“Miss Love, you’ve been very helpful,” Frank said as the boys rose to leave.
“Good-by, Greta,” Joe said and received a growl in reply.
On the street, Frank remarked, “Leon Saffel is one up on us, Joe.”
“That’s because he was so nice to Greta. But we’ve got the information we wanted!”
Frank chuckled. “The great director probably heard our plans when he listened at the door last night.”
“No doubt about it,” said Joe. “We’re kind of early for the plane. What say we walk over to Times Square?”
The boys strolled to the busy intersection. Then they went down to the piers to look at the ships. They ate a snack of hot dogs and sauerkraut at a street vendor’s cart before taxiing back to the airport and boarding the plane.
When the Hardys arrived at Hunt, the first thing they saw was a group of young people gathered around Leon Saffel’s display of old posters which were spread on the grass.
“What’d I tell you?” Joe said. “He’s gloating already.”
They walked closer and Saffel flipped over one of the posters so the Hardys could not see it. He gave them a sarcastic look.
“Something tells me you’ve been to the big city,” he said. “That’s my turf. Country hicks should stay away.”
There was no reply, and Leon went on, “I hear you like to visit old ladies. Did Betty Love give you my regards?”
“Yes. By the way, what’s that spectacular movie you’re going to make?” Joe needled.
This time there was silence on Saffel’s part. The Hardys coolly walked around the display and Frank said, “You know, Joe, I can see right through the back of this poster here. Behind it is the one about The Persian Glory.”
“Yep,” said Joe. “I can see it, too.”
The onlookers became interested, and Frank continued. “Oh yes. There’s the name of the director—Bart Lund, and the producers, Soderbeg and Lister.”
“And don’t forget the cast of characters,” Joe said, and proceeded to rattle off the list of names.
The students started laughing as Frank clapped his brother on the shoulder. “You’ll get an A in clairvoyance, Joe.”
Then one of the girls said, “Say, Leon, I thought you weren’t going to show that poster to the Hardys. They seem to know all about it!”
Saffel picked up his posters and walked away with a scowl on his red face.
“I guess that evens the score,” Joe said.
Frank grinned. “Right. Now let’s go find Chet and Evan.”
They were not in their room, so the Hardys had dinner alone. Shortly after dark Chet wandered into the dormitory, starry-eyed.
“Don’t tell us,” Frank said. “You had a date with Thelma.”
Chet rolled into his bunk and heaved a sigh. “She’s wonderful!”
“So she’s the greatest,” Joe said. “Where’s Evan?”
“There’s nobody like her in Bayport, or anywhere else for that matter. You know, she beat me at Indian wrestling three times out of five! You know, the hand-type.”
“I’m sure she can also lift you off the ground with one hand,” Frank said. “Now listen to me, Chet. Where’s Evan?”
“What biceps!” Chet hugged his pillow. “She’d be great working on a farm!”
Joe grabbed Chet’s legs and pulled him onto the floor. He hit with a soft thud.
“What’s the idea?” Chet complained.
“You’re not listening to us!” Frank said. “Would you mind coming back to reality for just a moment?”
“Okay, now I’m listening,” Chet said, finally roused from his daydream.
“Have you seen Evan?”
Chet jumped to his feet. “Gosh, no. Not since this afternoon. Do you think he’s in trouble?”
CHAPTER VI
A Clue on Film
“DON’T panic,” Joe said. “I doubt if he’s in trouble.”
Frank looked serious as he thought about it. “With Gerrold’s gang after us,” he reasoned, “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”
Chet told them that he and Evan had spent nearly all day together making films. “Then I had this date,” he concluded, “and Evan went into town.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s hunt for him,” Joe suggested. “Chet, why don’t you stay here just in case he comes back while we’re gone.”
“Okay.”
As the Hardys left the room, Chet picked up a film manual and began to study.
