The Masked Monkey (4 page)

“Too bad,” he said. “Now what kind of explanation can you come up with?”

“It'll take time to figure out,” Frank said. “But there's an answer to everything. We'll solve this mystery sooner or later.”

“I trust it will be sooner,” Retson said as the Hardys left to return the polygraph. “I'm depending on your fine reputation as detectives to find my son!”

Frank and Joe were glum as they drove alongside a golf course on their way to Granite City Police Headquarters.

The green for the seventh hole lay close to the road, and a crawling sprinkler had come to rest near the edge of it, squirting water onto the pavement. Just as a car approached from the opposite direction, water splashed across the windshield of the Hardys' convertible, spraying them and momentarily blinding Frank's vision.

Cru-unch!
They sideswiped the oncoming car and came to a halt with screeching brakes.

Frank and Joe got out, as did two men from the other vehicle. One was a muscular individual wearing a slouch hat. His companion was young, slim, and had thick blond hair.

He managed a smile. “That was a pretty close shave,” he said. “What happened? You seemed to swerve.”

“Water from that sprinkler hit my windshield,” Frank said.

The four circled the cars, examining the doors and fenders. The convertible had a slight dent near the left door handle. The only damage to the other car was a scratch on the fender.

The older man said, “If you're willing to overlook the dent, why don't you forget the small damage to my car? You know these insurance companies—miles of red tape.”

“Fair enough,” said Frank.

The man looked at the lie detector equipment in the back of the convertible and smiled. “Somebody's been put through a grilling, I see. You boys on the police force?”

“No, but we do detective work,” Joe said.

“Are you on a case?”

“Yes, we're trying to pick up the trail of Graham Retson of Whisperwood.”

“Ah, yes,” the blond man said. “He disappeared some time ago. Think you can find him?”

“We hope to,” Joe said.

“Come on,” Frank urged. “We'd better be going. Thanks for your cooperation,” he said, turning to the men. “Next time we'll be more careful about golf course sprinklers.”

After the two cars had started off, Frank said, “Joe, you really yacked about our investigation. What's the idea?”

Joe looked embarrassed. “You're right, Frank. Sometimes I talk too much. I doubt, though, that those fellows had anything to do with the Retson mystery.”

“Likely not, but there's no sense taking chances.”

The boys returned the polygraph to the police. They thanked Chief Carton, who offered to cooperate with them in any way he could.

Then they drove back to Whisperwood. Frank parked the car near where the gardener was planting a small bush.

“This might be a good time to ask him a few questions,” he said.

“Right,” Joe agreed.

The boys walked up to the man. He was on his knees, firming the earth around the bush. When he saw the boys approaching, he looked up questioningly.

Frank came directly to the point. “Mr. Jackson,” he said, “how do you feel about young Graham's disappearance?”

The gardener troweled some more earth onto the roots of the plant. “I just work here,” he said calmly. “It's not my place to have any feelings about it.”

“You must see a lot that goes on around here,” Frank persisted. “Did Graham actually leave without you spotting him?”

“He did.” Jackson was becoming surly. “I'm not his baby-sitter. And I don't keep a watch on the front door, either.”

Just then the screen door of the kitchen opened. The gardener's wife stepped out. “I heard those questions about Graham Retson,” she stated bluntly. “And let me tell you something. I'm glad that he's not cooped up here any more!”

“Can you help us find him, Mrs. Jackson?” Joe asked.

“I wouldn't if I could,” snapped the woman. “Why don't you mind your own business and leave the boy alone? He had good reason to run away!”

Mrs. Jackson's tirade was interrupted by the sound of feet pounding along the brick walk. As Frank and Joe turned around, Chet Morton raced up to them.

His face was red from exertion. His breath came in big gulps. Wiping streams of perspiration from his forehead, he said, “Hey, fellows, I found out plenty!”

F
RANK
and Joe pulled Chet aside, and Frank asked, “What's up?”

“The Condor!” Chet puffed. “I've got the dope on it!”

“You mean the one that came through the window last night?”

