The Shattered Helmet

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Maybe it’s still there!” Joe said, hardly able to contain his excitement.

  “No, I’m afraid not,” Miss Love said, shaking her head sadly. “All of the things were sold at an auction when the company dissolved three years ago.”

  “Who bought the stuff?” Frank asked.

  The woman did not know, but told them that a story about this had been printed in the newspapers. “It was in the spring,” she said.

  Frank and Joe thanked Miss Love for her information. “You really put us on the trail of the helmet,” Frank said. “I’m sure we can track down who bought the things.”

  The boys hastened out to tell Evan and Buster the good news. “Next stop the newspaper office,” Frank said.

  A clipping from the newspaper’s library provided the next clue. While viewing microfilm of the feature story, the Hardys learned that a dealer named Mervin Hecht had bought the entire contents of the movie company warehouse, including stage settings and props of all kinds.

  The boys thanked the librarian for his help and hastened back to Buster, who was temporarily double-parked in front of the office.

  “Come on, or you’ll get me a ticket!” he said. “Where to next?”

  Joe consulted the notes they had taken in the newspaper office. Hecht’s shop was in Hollywood and turned out to be a small place next to an interior decorator. The three boys entered and were greeted by a slender man wearing a wide tie and a carnation in the lapel of his blue jacket.

  When Frank asked about his purchase from the movie company, he replied, “That was a few years ago. I didn’t keep the stuff long. The sets I sold to amateur groups and the junk—saddles, bridles, Civil War uniforms—went to a New York outfit.” He paused and looked at them quizzically. “Just what are you looking for?”

  Frank avoided a direct answer. “We’re trying to find some old props used in a certain movie. We’re studying film-making.”

  “Well, maybe the New York shop still has some of the stuff,” Mr. Hecht said. He pulled a business card from his pocket, turned it over, and wrote a name on the back.

  “The place is called the Antique Salon,” he said. “I can’t remember the address, but you can look it up in the telephone directory.”

  The boys thanked him and left. Frank slid in beside Buster, and Joe and Evan hopped in the back.

  “Something funny’s going on,” Buster said tensely. “A blue Chevy pulled up behind me and a guy got out. He peeked in the window of Hecht’s shop while you were in there!”

  “What did he look like?” Frank asked.

  “Stocky, dark hair.”

  “Did he have a mustache?”

  “I couldn’t see.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Back in the car and drove off. Do you suppose he was following you?”

  “Sounds like it might be Dimitri,” Frank said.

  They returned to the bungalow and had a late lunch while they continued to discuss the man in the blue car. “If he goes to see Hecht,” Frank said, “he’ll learn the same thing we found out.”

  “In that case, we’d better get to New York as soon as possible,” Joe declared.

  Just then the phone rang. Frank picked it up. The caller was Sam Radley.

  “I’ve been trying to get through to you fellows,” he said. “Listen! This is urgent!”

  CHAPTER XV

  Cat and Mouse

  FRANK pressed the receiver to his ear and motioned for silence. “What’s the scoop, Sam?”

  As he listened, Frank’s eyes reflected intense excitement. “All right, we’ll find the place. Meet you in your room.”

  Frank hung up. “How about that! Dimitri left with the maroon car. He had a passenger. From Sam’s description it was Kitten Cole.”

  Radley had followed the car to a motel ten miles north of the city. “They’re on the first floor,” Frank said. “Sam took the adjacent room and set up an electronic surveillance. He wants us to take over while he guards the exit.”

  “Why doesn’t he have them arrested right away?” Evan asked.

  “Not enough proof, but the eavesdropping might reveal further clues to the whole operation.”

  Buster was told about the phone call from Radley, but he had a headache and decided to stay home. However, he offered them his car.

  When they left the house, the boys noticed a motorcycle across the street. The rider tried to start it, but the machine did not respond.

  Frank said, “You know, I think that fellow passed here when we drove to the film lab last night. Maybe he’s spying for Cole!”

  Joe shrugged. “If he is, he’s out of luck right now.”