The Hardys had not quite reached the parking lot when they heard whistling in the darkness ahead. The figure coming toward them was in a happy mood.
“It’s Evan!” Joe exclaimed, running toward their friend.
“We were worried about you,” Frank called out. “Where’ve you been?”
“I met some Greeks!” Evan said. He had a white bag in his hands and held it up.
“What’s in it?” Joe asked.
“Baklava, Greek pastry. It’s delicious. But you’ll have to eat it with a fork. It’s sticky.”
On the way back to their room, Joe said, “Say, who were the Greeks you met?”
Evan told them that he had gone to town for a long walk and had become hungry. “I found a Greek restaurant,” he explained. “Their special today was dolma, grape leaves stuffed with rice and meat.”
“Sounds delicious,” Joe said.
“It is. The proprietor’s name is George Kolouris. He has a wife and a son, and all three were very cordial. They’re from Sparta. That’s on the Peloponnesus near my hometown.”
When the three arrived in their room, Chet was very much relieved.
“I’m sorry you worried, Chet,” Evan said. “Here, this will make you feel better.” He offered Chet and the Hardys the sweet and sticky baklava.
“Hm!” Chet said, savoring the thin pastry with nuts and honey. “This is just as sweet as—”
“Thelma!” Joe put in.
Chet raised his eyebrows. “How do you know?”
“Just guessed.”
The next morning as the boys were finishing breakfast a messenger from the administrative office entered the cafeteria. He paged Evan.
“Over here,” Evan said and stood up.
“Cablegram for you.”
Evan read it and clutched the message in his fist. “Let’s go back to the dorm,” he whispered. “It’s important—and secret.”
Frank surmised that it in some way was connected with their case. His hunch proved correct.
Behind the locked door of their room, Evan read the cablegram from his Uncle Nick.
The shipping magnate said that the cryptic writing copied from the helmet had just been deciphered by an eminent Greek scholar. It indicated that the headgear might have belonged to King Agamemnon.”
“Agamemnon! He was very important!” Frank exclaimed.
“That means the helmet is of great value,” Joe added.
“Priceless,” Evan said. He refreshed the boys’ memory about the Greek king. “Agamemnon had been away fighting the Trojan War for ten years, and shortly after he returned to his castle he was slain.”
“Maybe he was wearing the helmet on the day he was killed,” Chet conjectured.
“There are conflicting stories as to his death,” Evan stated. “For all we know, Chet’s theory might be correct. Anyway, if Uncle Nick gets this helmet, he wants to give it to the Greek government. But anyone else could sell it for a fortune!”
Frank and Joe were eager to get on with the search for the shattered helmet. However, it was too early to call Actors Equity in New York, so they went to the morning lecture first.
The subject concerned light when shooting with color. The instructor, a middle-aged man connected with a New York studio, explained that lighting could be a very complex process.
“When it is flooded all over the scene, the results figuratively resemble a picture postcard, devoid of any style,” he said. “The Victorian era in film-making is over,
however, and the matter of prime importance is to express the dramatic element of the film.”
The boys were busy writing notes. The light that comes from the sky, they learned, has a bluish tint, whereas light reflected from the ground has a brownish cast. In like manner, light reflected from leaves and foliage has a greenish quality.
In a question-and-answer period Evan remarked that reproduction of colors in some movies was not exactly accurate.
“That’s true,” said the instructor. “The only things that must be faithfully reproduced are colors of recognizable objects, such as the American flag and flesh tones, for instance.” He added that great care must be taken to shield certain objects and the skin surface of the human body from unwanted color reflections.
“And now,” he said, “your project for this afternoon will be to combine good color rendition and an action scene. At three o’clock we will review the rushes which were taken Saturday.”
The boys phoned Actors Equity after class, but the line was busy. “We’ll try again later,” Frank said. “Meanwhile let’s have lunch.”
