The Jungle Pyramid (4 page)

“It's an airstrip,” Frank said in a low voice. “Do either of you see a plane?”

“No,” Chet answered, and Joe shook his head.

They scouted around the airstrip in Indian file, with Frank in the lead. They had nearly returned to their starting point when Joe noticed sunlight gleaming on metal in a grove of trees.

“I'll investigate,” he offered. Dropping to the ground, he crawled to a large bush, peered through the bare branches, and saw a car parked in the grove. Nobody was in sight, so he waved to his companions to follow him.

The car was old and battered. Scratches on the fenders showed it had been driven a long distance through the woods. It had no license plates.

Finding the doors unlocked, Joe opened the glove compartment and took out a sheet of paper lying inside. Frank and Chet peered over his shoulder as he read a short typewritten message.

DEEP six F.H.

 

 

 

 

THE boys were shocked. Frank felt cold chills run up and down his spine.

“I'll bet F.H. stands for Fenton Hardy!” he exclaimed.

“And deep six means get rid of him,” Joe added grimly.

“No wonder your dad said it was a dangerous case,” Chet put in. “We'd better let him know the gang's after him.”

They marched back to the dirt road and on to their car. Joe drove to the garage, where Mr. Hardy was already waiting. Frank quickly explained to him about the airstrip near the Wakefield Mint and the car hidden in the clump of trees.

“Here's what I found in the glove compartment,” Joe said, handing him the message.

Mr. Hardy read it thoughtfully. “This ties in with that phone call I received,” he said. “Whoever stole the gold wants me off the case. When he realized that his warning had no effect, he and his pals decided to use other measures.”

“What now, Mr. Hardy?” Chet asked.

“Leave the car where it is. Don't let on to anyone that you've seen it. I'll keep the area under surveillance and see who comes back to the spot. That might break the case wide open. I only hope,” he added wryly, “that the person who is to receive this message has not seen it yet!”

Franked looked doubtful. “I think Joe and I shouldn't go to Zurich, Dad. It's too dangerous for you to be here without us.”

Joe supported his brother. “We'll stay in Wakefield and help you out in case of trouble.”

Fenton Hardy shook his head. “I realize the danger,” he confessed. “But I'll watch my step, and take my assistant, Sam Radley, off his case to give me a hand if necessary. We must look into the Zurich angle, and my sons are naturals for the assignment. Chet, if your folks consent to your going, too, I'm sure Frank and Joe will be glad to have you along. Go home to Bayport and arrange for your flight.”

Reluctantly the boys drove away early the next morning. On the way Chet begged to stop in New York to see the gold exhibit at the Early Art Museum before returning to Bayport.

The Hardys consented and they went on to New York City. Joe spotted a parking lot only a few blocks from the museum. They left the car and walked to the building. A large sign over the entrance read: SCYTHIAN GOLD. The words below stated that the art objects had been sent to the United States by the Soviet Union under a cultural-exchange program.

Chet assumed a learned expression. “The Scythians lived in an area that now belongs to Russia,” he intoned. “That's why the Russians have the Scythian gold. They dug up a lot of it in places where those guys camped.”

Frank smiled. “Very interesting, Chet. We'll hear the rest of your lecture later, Professor Morton.”

The boys were the first viewers to arrive at the museum. The man in charge of the exhibition was a Russian with jet-black hair and a black spade-shaped beard. He wore black clothes and a ring with a large black stone, which gleamed as he gestured.

“I am Ivan Orlov,” he introduced himself. “Perhaps you would care to have me describe our Scythian gold.”

Chet waved a hand. “That won't be necessary,” he declared. “I'm a pro when it comes to gold.”

Frank nudged Joe. He concealed his mouth with his hand and whispered, “Chet's up to his old tricks, telling the experts he knows more about their subject than they do.”

Joe grinned. “Let's see if he gets away with it this time.”

