The industrialist appeared gratified to know he could count on Chet, Phil, and Tony. “It’ll be nice to have you fellows on the premises,” he said. “Mrs. Retson will feel much safer if we have muscular reinforcements as near as the guesthouse. Not that I think anything will happen,” he added.
Frank and Joe made plane reservations, then said good-by to their pals and drove back to Bayport to get ready for the flight to Brazil. Their mother made lunch, then helped them pack their belongings. Laura Hardy always made sure the detectives in the family were properly equipped.
“I do hope you won’t be gone long,” she said.
“Not too long, Mom,” Frank assured her. “It shouldn’t take more than a few days.”
“That’s long enough to get caught by a boa constrictor or eaten by piranhas,” came the voice of Aunt Gertrude, who had stepped into the boys’ bedroom. “You’ll probably get lost in the Amazon rain forest where the jaguars will take a bite out of you. Or the natives might nick you with their poison arrows.”
“Aunt Gertrude, we’re only going to Belem,” Joe reminded her. “It’s a modern city!”
“Anything can happen down there,” Miss Hardy said sharply. “You boys had better look before you leap. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
That evening Frank and Joe caught a connecting flight to New York. At Kennedy Airport they transferred to the jet to Brazil, and an hour later they were thundering through the air headed south.
The Hardys had the first two seats in their row. The window seat was occupied by a black-haired Brazilian in his early forties who spoke excellent English. He introduced himself in a friendly manner. “We will be on this plane for quite some time so we might as well get to know one another. My name is Joachim San Marten.”
Mrs. Retson was staring down at them
Frank introduced himself and his brother. “What kind of a city is Belem?” Joe asked their new acquaintance.
“Very romantic,” San Marten replied. “It is at the mouth of the Amazon, and has buildings dating back to colonial times. Do not miss the Ver-O-Peso market. But remember that the Portuguese name means Watch-the-Weight. That’s a wise rule to follow.” He laughed.
Further conversation revealed that San Marten was a trader in wild animals.
“Zoos are always in the market for the snakes and big cats of the Amazon basin,” he told the boys. “I buy them from the natives and ship them around the world. You have no doubt seen some of my animals in the United States. And why are you two gentlemen going to Belem?”
Frank said, “We’re on our way to meet a friend in the city.”
“Frank’s afraid I’ll spill the beans again,” Joe thought and remained silent.
“Do you have good accommodations?”
“We are going to stay at the Excelsior Grao Para,” Frank replied.
“Oh?” San Marten looked doubtful.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. It’s just that this hotel has not the best reputation. It is said to be run by gangsters.”
Frank grinned. “We’ll watch out for the mob.”
San Marten nodded. “Please remember, if I can be of any assistance, do not hesitate to call on me.” He handed Frank his card.
“Thanks,” Frank said. Then all three settled back in their seats for a snooze.
Hours later, in bright morning sunlight, the jetliner descended, and prepared for its landing at Belem. Through the window the boys could see the city. A riot of color was reflected from red, green, and yellow tiled roofs. Small craft and freighters rocked gently in the harbor.
When they left the plane, the Hardys noticed San Marten waiting for a large crate that was being taken from the cargo compartment. It was covered by a tarpaulin.
“I wonder if one of our friend’s dangerous animals is in there,” said Joe.
“I suppose so,” Frank replied. “Maybe he’s brought back an American cougar for the Belem zoo.”
After they were finished with the formalities at passport control and had claimed their baggage, they caught a taxi and soon arrived at the Excelsior Grao Para, which turned out to be a rather small hotel.
The desk clerk informed them that Mr. Graham had checked out of his room.
“What? He’s left?” Joe asked.
“Yes, sir. Mr. Graham has departed.”
“Where did he go?” Frank asked.
“He left no forwarding address.”
“That’s funny,” Frank said, puzzled.
“Maybe he left a message for us in his room,” Joe suggested. “Mind if we have a look?”