During the meal they decided to use Chet for the action shots in the color rendition. The stout boy was agreeable and did a series of pratfalls which made everyone laugh. Then he disappeared for a while to get some footage of his own.
When they had finished their project, they tried Actors Equity again, but could not get through. There was no more time left and they hurried to the theater to watch the rushes.
Jeff was in charge. He said, “Now you’ll see what you did for the art as film producers.”
The efforts were short and amusing. One was a mood picture of children at play. Saffel’s gliding ducks were well filmed and drew a praise from Riker. The Hardys’ shots proved interesting, Joe’s in particular. It panned along the edge of the woods before centering on the waterfall.
“Wait a minute!” Frank said suddenly. “Can you run that scene backward, Jeff?”
“Sure. Is there something you wanted to see?”
“I think I noticed a face in the woods.”
The projectionist reversed the film slowly.
“There it is!” Frank cried out. “Can you hold that frame?”
Although a bit fuzzy, the picture showed a man peering out from behind a bush. He had a heavy black mustache and wore what looked like a chauffeur’s cap.
“Okay,” Frank said. “You can roll it again.”
When the session was over, the boys hastened outside to discuss Frank’s discovery. Evan said, “You know, fellows, that could have been a Greek by the waterfall.”
“How so?” Frank asked.
“His features were Greek, and his hat was just like the ones that the Greek sailors wear.”
“You think he threw the rock?” Chet asked.
“He couldn’t have,” Joe remarked. “It came from over our heads. The man in the picture was below us and on the other side of the falls.”
“He might have seen who did it, though,” Joe said. “I vote we go back to the falls and look around for clues.”
The boys stowed their cameras in the closet and hastened to the car. Soon they were at the foot of the falls, and climbed toward the spot where the mysterious man had been hiding.
They crisscrossed the area, their eyes glued to the ground. The grass was trampled down in spots and they found some broken twigs, but that was all.
Suddenly Chet let out a low whistle. “Hey, what’s this?” He bent down to pick up a small blue bead lying on a fallen green leaf.
The boys examined it carefully.
“It’s a worry bead,” Evan said. “I told you the man could have been a Greek!”
“I wish we knew where to find him!” Joe said.
“I have an idea where he could be,” Chet quipped. “In a Greek restaurant!”
“Wait a minute, Chet,” Frank said. “You might be right. Let’s go see Mr. Kolouris!”
They drove to town, parked in front of the restaurant, and went in to question the proprietor. He was a short man with a pleasant face and dark, curly hair.
After Evan introduced his friends, he said, “Would you like some more dolma? I just made it a little while ago.”
“Not this time,” Evan said. “We’d like to find out if a certain person has come here to eat.”
Frank described the man in the film, stressing the Greek-type hat
Mr. Kolouris thought for a moment, then smiled broadly. “Yes. He was here for lunch a couple of days ago!”
CHAPTER VII
The Mysterious Red Car
CHET’S hunch had proved correct, and he beamed with pride as Frank asked, “Was this fellow a Greek?”
Mr. Kolouris looked at Evan and smiled. “Yes. He was busy with worry beads. The string had broken and he was putting them together again while his soup cooled.” He added after a moment’s pause, “Besides, he had a Greek passport sticking out of his shirt pocket.”
Evan reached in his jacket and pulled out his own blue passport. “Like this one?”
“Yes, the same.”
“Did you notice anything else about him, Mr. Kolouris?” Joe asked.
The Greek’s plump wife, who had been listening, spoke up. “I saw his car. Would that be of help to you?”
“Yes, of course!” Evan said excitedly. “What was it?”
“A small foreign car. Red with white trim.”
“Efharisto,” Evan said.
“Parakalo.”
“What was that?” Chet asked.
Evan laughed. “Nothing more than ‘thank you’ and ‘you’re welcome.’ I can see you fellows will have to learn Greek.”
He asked the woman if she remembered the license number of the car, but she did not. As the boys left the restaurant, Chet whispered to Evan, “How do you say thank you?”
