The Jungle Pyramid

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

GOLD bullion—a million dollars worth-has been stolen from the Wakefield Mint under strange circumstances. Mr. Hardy is asked to investigate but before long his life is threatened, and he asks Frank and Joe to help him.

The boys fly to Zurich, Switzerland, hoping to get information at the Swiss Gold Syndicate and to find the man who has stolen a valuable ancient gold figurine from a New York museum. Their search on both counts seems futile. They return to the United States, where they uncover new clues that take them to Mexico and a breathtaking adventure at an archaeological dig in the Yucatán jungle.

But the Hardys travels lead to nothing but new doubts and nagging suspicions. And now their lives are in danger. Their adversaries are cunning, elusive, and determined to eliminate Mr. Hardy, and the boys too!

Events culminate in a surprising revelation when their enemies are finally outsmarted by the Hardys.

Copyright © 1977 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset
Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.
THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07665-1

 

 

 

 

FRANK Hardy turned the controls of a stereo set. “I'll see if I can find some country music, Joe,” he said to his brother. “Waiting for Dad to phone about a new mystery gives me the jitters.”

“Same here,” said Joe. “I wonder why he didn't tell us anything about the case he's on.”

“It must be top secret.”

The Hardy boys were sons of Fenton Hardy, a private detective who worked out of Bayport since retiring from the New York Police Department. Dark-haired Frank was eighteen. Joe was blond and a year younger. Their father had taught them most of what he knew about crime detection, and they sometimes helped him with his investigations but often took cases of their own.

A Kentucky hoedown came over the stereo, and a nasal voice sang the “Blue Grass Blues.”

Joe was lying on the floor, his hands cupped behind his head. “It's just as well that Mother and Aunt Gertrude are out shopping.” He chuckled. “This isn't their beat.”

The country-western rhythm rose to a crescendo, then died away. Suddenly footsteps pounded on the front porch of the Hardy home. The door burst open and a plump, freckle-faced youth rushed into the room, clutching a rolled-up paper in one hand. He was Chet Morton, the Hardys' best friend.

“I got it!” he cried. “I got it!”

“Got what, Chet?” Joe demanded.

“My correspondence-course diploma!”

Joe turned off the stereo. “A real one? Well, congratulations.”

“What's this diploma for?” Frank asked.

“Collecting more bottle tops than anyone else?” Joe needled their visitor, who always became involved with one hobby after another.

Chet looked pained. “That's kid stuff. I thought you guys were detectives.”

“Give us a clue,” Joe suggested.

Chet did not reply. Instead he unrolled the paper and held it up for them to see. The words STATE CORRESPONDENCE SCHOOL were blazoned across the top. The diploma certified that Chester Morton was considered adept in gold artifacts, and it was signed by the president of the school.

Chet grinned. “Adept means I'm pretty good with the gold. Go ahead. Ask me questions. Want to know about Aztec masks or—”

The phone shrilled before he could finish his sentence. Frank seized the instrument and canted it away from his ear so the other two could hear. Fenton Hardy was calling.

“Frank, Joe,” he said hurriedly, “are you both there?”

“Yes, Dad,” Frank answered. “Where are you?”

“I'm in Wakefield. That's a hundred miles from Bayport on the way to New York City. A consignment of gold has been stolen from the mint here. The case is too big for one detective, and I need your help. Come to the Archway Motel. Tell Mother and Aunt Gertrude where you'll be, but don't say there's any danger involved. Make it fast! Ah-ah-aaa—”

Mr. Hardy groaned and ended his sentence in a gasp. Then the boys heard a scuffling noise.

“Dad!” Frank shouted. “Dad, what's going on?” Something hit the floor with a heavy thump, and there was a dragging sound. A door slammed in the background. Then silence. The three boys stared at one another in dismay.

“What—?” Chet began.

“Sh—sh!” Frank said and motioned to the phone.

Footsteps could be heard approaching. Someone breathing heavily picked up the receiver.

“Hello!” Frank said. “Hello?”

The phone clicked, and the line went dead.

“That wasn't Dad who hung up!” Frank exclaimed. “Something's wrong!”

“That's for sure,” Joe said grimly.

“Try the motel desk,” Chet suggested.

Frank dialed the Archway Motel and asked for Fenton Hardy's room. A moment later the clerk reported that there was no answer. Frank asked to speak to the manager. He introduced himself, then explained to the man that he had heard strange noises coming from his father's room.

“It sounded as if he were being attacked,” Frank concluded.

“Attacked!” the manager exploded. “I'll check immediately and will call you back.”

Frank hung up. “What do you make of it?” he asked his brother.

“Somebody must have sneaked up on Dad while he was talking on the phone,” Joe said. “Someone he hadn't counted on.”

“Probably more than one person,” Chet added. “He could have taken care of himself otherwise.”

“Not if he were hit by surprise,” Joe argued.

The phone shrilled again. Frank picked it up.

“Mr. Hardy's room is empty,” the motel manager said. “I've also had him paged, but he doesn't answer.”

“Anything wrong in the room?” Frank asked.

“No—except that the bedspread was half pulled off and some clothes were lying on the floor. When I see your father, I'll tell him you called. I'll also notify the police just in case your suspicions are correct.” The manager hung up, and so did Frank.

“Dad must have been dragged from the room,” the young detective theorized. “That could account for the bedspread. We'd better do something fast!”

“We'll have to go to Wakefield right away!” Joe said.

“How about my going along?” Chet put in. “I know all about gold. Maybe I can identify the loot.” Then he added, “As long as it's not too dangerous to handle.”

The Hardys were used to Chet's shying away from danger, but they knew they could rely on him when the sleuthing became rough. He had been helpful in many of their investigations.

“Okay, Chet,” Joe said. “Call home and we'll be off.”

“Leave your jalopy in our garage,” Frank suggested. “Better get some clean clothes out of it.”

Chet and the Hardys always carried extra clothes in their cars in case of an emergency.

Frank quickly scribbled a note telling his mother and Aunt Gertrude that they were on the way to Wakefield to join Mr. Hardy. He added that there was nothing to worry about. “Not much!” he thought to himself. “Just whether Dad's dead or alive!”

Joe backed the car out of the garage and soon the three boys were rolling down Main Street. Joe fretted at the wheel because traffic was heavy, but finally they got out of the city. He stepped on the gas and they roared toward Wakefield.

Mile after mile zipped away beneath their wheels. They passed farmhouses and pastures. At one spot chickens, out of their coops, fled squawking as the car rocketed by them.

Chet remarked, “If you should run over any of our feathered friends, stop so I can pick some up. Chicken soup is a great dish. I haven't had anything since breakfast but a couple of hamburgers and a bottle of soda.”

Food always interested Chet, even in the middle of an investigation. The Hardys usually laughed at his remarks, but this time they said nothing.

“Okay,” Chet said, “I get the message. I was just testing. Trying to cheer you up.”

“I could use some cheering,” Frank admitted. “Do you think Dad's been kidnapped, Joe?”

“I'm afraid so,” his brother replied glumly. “Probably by the crooks who were responsible for the gold heist.”

“Don't jump to conclusions,” Chet advised. “Anyway, your father has always managed to get out of tight spots because he's the smartest detective we know. Right?”