“Not exactly,” Chet answered. “But I've discovered who sells the Condor golf balls around here.”

“Who's that?” Frank demanded.

“The golf pro at the Olympic Health Club. He's got a special concession. When you buy a Condor, you buy it from Gus McCormick.”

“So Gus sold our ball to one of his customers?” Joe asked.

“That's my theory,” Chet replied.

“That gives us something to go on,” Joe said. “We'd better case the Olympic Health Club and see what gives over there.”

Frank nodded. “That would be easy if Chet got a contract to retrieve golf balls from the Olympic water hazard.”

Chet looked crestfallen. “Sorry, Frank. I've tried. I wangled two contracts from courses in town, but it was no dice at the Olympic. Say, I'd better get cracking with my suction pump. Business won't wait.”

He left, and Frank and Joe resumed questioning the cook.

“Mrs. Jackson,” Frank said, “what did you mean when you said Graham had good reason to run away?”

“He wasn't happy here,” she replied. “There were things he wanted to do that he wasn't allowed to.”

“For instance?”

“Take those hamsters. They didn't do anyone any harm. And Graham got a lot of pleasure from them. Getting rid of them was a shame.”

Her husband rose to his feet. “Be quiet, Martha!” he commanded. “You're talking too much.”

“Mrs. Jackson isn't revealing any secrets,” Joe said.

“If Mr. Retson wants to tell you about Graham, that's up to him,” the gardener retorted. Turning to his wife, he asked crossly, “Do you want to get us fired?” He pulled her into the kitchen and the screen door slammed behind them.

Frank and Joe strolled over to the guesthouse.

“We've quizzed everybody except Mrs. Retson,” Frank pointed out. “She may have vital information about Graham. We'll have to talk to her.”

“Retson might not go for the idea,” Joe said. “Let's slip into the house when no one's looking.”

As soon as darkness fell, the boys made their way through the grounds to the mansion. Circling around through the bushes, they reached the east wing of the building, pried open a window, and climbed over the sill into an unused room.

They went into the hallway and upstairs to the second floor where Mrs. Retson had her apartment.

Joe knocked softly on the door. It opened. “What do you want?” asked Miss Hopkins.

“We'd like to speak to Mrs. Retson,” Frank said politely.

“Impossible! Mrs. Retson doesn't receive visitors.” The nurse started to shut the door, but Frank and Joe slipped past her before she realized what they were up to.

“Mrs. Retson!” Frank called out, advancing toward the bedroom. “We must speak to you!”

“It's about Graham,” Joe added. “And it's urgent.”

The nurse followed, protesting all the while. No reply came from Mrs. Retson. The three reached the bedroom doorway and peered in. They stood speechless.

The bed was empty!

Frank and Joe hastily searched the apartment. There was no sign of the woman anywhere. Joe pointed to an open window in the bedroom. A rope ladder was attached to the frame. “That's the explanation. She climbed out!”

“Your patient must be pretty agile,” Frank said to the nurse as he looked out the window. Nobody was in sight.

“It's all your fault!” Miss Hopkins cried angrily. “When you barged in you must have frightened Mrs. Retson. If anything happens to my patient I'll hold you responsible!” She pointed to the door. “Please leave immediately!”

“We're leaving,” Frank assured her. “But we'll be back!”

As the boys went down the stairs, Frank said, “We'd better alert Retson that his wife is missing.”

“Why don't we look for her first?” Joe suggested. “If we tell him now, Hopkins might convince him it was our fault.”

“Okay. Let's make a quick search around the premises,” Frank agreed.

The boys left the house by the same route they had come in. They were about to split up when a loud cry echoed through the night air. A single word rang in their ears—a woman's voice screaming:

“Graham!”

Startled, Joe asked, “Where did that come from?”

“The waterfall. Come on!”

Frank pushed through the bushes and raced among the trees with Joe at his heels. The roar of the falls became louder with every step.

They turned up a narrow ravine. In the moonlight they saw the water spilling over the edge of a rocky cliff. It plunged into a churning whirlpool, from which a stream with a strong current coursed along the side of Granite Rock.