“Efharisto. It sounds like F. Harry Stowe.”
“I think I can say that,” Chet declared. At the door he turned around and waved gaily to the Greek couple. “Harry F. Stowe!”
When the Kolourises looked perplexed, the Hardys laughed and Chet realized his mistake. “F. Harry Stowe,” he corrected himself.
“Parakalo,” Mr. Kolouris said with a grin. “You sure can speak Greek well!”
As the boys drove toward the campus, Frank reminded the others of the red car which had passed them on the first day of their trip.
“I’ll bet it was the same one this Greek fellow was driving,” he said.
“You think he planted the worry beads on our front seat?” Chet asked.
“Yes. But Kitten Cole must have been with him, because whoever did that pulled a nifty lock job.”
“A dangerous pair,” remarked Joe. “We’ll have to watch out for them.”
The following morning Frank went to a phone booth and called Actors Equity again. This time he reached them without delay. Buster Buckles, he learned, lived in a suburb of Los Angeles. His telephone number was 748–2948.
Frank opened the door a crack and quickly clued in the others. Then he called California, using the family’s credit card number.
The voice at the other end was obviously a recording. It told Frank that Buckles’ phone had been temporarily disconnected.
“Oh nuts!” Frank said, stepping out of the booth. He told the boys the result of his call.
“Do you suppose the old boy has died?” Joe asked.
“I don’t think so. Actors Equity would have known about that.”
“I’ve got it,” Joe said, snapping his fingers. “Let’s get in touch with Rena Bartlett.”
“The Hollywood columnist?” asked Chet.
“Sure. She knows all about the actors.”
“It’s worth a try,” Frank agreed and went into the booth again. It took him a while before he reached the columnist’s office in Hollywood, where he spoke to a secretary. She was cordial, but insisted that he put his request in writing to Miss Bartlett, who was very busy.
“But this is urgent!” Frank pleaded. He told of the cal
l to Actors Equity and of Buckles’ disconnected telephone.
“All right,” she finally said. “I’ll see what I can do. Hold on.”
A few seconds later a voice said, “Rena Bartlett.”
Frank introduced himself to the columnist and explained their problem in finding a copy of The Persian Glory, and their search for the shattered helmet.
“What an interesting story,” she said. “Just the thing to use in my television show.”
“But, Miss Bartlett,” Frank said, “this is a secret mission. We don’t want the whole world to know about the helmet!”
There was silence on the other end for a few moments. Finally Rena Bartlett said, “Will you promise to let me know the solution—first?”
“Certainly,” Frank said. “You’ll get an exclusive report if we find the thing.”
“That’s a deal. Now, as to Buster Buckles. He and his dog are touring the Southwest in a half-ton pickup camper. Last time I heard he was in the Sangre de Cristo mountains near Santa Fe, New Mexico. So far as I know, he’s still there. I’d love to have him and his dog on my show. And you, too. What’s your name again?”
“Frank Hardy. But please, no publicity until we solved the case!”
“Don’t worry. You can rely on me.”
Frank thanked her and hung up. When the others heard the latest news, Joe said, “We’re getting somewhere, Frank! Let’s fly down to New Mexico.”
“But what about our film-making course?” Chet asked.
“We’ll have to see what kind of arrangement we can make,” Frank said. “Right now we’d better get to class. It starts in five minutes.”
They went to the theater to watch the action color rushes. Even with the few lectures they had attended, the students had improved noticeably. Evan’s film had been selected as a good example, and everyone chuckled at Chet’s antics.
After the work of other classmates had been flashed on the screen, Jeff announced, “That’s all for today.”
“What about Frank’s and mine?” Joe asked.
“You drew blanks.”
“What?”
“There was nothing on your film. Sorry.”
The announcement was greeted with mixed derision and needling. Saffel’s boos were exceptionally loud.
The Shattered Helmet Page 4
