked up through the trees. And then all a sudden this—this mummy walked past the window!” Chet’s face turned paler at the recollection. “The—the head was all wound around with bandages!”

  The stout boy shuddered and his voice shook with fear. Joe tried to reassure him. “Easy, Chet! You’ve been seeing too many horror movies, like ‘The Creature from the Tomb’!”

  “This was worse than any movie!”

  “Who’s the other person allowed into the building?” Frank asked Chet.

  “Some old man named Dr. Vardar. He’s the health-farm physician.”

  Joe chuckled. “Chet, I think you’ve been working too hard out there.”

  “Okay. Don’t believe me.” The stout boy gunned his engine. “Count me out of this case!” he exclaimed. “You two can investigate that creepy joint alone next time!”

  “Come on, Chet,” Frank said soothingly. “We appreciate your help. You can’t back out now. Dad might arrive at the farm any time.”

  Somewhat mollified, Chet consented, and a moment later the yellow jalopy roared off.

  Frank and Joe gazed after it. Both were mystified at Chet’s story. “I’d like to have a look at that ‘mummy’ myself,” said Joe.

  “Me too. But we’d better wait until we hear from Dad.”

  Shortly before ten o’clock that evening a loud buzz from the basement announced an incoming call over the Hardys’ short-wave. Frank and Joe hurried down to receive it.

  “Fenton calling Elm Street!” a low voice crackled from the speaker.