The clerk shrugged. “It’s empty, so go ahead. Number 225. I think it’s open.”
Frank and Joe left their bags at the desk, took the elevator upstairs, and found the room. It was open and the key was in the lock. They walked inside.
“Let’s give it a thorough once-over,” Frank said.
They checked the dressers, the desk, and night table. Nothing. Frank searched the wastebasket but found no clues. Joe opened the closet. “Hey, here’s something!” he said.
Joe brought out a leather jacket. It bore a label from a Granite City store. Methodically he searched the pockets. In one of them was a cigarette lighter.
“Look at this,” Joe said. Out of curiosity he flipped the top open.
A sharp needle sprang out from a hidden trap.
It pierced Joe’s thumb. He staggered back with a cry, went rigid for a split second, and then toppled over, unconscious!
CHAPTER VI
Underground Voodoo
FRANK rushed over to where his brother lay on the floor. “Joe, what happened?”
Joe made no reply. His eyes were closed, and his face was pale. He breathed heavily as if gasping for air.
“I’ve got to get a doctor fast,” Frank thought desperately. He went to the door, twisted the old-fashioned knob, and jerked hard. It did not budge! He tried shouting for help, but nobody heard him.
Frank ran to the telephone beside the bed. The desk failed to answer. Frantically, Frank poked his head out the window. There was a fire escape, but his heart sank when he saw that the bottom part of the ladder had been removed, leaving a thirty-foot drop to the pavement. He would need a rope!
Frank pulled the sheets from the bed, tore them into strips, and knotted the pieces together. Then he started to climb out the window.
Suddenly a click at the door caused him to turn around. “Hello?”
The door opened and San Marten stepped in. He looked in amazement at the torn sheets in Frank’s hands and at Joe lying unconscious on the floor.
“What’s going on here?” he asked.
“Quick, I need a doctor for Joe,” Frank said “He’s been poisoned.”
San Marten ran to the phone. The desk answered and he called for the hotel physician.
While they waited, Frank asked, “How did you get in here, and why did you come?”
“The key was on the other side and the door unlocked,” San Marten replied. “I was in the neighborhood and decided you might need some help in a strange city. The clerk told me you were up here. How was your brother poisoned?”
Just then the doctor hastened in. He set down his bag and kneeled beside Joe. After feeling the boy’s pulse, he asked, “What caused it?”
Frank indicated the lighter. The doctor examined it closely. Then he pulled a syringe out of his bag and gave Joe an injection.
“The young man will be all right,” he said. “But he could not have lasted much longer. He is suffering from a powerful poison. Fortunately he has a strong heart or he would be dead by now!”
“This seems to be a fiendish plot!” San Marten declared. “You will have to take precautions.”
“Somebody in Belem doesn’t like us,” Frank agreed. “I’m glad you do, Mr. San Marten. It’s nice to have a friend in a strange city.”
“I am happy to have been of assistance,” San Marten replied. “If you take my advice, you will not remain at this hotel.
Go somewhere else.”
“We will,” Frank assured him, “as soon as Joe’s back on his feet.”
While they were speaking, Joe regained consciousness. The doctor examined him and pronounced him out of danger.
When Joe stood up, he wobbled. “I’m a trifle queasy,” he said. But gradually he felt stronger and the physician left.
“Incidentally,” San Marten said, “where is the friend you were looking for?”
“We don’t know. He checked out before we arrived,” Frank replied.
“It is strange that the young man departed so suddenly,” San Marten said. “Perhaps something happened to him.”
“Graham must have been in a tizzy,” Joe agreed. “After all, he left without his jacket.”
“And his cigarette lighter,” Frank added. “That is, if it was really his.”
A bellboy opened the door and San Marten called him in.
“Perhaps you can give us some information about the former occupant of this room?”
“Yes, sir. A very rich American by the name of Graham Retson. About my age.”