The Hardys moved toward the falls by stepping gingerly from rock to rock, struggling to keep their balance. “Once in that whirlpool,” Frank warned, “and it could be the last swim we ever take. Watch your footing, Joe!”

The younger boy halted suddenly and pointed to the top of the waterfall. “Look!” he yelled.

High above them on a boulder near the edge of the drop stood the ghostly figure of a woman. Her head was held high. Her body was tense. She stared into the distance.

The boys wiped the spray from their eyes for a better look, but a rising wind whipped a scarf across the woman's face, concealing her features.

Frank was galvanized by the sight. “Joe, that woman may look like a wraith, but I'll bet she's Mrs. Retson. I'm going to introduce myself.”

The boys leaped over the rocky terrain. Suddenly Frank, who was slightly behind Joe, lost his
balance, clutched at the air, and fell into the water with a heavy splash.

The whirlpool took hold of Frank, bouncing him around like a cork. Desperately he struggled to escape from the swirling mass of water. A moment later he was thrown to one side. His head struck a rock with a thud and he blacked out.

Joe saw his brother go under, bob up, and float downstream. Frantically he dashed along the bank. Scrambling at breakneck speed across the boulders, he reached the spot where Frank was hurtling along helplessly toward certain death. Ahead was another drop full of razor-sharp rocks!

In the nick of time Joe reached down, grabbed Frank by the shirt collar, and dragged him to safety.

Frank lay quiet and Joe quickly applied mouth-to-mouth resuscitation until his brother regained consciousness. He gasped as he came around, “Thanks for fishing me out!”

Joe grinned. “As you said, this is no place for a swim.”

Frank struggled to his feet. “The wraith—is she still up there?”

Both boys glanced toward the rock where the woman had been standing. A dense cloud covering the moon left the entire falls in darkness.

“She's probably gone by now,” said Joe. “No use looking for her in this murk. We both might slip into the whirlpool next time.”

“Joe, I didn't slip,” Frank replied somberly.

“What?”

“Somebody pushed me!”

“Did you see who it was?” Joe's voice was tense.

“No. But I think it was a man, judging by the force of the shove. He must have been lurking on the bank when I came along.”

“Well, I didn't see anybody. I thought we were all alone at the bottom of the falls. Anyway, it proves something.”

“Like what?” Frank asked.

“Somebody wants us off the Retson case. And he'll stop at nothing!”

“Which means we must be getting warm,” Frank said. “Let's go back to the mansion. Perhaps Mrs. Retson has returned by now.”

They retraced their steps. As they approached the east wing, a figure way ahead of them ran across the lawn.

“A woman!” Frank exclaimed.

“Must be Mrs. Retson!” Joe dashed off at top speed. Frank followed at a slower pace. But they were too late! The woman reached the building and began climbing up the side.

“She's going up the rope ladder!” Joe moaned.

“No doubt she's used to that contraption, the way she handles it,” Frank said.

“Hey, what's this?” Joe said, picking up a piece of flimsy material torn from a scarf. He examined it for a moment, then put it in his pocket.

Since Frank was feeling exhausted from his ordeal in the whirlpool, they decided to call it a night. At the guesthouse Frank promptly fell into a deep sleep.

Joe lay in bed with his hands clasped behind his head, trying to make sense of the Retson riddle. “I wonder if Nurse Hopkins is in cahoots with Mrs. Retson and knew where she went,” he said to himself. Gradually he dozed off.

A hard pounding on the door snapped Joe wide awake. He looked at his watch. It was eight o'clock in the morning. Frank sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What's all that noise about?” he asked groggily.

Joe got out of bed, opened the door, and confronted Harris the butler. He waved a cablegram wildly in Joe's face.

“It came this morning,” he blurted out. “Now we know where Graham is!”

J
OE
seized the paper and read the message.
“Help,”
the cablegram said.
“Come Excelsior Grao Para. Do not reply. Just come. Graham.”

“You see,” the butler remarked, “Graham must be in that hotel.”