“He lives at nine Annastrasse, three blocks from here to your right. The basement apartment.”
“Thanks.”
The boys found the address and knocked on the door. A sloppy-looking man in his thirties answered.
“Karl Pfeiffer?” Frank asked.
“Ja.”
“You speak English?”
“Ja. A little.”
“What do you know about the Wakefield gold?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not what you’ve been saying at Auerbach’s,” Joe put in.
Pfeiffer looked scared. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I—”
He looked up as a police car halted in front of the building. Then he whirled around and hurried into his apartment as two officers approached.
“Hey, Pfeiffer, wait!” Frank called out. He ran after the man, who had opened a window on the other side of his living room and was about to climb out.
“Hold it!” Frank said and pulled him back just as the policemen entered the apartment.
“Vielen Dank fuer die Hilfe,” one of the officers said, thanking Frank for his help. Obviously they had come to arrest Pfeiffer!
Frank tried to explain why the Hardys wanted to talk to the man, but the policemen spoke little English and the boys’ German was not fluent.
“Let’s go with them to headquarters,” Frank suggested, “and talk to Captain Hartl.”
“Right,” Joe said. “It’ll be interesting to find out why they nailed Pfeiffer.”
The officers did not object to the boys’ accompanying them to headquarters. When the group arrived, one of them showed Frank and Joe into Captain Hartl’s office. They explained what had happened, and the captain looked puzzled.
“Pfeiffer was seen at the scene of a burglary this morning,” he said. “That’s why we brought him in. He’s a petty thief, but is not known to be a smuggler. Why don’t you wait here and I’ll talk to him.”
The captain was gone for about fifteen minutes. When he returned, he held two envelopes in his hand. “This is a rather amazing turn of events,” he said. “Look what we found on Pfeiffer!”
One envelope contained five hundred Swiss marks, the other a few gold coins. In the upper left-hand corner of the second envelope were printed the words Wakefield Mint.
“Wow!” Frank exclaimed. “What a clue! Pfeiffer is involved in the gold heist!”
“I don’t think so,” Hartl said. “He told me the whole story. Pfeiffer was approached by a man last week and paid to spread the rumor about the Wakefield gold. The stranger also gave him the envelope with the coins for future use. Then he told him to call the Swiss Gold Syndicate and arrange for them to pay him five hundred marks in exchange for the information about Auerbach’s.”
“Who hired Pfeiffer?” Frank asked.
“He doesn’t know. But I know Pfeiffer. He’s been in and out of our jail several times. I think he’s telling the truth. He was set up by someone who wanted to mislead you!”
“What did the stranger look like?” Joe asked. “Maybe it was Zemog.”
“I asked Pfeiffer that,” Captain Hartl replied. “The fellow was tall, thin, and in his early thirties. He spoke German without a trace of an accent and Pfeiffer thinks he’s either German or Swiss. That doesn’t fit Zemog.”
“It doesn’t,” Frank had to admit.
“If I find out anything else about this case and Zemog, I’ll contact Mr. Jung,” Captain Hartl promised.
“Thank you very much for your help,” Frank said and the boys left.
“Let’s go back to the hotel and call Jung,” Frank said. “I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear the police recovered his five hundred marks.”
A short while later Frank and Joe took the elevator to the fifth floor of the William Tell Hotel. The door clanged open and they stepped into the corridor. At the same time, a man was about to enter the next elevator, which was going down. The boys looked straight at him. He stared in return.
“Pedro Zemog!” Frank exclaimed. Zemog still clutched his briefcase, shielding it with his arm. Then the elevator door closed.
“He’s headed for the lobby!” Joe cried. “We may be able to catch him!”
The Hardys took the stairs two at a time. They reached the lobby and looked around. There was no sign of Zemog.
“Too late,” Frank groaned.
The desk clerk could not tell them anything about Pedro Zemog, but he did say a man named Jones, who matched their description of Zemog, had been in room 506 and had just checked out of the hotel.
