Jack examined Chet’s foot and smiled with relief. “No blood. Fortunately, you shook him off in time. I think it was a vampire bat.”
“A v-vampire b-bat?” Chet clapped a hand to his brow. “Oh man! That’s all I need!” With a groan he got back into bed and wrapped himself tightly in the sheet.
The boys rose at six and breakfasted quickly downstairs. Then they walked to the coastal docks. Frank said he had promised Jack they would be back by ten that evening.
Chet, apprehensive, followed the Hardys to the dock where the tourist launch was berthed. The boys were met by a fat, thick-lipped man in uniform, evidently a Huellan official.
“American tourists?” he said, sneering. “You go just for day to Baredo?”
“Yes.”
The official scrutinized the travelers, then their passports. “Very well,” he said finally. “See you mind your own business and no pictures.”
“Friendly guy,” Chet whispered as the boys climbed aboard.
The whistle blew and a few minutes later the launch moved away toward the mist-covered Huellas. There were no other passengers.
The thickset helmsman and his assistant were taciturn. After a sharp glance at the boys they paid them no further attention.
The Hardys and Chet stood at the rail as they approached the palm-lined shore of Baredo. A hill of green jungle rose above the roofs of the capital town. Was their destination the stronghold of the Footprints spy ring?
The boat’s whistle tooted three times, and chugged into the harbor. This consisted of several weather-beaten piers and a few small docks. The launch pulled alongside one of them.
When the boys clambered onto the dock, the helmsman grunted, “Up there.” He pointed to a small guardhouse at the foot of the dock. Here a surly port officer studied their passports at length. “Tourists only allowed on Baredo one day!” he snapped. “You must leave tonight!”
“Gracias,” Frank murmured, and the trio headed up the bleak main street.
“With that kind of welcome, they must do a crashing resort business here,” Joe remarked.
The boys had noticed numerous motorboats marked Policia cruising about the island, apparently to control passage out of the Huellas.
“No wonder the people here want to leave,” Chet whispered.
Impressive public buildings fronted the harbor. But in the town itself the boys saw rows of tottering, unpainted shacks along unpaved roads. Shabbily dressed people wandered past dingy stores, many of which appeared to be closed. The atmosphere was both tense and depressing.
“Boy, this place gives me the willies,” Chet murmured as he noticed a gray-uniformed man watching them from one of the few cars.
“Never mind. Let’s just try to look like happy tourists,” Joe advised.
They climbed to the top of a hill outside town and surveyed the harbor. Only their launch and a battered fishing vessel were tied up.
Frank’s eyes narrowed. “It would be impossible for a big freighter to dock here.”
“You mean like the Dorado,” Joe said.
His brother nodded, then suggested they try to track down the names Colombo and Santilla, and also ask about Gomez.
Back in town, the boys located a rickety public telephone booth. Casually Frank entered it and opened a thin directory. None of the names he sought was listed. “There can’t be more than a hundred or so names in here,” he reported. “I guess most of the citizens can’t afford phones, or else Posada’s tight on giving them out.”
“Doesn’t leave us much of a starting point,” Joe said. “Let’s try asking around.”
They stopped an elderly man and mentioned the three names, but he shrugged, stared blankly, and walked away. The boys continued their quest. But they always met the same response.
“Let’s try a different part of town,” Joe recommended. They headed into a small market place and made more inquiries without success.
“Colombo—Santilla—Gomez?” Frank repeated to a poorly dressed boy.
The youth’s expression stiffened. He shook his head and quickly hurried off.
“I don’t get it,” Joe fumed. “Are the people so afraid of something that they won’t talk at all? Or is there something special about Colombo, Santilla, and Gomez that scares them?”
“It’s the secret police!” Chet declared uneasily. “Why else would everybody clam up?”
The boys noticed another man in a gray uniform striding past. He eyed the boys suspiciously. The trio immediately pretended to be sightseeing. Chet whistled shakily as they nonchalantly left the market place.