Orlov gave Chet a dubious look. “I do not doubt you, my friend,” the Russian said, “but surely—”

“I'm an adept in golden artifacts,” Chet told him. “And I've got a diploma to prove it.”

“I have never heard of such a title,” Orlov said coolly. “But please go inside.” His black ring reflected rays of light as he gestured toward the first room of the exhibition.

The boys entered, noticing a sign with the words ANIMAL CHAMBER. Large locked cases held gleaming gold figures of horses, dogs, bulls, deer, mountain goats, tigers, and many other species.

“Those Scythians were big on animals,” Chet observed. “They made gold representations of everything that moved.”

The Bayporters walked through the display, marveling at the high quality of the Scythian art. They stopped before a huge vase ornamented in gold with the figure of a tiger leaping toward the horns of a defiant bull.

“Siberian tiger,” Chet identified the big cat.

The next case contained nothing but replicas of horses, large and small, reclining and standing, jumping and galloping.

“Don't tell me, Chet,” Joe said. “Let me guess. The Scythians rode a lot.”

“Right. They were terrific riders.”

A small figurine in the lower left-hand corner caught their interest. It was a golden horse, rearing on its hind legs. The animal was perfectly modeled with uplifted head and tossing mane.

“I'd like to own that one,” Joe remarked. “I'll bet Mother would put it on the mantel in our living room.”

Frank grinned. “Aunt Gertrude would surely keep it polished,” he added.

While they sauntered around the Animal Chamber another visitor came in and looked at the display with intense interest. He was a middle-aged man with gray hair, dressed in a pin-striped suit. Under his right arm he clutched a leather briefcase, his hand tightly grasping the handle as if he were afraid somebody might snatch it from him.

As the stranger stepped back to get a better view of the figurine of the rearing horse, he bumped into Joe. The briefcase fell to the floor. The man instantly reached down and picked it up.

“Excuse me,” he apologized in a high-pitched voice tinged with a slight Spanish accent. “I did not see you.”

“No harm done,” Joe said cheerfully.

The boys went into the next room, the Ornament Chamber. Every case gleamed with rows of Scythian rings, necklaces, bracelets, pins, brooches, earrings, buckles, and other items of personal adornment.

In an authoritarian voice Chet told his friends about the dress of the ancient tribe. “The Scythian girls went in for gold in a big way,” he said, “and the men, too. Everybody wore—”

He was interrupted by a frenzied shout from the Animal Chamber. “Stop, thief!”

Alarmed, the boys hurried out into the hallway. At the far end they saw the stranger with the briefcase and the Spanish accent push through the revolving door. A guard dashed from the Animal Chamber and ran after him. The three Bayporters joined the chase.

When they reached the street, however, the fugitive had already hailed a taxi and was speeding away in the traffic.

“What luck!” Frank fumed. “And there isn't another cab in sight.”

“Mr. Orlov will be furious,” the guard said, his voice trembling with fear. “But I noticed it too late—”

“Exactly what happened?” Frank asked.

“That man ran out of the Animal Chamber. I became suspicious and checked. I found that the glass in one of the display cases had been cut open. A figurine was missing. I alerted Orlov and took off after the thief.”

“Was anyone else in the room at the time?” Frank queried.

“No. Mr. Orlov had gone to his office. Oh, just before the robbery a tall blond man came out of the room and buried his cigarette butt in the bucket of sand in the hallway. I appreciated that because we don't want a fire in the museum. The man went upstairs. In a moment the thief appeared. Obviously he waited until he was alone in the room, then stole the figurine.”

The boys found Orlov in the Animal Chamber in front of a display case. A piece of glass had been cut out neatly, and the figurine of the rearing horse that Frank had admired was missing.

The Russian was extremely agitated. He demanded to know what had become of the thief.

“He got away, Mr. Orlov,” the guard replied. “Jumped into a taxi.”

Orlov began wringing his hands. “Americans! You cannot trust them. I never should have brought the gold here. Our government will be very angry!”