  The cyclist seemed to pay no attention as the trio started off in Buster’s car. A superhighway carried them north at a rapid clip and soon they reached the motel. A pine woods stretched out to the right of it, providing an isolated setting.

  Frank drove into a clearing in the woods and parked the car out of sight. “Sam’s in Room 29B,” he said as the boys walked to the motel.

  The boys found the door and knocked. Sam Radley, sandy-haired and grinning, let them in. After he and Evan were introduced, Sam said, “Right now these guys seem to be sleeping. It might be a long wait. Keep tuned in at all times. I’ll stay outside and watch the driveway.”

  “Good idea,” Frank said. He took the headset of the listening device and Sam quietly left the room.

  Not a word was spoken in the adjoining room until nightfall. Then the phone rang.

  “Yes?” one of the men answered. He listened for a while, then said, “Rotten luck. Well, I hope they didn’t go far.”

  He hung up. “That was Mitch. The Hardys and their friend took off and he couldn’t follow because his bike kept stalling.”

  “Too bad,” said a man with a Greek accent, obviously Dimitri. “Did they leave in the old man’s car?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then they’ll be back.” There was silence until Dimitri resumed the conversation. “I’m glad you got the film, Kitten. Twister’s going ga-ga to lay his hands on the prize. Then he wants to get out of sight for a while. I can’t blame him. Pressure’s too much. After the next shipment to Greece we’re going to lie low.”

  “Yeah,” Cole said. “No use to risk your necks. By the way, what happened to the kid?”

  “He high-tailed it back to New York. Got cold feet. But Twister found him.”

  “Look,” Cole’s voice came again. “We’d better call him. He’ll want to know about Hecht.”

  A number was dialed, and Dimitri asked for Gerrold.

  Frank felt utterly frustrated. The gang knew about the studio props, and if Gerrold were told, he would get to the Antique Salon before they could!

  But luck was with them. Gerrold could not be found, and Dimitri hung up. “We’ll have to wait until we get back to New York,” he said.

  Frank turned and whispered, “Cole’s got the film. We can have him arrested for the theft!”

  Joe nodded. In a low voice he called the police, after which Frank told him and Evan the rest of the men’s conversation.

  He had hardly finished when the phone next door rang again.

  “Hello?” Cole said. After a few seconds’ pause, he uttered a string of oaths, followed by, “Impossible!”

  There were a few minutes of silence, then a door slammed, and footsteps sounded outside.

  “They’ve split!” Frank cried out. “The guy on the switchboard must have tipped them off!”

  By the time the boys raced from their room, the criminals were nearly out of sight. Dimitri rushed past the office and right into Sam Radley. He bowled the detective over and sprinted down the driveway to the road.

  Cole had run off toward the woods. Joe and Evan dashed after him, while Frank helped Sam to his feet. They started after Dimitri just as two police cars zoomed into the driveway.

  An officer jumped out of the first one and ordered Frank and Radley to halt. By the time the two had identified themselves, the Greek
was gone.

  Joe and Evan, meanwhile, raced through the woods, looking for Cole. Suddenly they came upon a wire fence barrier. On the other side, the land dropped steeply down to a superhighway, where cars whizzed by at seventy miles an hour.

  “If Cole climbed the fence,” Evan reasoned, “he might have gotten a ride. What do you think?”

  Joe was skeptical. Stopping on the freeway could cause a mammoth pile-up. “I doubt if someone would pick him up.”

  Radley, Frank, and a policeman arrived at the fence. “Well,” the officer said, “I guess the other one got away too.” He obtained the description of Cole and left. Radley and Frank followed, but Joe and Evan lingered behind.

  Soon all was still again in the dark pines. Joe whispered, “Don’t make any noise. I have a hunch Cole is still in these woods. Let’s wait a while.”

  The two moved quietly beneath the domed canopy of inky blackness, tensely alert for the slightest sound. Minutes ticked by, a quarter of an hour passed. Joe was about to give up when he heard a slight rustle. It seemed to come from directly overhead.