“We’d better call it quits for a while,” Frank whispered. “And—” He broke off. “Look!”
Crossing the main street, not far from the boys, were two men carrying blue suitcases.
“The luggage thieves!” Joe gasped.
“Come on! We’re going to find out where they’re headed!” Frank urged.
CHAPTER XVI
The Gate of Doom
THE Hardys and Chet walked faster, keeping the two thieves ahead in sight. When the men turned swiftly up a hilly, sun-baked street, the boys paused briefly at the corner, then followed.
“Wherever they’re going, they mean business!” Frank said.
The men hastened up the hill. At the top they made a beeline to a large white stone building, surrounded by a spiked iron fence with a huge gate in front. The pair stopped and spoke briefly to an armed guard, who let them in. The men hurried through and disappeared around the side of the building.
“There’s probably a rear entrance,” Joe murmured as the guard slammed the gate shut.
The boys approached the building. Carved over the portal was: EDIFICIO ADMINISTRATION DE LAS HUELLAS
“Huellas Government Building!” Frank translated. “And I’ll bet a cool shower it adds up to ‘Footprints Intelligence Bureau’!”
“The spy headquarters!” Joe added in a low voice.
A chill went up Chet’s spine. “You think those men really are delivering Micro-Eye secrets hidden in the suitcases?” he asked.
“Yes,” Frank replied. “This must be the receiving end for the security leak at the plant!”
The Hardys speculated about the two thieves—were they Colombo and Santilla? Noticing the guard, who eyed them with mistrust, the boys sauntered nonchalantly toward the rear of the building.
“Where do we go from here?” Joe asked. “We can’t break in.”
Chet agreed heartily. “And we sure can’t hang around waiting for those spy agents.”
At his urging they stopped at a dingy restaurant to have lunch. But the trio felt too edgy to eat much. Back outside, the afternoon sun burned down on the perspiring boys. Two oxcarts rolled lazily down the dusty street.
“If only we could get some lead on these names!” Joe chafed. “Time’s running out.”
The trio walked on to a section they had not visited before—consisting mostly of small shops and rickety dwellings. The three separated in order to appear less conspicuous while they continued their inquiries. After an hour they met. Each reported no luck.
Just then the boys noticed a dark, well-built man in khakis resting beneath a palm tree across the road. They went over and Frank once more repeated the three names. The Huellan’s eyes focused intently on his questioner, then studied Joe and Chet.
“No, lo siento,” he said finally, quickly moving away. He looked back once, then disappeared into a ramshackle store.
“At least we got an answer,” Joe said wryly. “He’s ‘sorry.’ ”
“He didn’t act frightened like the others,” Frank observed. “I have a feeling he knew the names, all right, and was trying to size us up.”
They renewed their inquiries. But after another sweltering hour, the boys had reached a dead end. They had covered the town itself, and now found themselves on the western outskirts.
“I’m ready to throw in the towel,” Chet announced. “This is no man’s land.”
The Hardys
did not reply. They had noticed the door of a small building slowly opening. A face peered out. It was the same khaki-clad man Frank had approached earlier!
“Maybe he’s tailing us!” Joe whispered.
The stranger stared at the boys for a second, then suddenly burst outside and sprinted for the nearby jungle. Joe and Frank sped after him, with Chet following reluctantly.
In minutes the boys found themselves on the bare semblance of a trail. There was no sign of the Huellan.
“He’s probably waiting to jump us!” Chet declared.
Frank set his jaw. “Let’s follow this trail. It may be risky, but we can’t give up any possible lead.”
The three were forced to proceed single file. Progress was slow and arduous over twisting roots and through masses of hanging vine. A dense cloud of mosquitoes enveloped them, attacking Chet in particular.
“Ouch!” Swat! “Get away from me!” Chet flailed desperately at the buzzing pests.
“Ssssh!”
“I can’t help it. They’re eating me up.”