“What became of him?” Frank asked eagerly. “Did he say anything to you about where he was going?”
“All I can tell you is that he left the hotel in the company of two men. I do not know what their destination was.”
“Did you know the men?” Joe asked.
“One of them,” the bellboy stated. “I have seen him before many times at the Ver-O-Peso market. But I do not know his name or what he does.”
Close questioning of the bellboy elicited no further information and he left.
“If you like, I will be glad to take you to the Ver-O-Peso market to look for your friend,” San Marten said.
“We’d appreciate it,” Frank said.
The boys took a room at the hotel, then sallied out into Belem with the Brazilian.
Crowds of people streamed past them on the streets. Rickety cars bumped over the cobblestones. A wisp of smoke drifting by carried the scent of roasting nuts.
San Marten smiled as he sniffed the aroma. “Nuts are one of the most important exports of our country. See this truck? Those big bags piled on top are full of Brazil nuts.”
Joe noticed a monkey climb to the top of the sacks. He was about to call attention to him when suddenly one of the bags moved.
“Frank! Jump!” Joe yelled.
The massive bag smashed on the cobblestones where Frank had been. The truck stopped, the monkey disappeared, and the driver recovered his cargo.
“Thanks for the warning, Joe,” Frank said. “I’d hate to be knocked off the case by a bag of nuts. But accidents will happen.”
Joe was not convinced that it was an accident. The monkey had pushed the nuts. Could someone have put him up to it? Or was he just monkeying around?
The three stopped for lunch in a small restaurant, then continued on to the colorful market. They walked between stalls heaped with tropical fruits, sandals, and gewgaws.
Sellers offered their wares, buyers scoffed at prices, and haggling went on amid a din of Portuguese epithets.
Joe gestured toward one of the stalls. “How about a baby python, Frank? Or maybe you’d settle for some alligator teeth?”
“No thanks. I think I’ll take a voodoo charm home to Aunt Gertrude,” Frank replied.
Joe tried to find an opportunity to tell his brother about the monkey but San Marten did not leave their side.
Finally they stopped in front of a witchcraft stall, where a wizened, gnome-like old man offered to sell them weird idols, magical potions, and wax figures in which to stick pins.
San Marten spoke to the man in Portuguese, then turned to the boys. “We’re invited to join a voodoo rite. Buru here claims he can conjure up a vision of where your friend is.”
The witch doctor smiled and nodded, showing broken teeth.
“Tell him we don’t believe in visions,” Frank said.
San Marten smiled. “I’m sure you don’t. But these dances are interesting to watch, and you do not get a chance like this often.”
Frank shrugged. “Okay.”
San Marten again spoke in Portuguese to the witch doctor, who bowed and gestured. Then he led the way through his stall, between piles of dried snake skins and jungle herbs, to a small door at the rear. He opened it, and a narrow spiral stone staircase lay before them
Cackling softly to himself, Buru lifted a battered lantern off the wall, lighted it, and descended. The air became cool and the stone walls dripped moisture. The lantern threw flickering rays of light that only made the darkness behind seem more intense.
The old man stopped in front of a heavy wooden door and spoke in his native tongue. San Marten translated: “We are in a subcellar far below the level of the street. The magical rites are held down here to prevent unwelcome intrusions by unbelievers, especially the police!”
The police! A shiver ran down Frank’s spine. What kind of a place were they being taken to?
Bum pulled out a black key. The lock clicked and the door opened into a large musty room. Enormous dust-coated beams supported the high ceiling.
About twenty silent natives sat in a circle on the stone floor. All were dressed in flowing white robes. An earthenware jug passed from hand to hand around the circle, each man taking a swig as it reached him.
“My friends,” San Marten whispered, “you have entered the world of macumba.”
“Macumba?” Joe asked, puzzled. “What’s that?”
“A form of voodoo. These people are convinced they can bring back departed spirits by means of a magical dance. The spirit possesses one of the dancers.”