Back on the fifth floor, the Hardys noticed that the door of 506 was open. They went in. The bed was mussed, the drawers half-open, the closet door ajar. A quick tour of the room revealed nothing.
“Zemog didn’t leave a single clue,” Frank said in disappointment.
“Maybe he did,” Joe answered, as he reached into the wastebasket beside a table. He drew out some shredded yellow paper. Carefully he fitted the torn pieces together.
“It’s a telegram!” Frank said, looking over his brother’s shoulder, as Joe put the last piece in place. The boys felt completely stymied as they read the message:
PEDRO ZEMOG. TAKE CONSIGNMENT TO MEXICO CITY. A.P.
CHAPTER VIII
A Warning
FRANK and Joe stared at each other, wondering again if the telegram referred to the gold stolen from the Wakefield Mint.
Finally Frank shook his head. “It can’t be. I think the telegram indicates that the consignment referred to has been in Switzerland and is now to be shipped to Mexico. But the crooks wouldn’t be so foolish as to bring the gold to Zurich secretly and then spread a rumor that it would be sold here!”
“I see what you’re getting at,” Joe agreed. “The rumor was created to keep us far from the place where the Wakefield gold has been, or will be, taken. So Zemog’s instructions don’t refer to it.”
“Right. But let’s phone Captain Hartl about the telegram, anyway. We still want to find Zemog for the museum.”
Police Captain Hartl promised to alert the airlines about the fugitive’s planned trip to Mexico, but said, “Since Zemog called himself Jones at the hotel, he’s obviously traveling under an assumed name. That creates a problem. What are your plans?”
“I think we’ll go back to Wakefield,” Frank said.
“Good idea. If we find Zemog, we will get in touch with the Early Art Museum in New York.”
“Thank you very much,” Frank said and hung up.
The boys packed and flew home the next morning. When they arrived, their mother greeted them with hugs. “I’m so glad you’re back,” she said. “I hope you weren’t in any danger.”
“Well, Frank did a cliff-hanger,” Joe said, laughing. He described the skiing party and his brother’s accident.
“Why, Frank, you could have been hurt!” Mrs. Hardy exclaimed.
“Mother,” Frank assured her, “I knew what I was doing. And anyway, Joe was watching and came to the rescue.”
“I wish the two of you wouldn’t take such chances.” Mrs. Hardy sighed.
“Chances? What chances?” said Aunt Gertrude at the doorway. “Have you boys been up to some of your harebrained stunts again?”
After hearing the story, she shook her head. “You must have nine lives, like they say cats do.”
Frank thought, “I used one up on that cliff.”
“By the way,” Mrs. Hardy put in, “a man named Ivan Orlov phoned and asked for you. I told him you’d be back today. He refused to say what he wanted.”
A short while later, the phone rang. Joe answered. The caller was Orlov. “So you are back from Zurich,” he said. “Have you brought the Scythian figurine with you?”
Joe confessed that he and Frank had failed to retrieve the golden horse. He described how the boys had spotted Zemog at the Zurich airport and at the William Tell Hotel, and said that the police were looking for him.
“Why did you not have him arrested? Why did you not t
ake the figurine from him?” Orlov demanded.
“We lost him both times.”
“Lost him!” Orlov stormed. “You mean you and your brother permitted him to escape?”
“That’s about the size of it,” Joe said.
“Size? What does that mean—size?”
“It means you’re correct, Mr. Orlov.”
“You have brought back no clue from Zurich?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact we have,” Joe stated. He told the curator about the shredded telegram in Zemog’s abandoned hotel room and the message referring to Mexico City.
“You must follow him!” the Russian declared, excited. “You must go to Mexico City at once and find the gold horse! I will pay your expenses!”
Joe informed Orlov that they could not do this until they heard from their father. “He and my brother and I are involved in another case,” he explained.
Orlov became angrier. “Another case? What case could be more important than mine? Are you leaving me—how do you say it—in the lurch?”
“Mr. Orlov, if our father can spare us, we’ll be glad to pursue your case. But we’ll have to check with him first.”