Frank, in the lead, stopped abruptly and held up his hand. There came a faint rustling ahead. Cautiously the boys crept around a bend in the trail. To their surprise, a large section of jungle was hacked away. In the middle was an abandoned quarry.
“Looks like an old bauxite deposit,” Frank whispered.
Chet pointed to several rusted pickaxes on the ground. “Wonder what happened to the workers.” He shuddered.
The boys skirted the yawning pit, treading over crumbling red rock, then re-entered the jungle. There was still a barely perceptible path. The high grass growing along it was freshly trampled.
“Bet that guy’s right ahead of us,” Joe said softly. “He must be used to trekking the jungle.”
Chet was all for turning back, but the Hardys persuaded him to press on. The trail ended abruptly at a high, crudely constructed stucco wall. Farther along it was an arched gateway with a faded splintered sign: LA PUERTA DE LA MUERTE.
“‘The Gate of Doom’!” Joe translated. “The old prison!”
Reluctantly Chet trailed the Hardys along the wall and through the gateway. Interspersed among towering bamboo trees which blotted out most of the sunlight were long, thatch-roofed shacks.
“Probably the old prison barracks,” Frank whispered. “That man may be hiding out in one.”
They advanced cautiously, catching occasional glimpses through the foliage of the encircling wall. Lonely bird caws echoed around the deserted compound. The air hung hot and still. Pickaxes and broken machetes littered the ground. Looking up, the boys saw several ugly vultures hunched in the trees.
Chet gulped. “Ugh!”
The trio paused behind a bamboo tree, then slipped between two shacks facing a large clearing. In the center of this stood a platform and atop it was a guillotine.
Chet stood rooted to the spot, quaking with fright. Frank pointed to a shack across the clearing. At his signal the boys darted over to it and crouched low. A trail of footprints ended beneath the single small window.
“They’re fresh!” Joe whispered.
The boys crept to the window and Joe slowly arose to peer inside. His eyes had just reached the window level when gasps from the others made him spin around.
A dozen armed, grim-faced men in khaki stood spread out in the clearing.
“Don’t try to run,” Frank said in an undertone. “Act calm.”
“Oh, s-sure,” Chet stammered, white as a sheet.
The men advanced threateningly. Some wore bandoliers and battered straw hats, and several carried gleaming machetes. Among them the boys recognized the man they had pursued. The Hardys felt a cold chill of terror, but stood outwardly calm.
Were these men soldiers of Dictator Posada? An older, bearded man with a military bearing stepped forward and uttered a brisk command in Spanish.
The boys were marched off toward the guillotine!
Chet’s knees almost buckled, but he relaxed as the Bayporters were led past the gruesome platform and into an isolated shack. The first objects they saw were cots and old leg irons which were attached to a center bar the length of the hot, dusty room.
The Hardys and Chet were prodded to a wooden table. Lighting a kerosene lantern, the bearded man sat down and addressed the prisoners brusquely in English.
“Who are you? What is your business here?”
Frank hesitated. He must choose his words carefully!
“We’re Americans, just visiting here for the day. I’m Frank Hardy, this is my—”
“Americans—” The man’s steely eyes relaxed for a moment, then tightened. “You ask in town for Colombo, Santilla, Gomez. Why?”
“We don’t really know,” Frank said. “We came across the names in our town of Bayport and thought—”
“Names—in Bayport!”
The leader’s astonished exclamation was accompanied by a rapid stream of excited Spanish conversation among his followers.
“Do you know the three men?” Joe spoke up.
“My friend who led you here is Carlos Santilla,” the bearded man replied. “I am Miguel Colombo.”
Despite their dangerous position, Frank pressed further. “Are you under orders from Dictator Posada?”
Suddenly the table rocked under Colombo’s fist. “Posada—that mercenary spy—that tyrant robber of our people? No! We of the underground will unseat him one day!”
The men roared approval.
Frank shot a look of relief at Joe and Chet. An underground movement! They were among friends! Colombo and Santilla then shook the boys’ hands cordially.