“Maybe we can help you recover the piece,” Frank offered. “We have been doing some detective work. Unfortunately, the thief seems to have left no clue.”

“I don't know about that,” Chet spoke up. “While you were staring after that taxi, I picked this up from the sidewalk. Maybe the guy dropped it!”

He held up a telegram. The others crowded around and read the message.

PEDRO ZEMOG. TAKE CONSIGNMENT TO ZURICH. A.P.

 

 

 

 

CHET grinned with a self-satisfied expression as the others read the telegram. “The Hardys aren't the only detectives around here.” He chortled.

Joe scratched his head. “But what does the message mean?”

“Search me,” Chet replied.

Frank turned to the Russian curator. “Mr. Orlov, does the name Pedro Zemog suggest anything to you?”

“Nothing!” Orlov answered. “Nothing!”

“What about A.P.?”

“Nothing.”

The Hardys wondered about the briefcase Zemog had been carrying. Had he opened it in the museum and slipped the figurine inside?

“I saw nothing!” Orlov said.

The guard added, “The thief did not open his briefcase when I saw him. As a matter of fact, he acted as if it were made of solid gold, and he held it very tightly.”

“Your police had better do something about getting my ancient horse back!” Orlov exclaimed impatiently. “This theft could be a serious matter between our two countries.”

“Yes,” Frank agreed. “You'll have to report it right away. But perhaps we can help you. Mr. Zemog is headed for Zurich according to this telegram. We're planning to go there ourselves. Mr. Orlov, would you like us to try to find the thief?”

Orlov stared at him. “You—but who are you?”

Frank introduced himself, Joe, and Chet and told Orlov about his father's work.

The Russian became interested. “You are going to Zurich? Good. I will let you pursue the case in Switzerland.”

Joe had a sudden thought. “What about the tall blond man? If he's still upstairs, he might be able to tell us something about the thief.”

Orlov gave the boys permission to search the building. They rushed upstairs, but could not find anyone who fitted the blond man's description. They returned and reported their failure.

“He must have left by this time,” Orlov said. “Too bad we did not think of looking for him sooner.”

“Maybe the guy didn't know anything was wrong and simply strolled out after he looked at the exhibition,” the guard added.

Frank and Joe promised Orlov they would stay on the case. Then they went with Chet to the parking lot.

“Let's stop at police headquarters,” Frank suggested. “We may be able to explain the loss of the gold horse better than Mr. Orlov.”

He took the wheel and a few minutes later they were talking to the lieutenant on duty. He agreed to cooperate. Hearing their names, he asked if Frank and Joe were the sons of Fenton Hardy. When he learned that they were, he said, “Fenton is a great detective. I'm glad to hear you're following in his footsteps.”

After the lieutenant heard the description of the suspect, he shrugged his shoulders. “Middle-aged man with gray hair, pin-striped suit, carrying a briefcase. Hundreds of men in New York match that description. But I'll put out a bulletin on him and alert the airlines. Who knows? We might be lucky.”

The boys thanked the lieutenant and drove to Bayport. After dropping Chet at his house, the Hardys hurried home.

They found their mother in the living room, reading a magazine. She was a pleasant woman who worried about the cases her husband and her sons handled. But she had confidence in them and knew that they had squeezed out of tight situations many times.

“Frank, Joe,” she greeted them. The boys hugged her. “I'm relieved to see you. What have you been doing?”

“Pretending we're gold bugs,” Joe said with a chuckle.

Another voice interrupted. “Bugs? We don't want any bugs in this house! What are you boys up to now?”

The speaker was their aunt Gertrude, Fenton Hardy's sister, who lived with the family. She was often stern with her nephews, but they knew she was very fond of them. Miss Hardy admired their skill in solving mysteries, although she tried not to show it.

Joe laughed. “Aunt Gertrude, these aren't the kinds of bugs you sweep out the back door with your broom.”

“We're not talking about entomology, the science of bugs,” Frank added with a grin.

“Goldology would be more like it,” Joe quipped.