“This is too confusing,” Orlov complained. “All I can say is that if the gold horse is not restored to me, it will be ... most unfortunate for your country!”
The Russian hung up so vehemently that Joe felt a painful buzz in his ear.
“Wow! Next time he calls, Frank, you talk to Comrade Orlov!” he said, holding his ear.
“What’s up?”
“He’s mad at us because we didn’t bring his gold horse back from Switzerland. Now he wants us to leave at once and chase Zemog around Mexico City.”
The phone rang again. Frank answered it.
“If it’s Orlov,” Joe muttered, “say I’m off on a moon flight.”
This time Fenton Hardy was calling. “I’m in John Armstrong’s office and we have you on conference call so we both can hear your report on Zurich,” the detective said.
“It was not a success,” Frank said and told about their visit to the Swiss Gold Syndicate, the false lead, and the arrest of Pfeiffer.
Mr. Hardy and John Armstrong agreed that the rumor was undoubtedly a diversionary tactic which the thieves had cunningly used to mislead the Hardys.
Frank told his father about Zemog and the stolen figurine from the Early Art Museum in New York. “Orlov wants us to go to Mexico City,” he said. “But we told him that we could only work for him if you don’t need us any more.”
“Well, I’m up against a stone wall right now,” Mr. Hardy said. “Let me talk to John.”
The two men conferred for a few minutes, then Mr. Hardy came back on the line. “When you mentioned Mexico City, John remembered something he had been told just the day before the burglary,” the detective said. “It had slipped his mind, but now it seems as if it might be a clue!”
“What is it?” Frank asked eagerly.
“One of the guards mentioned that he saw a private plane flying rather low over the mint with the words ‘Mexico City’ on the fuselage. John paid little attention to it at the time, but now we’re beginning to think that perhaps the plane landed on the hidden airstrip here in Wakefield and waited for the gold to be flown out.”
“Oh, Dad, that’s a great theory!” Frank said, excited.
“The only thing is,” Joe put in, “how do you know Mexico City was the plane’s destination?”
“You don’t,” Mr. Hardy said thoughtfully. Again he conferred with Armstrong for a few minutes, then he said, “John thinks that even if the plane didn’t fly to Mexico City, it might have been based there. Since there’s nothing for you to do here at this point, he wants you to fly to Mexico and see if you can track down the plane while you’re looking for Zemog.”
“We’ll be glad to check out the Mexican angle,” Frank said. “And Orlov will be pleased, too. We’ll leave as soon as we can. What’s new in Wakefield?”
“No clues,” Mr. Hardy replied. “I scouted around the airstrip in the guise of a backpacker and kept the abandoned car under surveillance for three days. No one went near it.”
“Was the car stolen?” Frank asked.
“Yes. The owner has it now. By the way, John said if you need any help in Mexico he’ll be glad to pay the expenses. He wants that plane tracked down as fast as possible.”
“We’ll ask Chet, Biff, and Tony to go along,” Frank suggested. “This way we can split up and divide the legwork.”
“Excellent idea. And good luck!”
Biff Hooper and Tony Prito were two more of the Hardys’ close friends. Biff was a husky six-footer who knew how to use his fists. Olive-skinned Tony was a carefree youth who was always ready for an adventure. Like Chet, the two boys had helped Frank and Joe solve some of their mysteries in the past. Frank phoned them at once. “Big doings!” he said. “Make tracks over here in a hurry or get left out!”
Twenty minutes later a series of loud, gunlike reports sounded in the street. Chet’s battered jalopy rattled up to the Hardy home, backfiring all the way. Chet was at the wheel, with Biff and Tony beside him. He brought the vehicle to a jolting stop at the curb and turned off the ignition. The jalopy stopped its bucking and subsided.
Tony jumped out and stretched. “Oh, my aching back!” He groaned.
Biff extricated his long legs from under the dashboard. “When you ride with Chet, you hurt all over.”
Chet grinned. “How come you guys let me give you a lift if my jalopy scrambles your anatomy?”
“We never learn,” Biff said.