“I am sorry for your unpleasant reception,” said Colombo, “but we have always to be careful.”
“Then you thought we might be working for Posada?” Frank asked.
Santilla nodded. “One is always afraid these days in the Huellas. That is why the lips are closed in town. If Posada knew we meet here, he would send his army to crush us!”
Colombo then directed one of his men to go outside and stand guard. “We do not wish to be caught by surprise,” the leader said. “Posada’s soldiers often search the jungle.”
Joe asked the Huellans whether or not the dictator was the power behind the Footprints ring.
“Indeed he is.” The leader leaned forward. “But I am troubled. My name, Santilla’s—how do you young men learn these? And what do you know of Gomez?”
Omitting confidential details, the Hardys related the events which had led them to Baredo.
“And in that sea shell, you found my name and Santilla’s?” he murmured.
“Yes,” Frank answered. “Later, a beachcomber led us to the house of a rich American in Bayport. We suspect this man to be involved in the Footprints plot. His name is North.”
“North! Orrin North?”
“Yes, the shipowner. You’ve heard of him?”
“Heard of him!” The bearded leader of the underground held up his hands with pride. “Senor North is our greatest ally!”
CHAPTER XVII
Homestretch
THE Hardys and Chet could scarcely believe Colombo’s words. Orrin North—an ally!
“Then North is not in league with Posada—but is in your underground movement?” Frank asked.
“Certainly. For months he has helped our people to escape on his ship Dorado to America.”
Joe looked at Frank. “So Gomez isn’t a spy!”
“No,” Colombo said. “He is one of our best men, sent to rally American support. Days back, he by himself escaped to North’s ship. But from what you say, he is in bad trouble.”
Carlos Santilla’s face showed alarm. “Something is wrong! These people Gomez asked about at your immigration office are Huellan refugees who escaped earlier on Senor North’s Dorado!”
“They never reached the immigration officel” Joe exclaimed.
Colombo walked to the window, stunned. “It cannot be!”
“Have you heard from any of the refugees since they escaped
?” Frank asked.
“No. For a while we thought it is because of Posada’s mail censorship. But now,” Colombo added gloomily, “I am not so sure.”
The Hardys and Chet exchanged looks. Their suspicions of Orrin North were confirmed!
“North is double-crossing you!” Joe burst out.
Colombo and Santilla stared in shocked disbelief. “He deceives us?” Santilla said hoarsely.
“Señor Colombo,” countered Frank, “have any of your men been arrested lately by Posada’s police?”
“Si, two last week,” Colombo said grimly. “We do not know how Posada found them out.”
It was the answer Frank had dreaded. “I think I do—from the Footprints spies! North got the names for Posada from the refugees.”
“And Gomez must have found out about it on the Dorado—that’s why he jumped ship,” Joe added.
“But,” Colombo protested, “our compatriots would never betray us!”
“They may have been tricked into revealing the names!” Frank said.
The leader’s face was pale. “Posada may have ordered them—killed!”
The Hardys did not agree. “I think it’s more likely they’re prisoners, and that North will ship them back for Posada to deal with!” Frank turned to Chet and Joe. “We’ve got to find those refugees before it’s too late!”
Joe said, “That explains why Gomez wanted to keep out of sight—to find the refugees North has sold out.”
Santilla relayed the boys’ words in Spanish to the other men, who had been looking on intently. Angry mutters ran through the group.
The boys learned that Colombo and his lieutenant did not know about Raymond Martin or the luggage thefts. But at Joe’s description of the mysterious Mr. Ricardo, they both gasped.
“Manuel Bedoya is his real name!” Colombo almost shouted. “He is the feared mastermind of Posada’s spies.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive! We know Bedoya left the Huellas a week past.” The underground chief added somberly, “He is a dangerous and cruel man. It is not good for your government’s secret project, amigos!”
“But why would the small Huellas be after the Micro-Eye secret?” Chet wondered. “Doesn’t figure.” to
Footprints Under the Window Page 9