  Suddenly something brushed against Joe’s face, startling him. He reached out in the dark to grasp the end of a thin rope. A thud followed as someone dropped down, landing lightly on the spongy ground, inches from the boys.

  With a banshee yell Joe jumped upon the figure of Kitten Cole. Evan joined in. The three rolled and thrashed about, shouting at the same time and calling for help.

  Finally they pinned each of Cole’s arms to the ground as a light appeared among the trees. “Joe, Evan!” Frank called out. “Where are you?”

  “Over here!”

  Soon the flooding light revealed a disheveled Kitten Cole, tightly in the grasp of his captors. Frank was accompanied by the policemen, who had stayed to question the switchboard operator and examine the men’s luggage.

  Cole was frisked and the stolen film found in his pocket. Then handcuffs were snapped on his wrists. Cole was advised of his constitutional rights as an arrested person, then led away.

  A half hour later everyone met at headquarters. Sam Radley, who was going to stay in Los Angeles for a while, pressed charges against Cole for the theft of the film. He promised to send the reel to Jeff Riker when the police released it. Cole remained mute.

  Finally the boys returned to Buster Buckles’ house, where Frank phoned home. Mrs. Hardy answered. She said that their father was in New York and gave the number of his hotel. Joe made the second call and reached the detective.

  Mr. Hardy congratulated the three young sleuths on their work. “I’m still gathering information on the Gerrold mob,” he said. “I just hope I’ll have enough solid evidence to have him arrested before he disappears.”

  “So do I,” Joe said. “We’re coming to New York, Dad. Will you make our flight arrangements with your credit card?”

  “Sure. I’ll call you back and let you know what plane I booked you on.”

  The detective managed to get midmorning reservations for the following day, and after breakfast the boys called a taxi and said good-by to Buster Buckles.

  He was sorry to see them go. “You made me feel young again with that mystery of yours,” Buster said as he shook hands with each of them. “Be sure to visit me when you come west again.”

  On the way to the airport they picked up the enlargements from the film lab, as well as the outtake. Frank and Joe each pocketed one of the pictures and stowed the reel in their duffel bag. They reached the plane with only minutes to spare.

  After landing at Kennedy International Airport they went directly to Mr. Hardy’s hotel. It was a happy reunion, and stories were exchanged over an early dinner. After the meal the boys looked up the Antique Salon in the telephone book. The company had two shops, one in the Bronx, the other in Manhattan on Third Avenue near Sixtieth Street.

  The following morning, while Mr. Hardy pursued his investigation, Frank and Evan went to the Bronx, and Joe visited the shop on Third Avenue.

  It was full of old statuettes, vases, sundry pieces of art, and oriental antiques. Joe told the manager that he was looking for spears and helmets.

  “Putting on a school play?” the white-haired man asked.

  “Could be,” Joe replied.

  “Well, follow me,” the man led Joe into a back room piled high with articles of all kinds. “Take a look,” he said. “If you see anything you like, bring it out.”

  Joe’s eyes roved around. There were wooden spears, along with other theatrical accouterments—but no helmets. Then he noticed a huge Swiss cowbell, the kind used to decorate cattle when they come down from the high Alps in October. He remembered reading about the festival held at that time.

  Joe was curious. He lifted the bell to ring it. Under it lay an ancient helmet!

  Joe set the bell aside and picked up the helmet. The back had a cleft as if it had been struck by a heavy sword, and above the nosepiece was a cryptic inscription.

  Hands trembling, Joe pulled out the photograph of the shattered helmet and compared it with the antique. There was no doubt. This was the prize they were looking for!

  Trying to hide his excitement, he cradled the helmet in his left arm and walked to the front of the shop.

  “Find something?” the manager asked.

  “I guess this will do,” Joe said.

  “I’m glad,” the man said with a smile. “I’ll give you a real bargain since you’re a student. Twenty-five dollars.”

  Joe took the money from his wallet. The man wrote a receipt, wrapped the helmet, and gave it to him.