“They’re not dancing now,” Frank remarked.
“They are preparing for it by drinking the secret brew. A vile concoction, I assure you. I tasted it once.”
The macumba mediums began swaying from side to side. They broke into a rhythmical chant and clapped their hands.
“This is the sacred song,” San Marten explained. “By chanting these verses, they seek to placate the dead and open the path of communication.”
The shadowy faces assumed ecstatic expressions as the Hardys watched. In the lamplight black eyes glowed like embers. The chant rose to a soaring crescendo.
Suddenly the nearest man got to his feet and began a jig. One by one the others imitated him, until they were all on their feet, stamping and waving their hands.
The circle began to move. Fascinated, Frank drew closer. The wild-eyed macumba dancers seemed to have hypnotized him. As if drawn by an invisible magnet, he moved into the middle of the ring, which revolved faster and faster.
Suddenly a piercing shriek brought Frank out of his trance. One of the natives fell to the floor, clutching at his throat. The others screamed and danced more wildly.
Frank looked around. The hair rose on the back of his neck.
“This is ridiculous,” he thought. “I have to get out of here.” He plunged between two of the dancers, looking for his brother and San Marten. A chill went down his spine when he realized that that they were no longer with him.
Frank began a systematic search, making his way to the rear of the circle, and walking once around. No luck! Again he pressed himself between the ecstatically gyrating bodies to the center. San Marten and Joe were nowhere in sight! Had they left?
Frank looked for the door. It had disappeared, too! His pulse beat like a jackhammer. He was trapped amid the zealots of voodoo!
CHAPTER VII
Buru’s Vision
WITH sinuous movements, hands reached out toward Frank. Was he about to become a victim of macumba rites?
“Not if I can help it,” he thought. “I’ll go down swinging before I let those lunatics get me!” He assumed a judo stance, ready to hit the first attacker with a karate chop.
“Cool it, Frank,” came a low familiar voice. “It’s me.”
“Joe?” Frank was dumbfounded. In the dim light he could barely make out his brother’s features.
�
��Right. Don’t let the party costume fool you. I just put it on for this shindig. Same for my dancing partner here. He’s not what he seems.”
Frank recognized San Marten. “What’s the big idea?” he demanded.
“San Marten suggested joining the dance,” Joe said. “I figured you were coming, too.”
“I thought we might learn something that would lead us to Graham Retson,” San Marten said.
“Down here with these weirdos?” Frank shook his head. “Let’s get out of here. We can resume our conference when we get away from these shimmy-shakers.”
The voodoo dancers were becoming more frenzied. Their chanting became stentorian, and their contortions more furious.
Frank saw Buru coming toward them as Joe and San Marten slipped back into their own clothes. The old man motioned to them, then led the way around the dancing circle, edging along so as not to attract attention, to a point where a big stone block stood against the wall.
Gesturing to the others to help, he began to push at the block. The rest pitched in, shifted the obstruction to one side, and gained access to an opening through which they had to crawl on their hands and knees.
They reached another stone staircase. Hastening upward, they returned to the witch doctor’s stall. With their hands they shielded their eyes from the daylight until they became reaccustomed to it.
The two Brazilians began an animated conversation. Frank tugged at Joe’s sleeve and the boys moved off to one side, out of earshot.
“Wow! Am I glad to be back on earth!” Frank said.
Joe grinned. “Actually, it was fun!” Then he became serious. “A lot of strange things have happened since our arrival,” he said. “That bag of nuts which fell off the truck, for instance. It was pushed by a monkey!”
“That figures,” Frank said. “Somebody’s after us. And I’d include San Marten among the suspects. I haven’t yet discovered why he’s so concerned about us.”
“I think he’s okay,” Joe said.
“Maybe so. But I don’t see why he brought us to this place. He can’t take that voodoo stuff seriously.”
“Of course not. He just thought it would be interesting for us to watch.”
The Masked Monkey Page 4