The three hurried up the front steps. Frank and Joe were eating large pieces of cherry pie on the porch. “Go right through,” Joe told their friends. “Aunt Gertrude is ready for you.”
Chet, Biff, and Tony went to the kitchen and reappeared with slices of pie. Tony sat down in a rocking chair, Biff perched on the porch railing, and Chet reclined in a hammock, balancing the loaded plate on his belt buckle.
“Okay,” Tony said, “let’s have it.”
“It had better be good,” Biff warned.
“The cherry pie suits me,” Chet countered. “But I know what the Hardys are up to.”
“What?” Biff demanded.
“Gold!”
“Chet’s right,” Frank revealed. He briefly told them the story of the Wakefield and Scythian gold. “We are working on both cases,” he concluded.
“Next stop—Mexico City,” Joe added. “How about you guys joining the expedition, all expenses paid?”
“Wow!” Chet exclaimed, and the other two were equally enthusiastic.
“It might be dangerous,” Frank warned.
“We’ll outsmart our enemies,” Tony vowed.
Chet levered the last piece of pie from his plate into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed with a blissful expression. Then he put out a hand and pushed on the railing, causing the hammock to sway back and forth.
“You fellows can have the crooks,” he declared. “I’ll stick to archaeology. The Aztecs lived in Mexico City, and had tons of gold. I’d love to see their ancient masks.”
Frank shook his head. “You may not have a chance, Chet. Our assignments are the Wakefield gold and the horse figurine Orlov wants back.”
Chet gave in. “Well, as long as I get to see somebody’s gold. Aztec or Russian, it’s all the same difference.”
The others laughed. They were used to their stout friend making jokes when danger lay ahead.
The five spent the rest of the evening planning their expedition. The next morning they drove to the airport and caught a flight to Mexico City. Upon landing, Frank proposed that the group split up and see if they could find the plane from Wakefield.
Chet was to check with the tower, Biff and Tony were to talk to the pilots, and the Hardys would question the mechanics.
Chet went to the tower and discussed the mystery plane with the dispatcher.
“Mexican airlines have many craft marked ‘Mexico City,’ ”
the man pointed out.
“This is a private plane,” Chet replied. “It flew down from the U.S.A. about a week ago.”
The dispatcher checked. “I have no record of the one you describe,” he said.
Meanwhile, Biff and Tony had been circulating through the offices of the airlines, questioning pilots. None could tell them anything about an aircraft marked “Mexico City.”
Frank and Joe had better luck. The fifth mechanic they interviewed had serviced a private plane with that marking. Its pilot was a young man.
“I heard him mention Palango,” the mechanic said.
“Palango?” Joe asked. “What does that mean?”
“I think it’s an archaeological term. Better ask Professor Carlos Alvarez at the university. He can tell you all about archaeological digs around here.”
“Thanks for the info,” Frank said.
He and Joe held a conference near one of the runways. Planes took off and landed, taxiing up to the terminal. Crews removed baggage as lines of passengers alighted.
“It’s sure noisy here,” Joe said.
They walked to a hangar servicing private planes. A small aircraft stood near them on the runway, ready for takeoff. They could see the pilot checking his instruments.
While they were talking, Chet joined them. Biff and Tony came up at the same time.
“No luck,” Chet reported.
“We drew a blank, too,” Biff said.
Frank told them not to worry. “We got a clue from one of the mechanics.”
“The plane was here, and the pilot mentioned the word Palango,” Joe added. “Professor Alvarez at the university might be able to tell us what that means.”
“You see?” Chet said triumphantly to Biff and Tony. “The Hardys always get their man. They’ll find the gold!”
His words were overheard by the pilot of the small plane near them. He had just climbed out of the cockpit and proved to be a hulking figure in overalls. He carried a long wrench in his right hand.
The man stared at the boys, his brows furrowed. Then he sidled up to them. “What are you guys doing here?” he scowled. “And who are you?”
“Who are you?” Biff retorted boldly.
“My name’s Murphy, and they don’t call me Rumble for nothing. Understand?”
The Jungle Pyramid Page 5