  Success at last! Joe felt as if there were wings on his heels. He stepped out into the sunlight on Third Avenue, thinking about the cheers that would greet him when he delivered the shattered helmet.

  But as Joe looked for a taxi he felt a sharp blow on the back of his skull. He slumped to the sidewalk, and at the same time the helmet was snatched from his hands!

  CHAPTER XVI

  Flight to Greece

  BY the time Joe woke up, a crowd of people had gathered. The antique dealer and two other men helped him to his feet.

  The boy rubbed the back of his neck and winced. “Who hit me?”

  The shopkeeper said that three men had jumped him. One delivered the blow, another had snatched the helmet. All three had turned the corner and dashed toward Lexington Avenue so quickly that nobody could give a good description of them.

  With a hasty thank-you, Joe turned the corner. To find his assailants, he realized, would be almost impossible, but he would try. He reached Lexington Avenue and glanced both ways, but saw no one who was carrying his package.

  As he trotted toward Park Avenue, questions raced through his mind with computer speed. Had his attackers followed him to the Antique Salon? Had Dimitri ridden in the same plane from Los Angeles to New York? Had these men already attacked Frank and Evan?

  Joe crossed Park Avenue and was hurrying toward Madison when he spotted three men half a block ahead of him hailing a taxi. One of them carried a bulky package. The helmet!

  Joe bolted forward, but the car was off in traffic before he could reach it. Then another cab pulled up and a passenger got out.

  Joe hopped in and pointed to the taxi with the three men, which had stopped for a red light. “Follow them!” he said.

  “Playing cops and robbers?” asked the driver.

  “Please! Don’t lose them in traffic!” Joe begged. “They’re thieves!”

  “I’ll stick to ‘em like glue. Relax.”

  When the signal changed to green, their quarry went north on Madison. The boy craned forward to get a look at the passengers, but all he could see was the backs of their heads.

  The pursuit led across Sixty-third Street, then north on Eighth Avenue. The lead taxi stopped near Seventy-second Street and the men got out. Joe handed his driver a five-dollar bill and ran after them. One of the fugitives, who looked like Dimitri, turned and spied Joe. Abruptly the men ducked into a place called the Peloponnesian Restaurant.

>   As Joe reached the door his way was blocked momentarily by a couple who were leaving. Then he rushed inside, glancing about wildly. Where had the thieves gone?

  The manager, a handsome man in a black jacket, approached him. “Are you looking for someone?”

  “Three men! They came in a minute ago!”

  “Not only that, but they ran out the back way!” the manager said disapprovingly.

  Joe did the same, dashing through the kitchen and into an alley that led to a parking lot on Seventy-third Street. The men were nowhere in sight. Joe hurried to the street and looked in all directions. His quarry was gone!

  Dejectedly he returned to his father’s hotel. Frank and Evan had already arrived. Joe told what had happened. “I wonder how they knew which Antique Salon had the helmet!” he said glumly.

  “I can answer that one,” Frank replied. “The salesman in the Bronx told Evan and me that a Greek fellow had been there before, looking for a helmet. Since he had none, he sent him to the Third Avenue branch.”

  “That must have been Dimitri. He was one of the guys who bopped me. I recognized him when he turned around. The second man could have been Saffel. But who was the third?”

  Frank had an idea. “Dad, do you have a picture of Gerrold with you?”

  “Sure.” Mr. Hardy went to his briefcase and produced a photograph of the racketeer. He had an intelligent face and curly brown hair.

  “Let’s show this to the manager of the Peloponnesian Restaurant,” Frank suggested.

  The boys returned to the restaurant, where the manager confirmed that Gerrold was one of the fugitives who had run through his establishment.

  Back at the hotel, they mulled over the case. Why was Gerrold so eager to get the helmet? Could he have learned of its real value? Did it have any bearing on Mr. Hardy’s investigation of the underworld?

  “My head is spinning,” Joe said, “from the bump and the questions. Now what?”

  “I think the gang will beat it to Greece,” Mr. Hardy said.