The Shattered Helmet (6 page)

Frank and Joe were eager to get on with the search for the shattered helmet. However, it was too early to call Actors Equity in New York, so they went to the morning lecture first.

The subject concerned light when shooting with color. The instructor, a middle-aged man connected with a New York studio, explained that lighting could be a very complex process.

“When it is flooded all over the scene, the results figuratively resemble a picture postcard, devoid of any style,” he said. “The Victorian era in film-making is over, however, and the matter of prime importance is to express the dramatic element of the film.”

The boys were busy writing notes. The light that comes from the sky, they learned, has a bluish tint, whereas light reflected from the ground has a brownish cast. In like manner, light reflected from leaves and foliage has a greenish quality.

In a question-and-answer period Evan remarked that reproduction of colors in some movies was not exactly accurate.

“That's true,” said the instructor. “The only
things that must be faithfully reproduced are colors of recognizable objects, such as the American flag and flesh tones, for instance.” He added that great care must be taken to shield certain objects and the skin surface of the human body from unwanted color reflections.

“And now,” he said, “your project for this afternoon will be to combine good color rendition and an action scene. At three o'clock we will review the rushes which were taken Saturday.”

The boys phoned Actors Equity after class, but the line was busy. “We'll try again later,” Frank said. “Meanwhile let's have lunch.”

During the meal they decided to use Chet for the action shots in the color rendition. The stout boy was agreeable and did a series of pratfalls which made everyone laugh. Then he disappeared for a while to get some footage of his own.

When they had finished their project, they tried Actors Equity again, but could not get through. There was no more time left and they hurried to the theater to watch the rushes.

Jeff was in charge. He said, “Now you'll see what you did for the art as film producers.”

The efforts were short and amusing. One was a mood picture of children at play. Saffel's gliding ducks were well filmed and drew a praise from Riker. The Hardys' shots proved interesting, Joe's in particular. It panned along the edge of the woods before centering on the waterfall.

“Wait a minute!” Frank said suddenly. “Can you run that scene backward, Jeff?”

“Sure. Is there something you wanted to see?”

“I think I noticed a face in the woods.”

The projectionist reversed the film slowly.

“There it is!” Frank cried out. “Can you hold that frame?”

Although a bit fuzzy, the picture showed a man peering out from behind a bush. He had a heavy black mustache and wore what looked like a chauffeur's cap.

“Okay,” Frank said. “You can roll it again.”

When the session was over, the boys hastened outside to discuss Frank's discovery. Evan said, “You know, fellows, that could have been a Greek by the waterfall.”

“How so?” Frank asked.

“His features were Greek, and his hat was just like the ones that the Greek sailors wear.”

“You think he threw the rock?” Chet asked.

“He couldn't have,” Joe remarked. “It came from over our heads. The man in the picture was below us and on the other side of the falls.”

“He might have seen who did it, though,” Joe said. “I vote we go back to the falls and look around for clues.”

The boys stowed their cameras in the closet and hastened to the car. Soon they were at the foot of the falls, and climbed toward the spot where the mysterious man had been hiding.

They crisscrossed the area, their eyes glued to the ground. The grass was trampled down in spots and they found some broken twigs, but that was all.

Suddenly Chet let out a low whistle. “Hey, what's this?” He bent down to pick up a small blue bead lying on a fallen green leaf.

The boys examined it carefully.

“It's a worry bead,” Evan said. “I told you the man could have been a Greek!”

“I wish we knew where to find him!” Joe said.

“I have an idea where he could be,” Chet quipped. “In a Greek restaurant!”

“Wait a minute, Chet,” Frank said. “You might be right. Let's go see Mr. Kolouris!”

They drove to town, parked in front of the restaurant, and went in to question the proprietor. He was a short man with a pleasant face and dark, curly hair.

After Evan introduced his friends, he said, “Would you like some more dolma? I just made it a little while ago.”

“Not this time,” Evan said. “We'd like to find out if a certain person has come here to eat.”

Frank described the man in the film, stressing the Greek-type hat

Mr. Kolouris thought for a moment, then smiled broadly. “Yes. He was here for lunch a couple of days ago!”

C
HET'S
hunch had proved correct, and he beamed with pride as Frank asked, “Was this fellow a Greek?”

Mr. Kolouris looked at Evan and smiled. “Yes. He was busy with worry beads. The string had broken and he was putting them together again while his soup cooled.” He added after a moment's pause, “Besides, he had a Greek passport sticking out of his shirt pocket.”

Evan reached in his jacket and pulled out his own blue passport. “Like this one?”

“Yes, the same.”

“Did you notice anything else about him, Mr. Kolouris?” Joe asked.

The Greek's plump wife, who had been listening, spoke up. “I saw his car. Would that be of help to you?”

“Yes, of course!” Evan said excitedly. “What was it?”

“A small foreign car. Red with white trim.”

“Efharisto,”
Evan said.

“Parakalo.”

“What was that?” Chet asked.

Evan laughed. “Nothing more than ‘thank you' and ‘you're welcome.' I can see you fellows will have to learn Greek.”

He asked the woman if she remembered the license number of the car, but she did not. As the boys left the restaurant, Chet whispered to Evan, “How do you say thank you?”

“
Efharisto.
It sounds like F. Harry Stowe.”

“I think I can say that,” Chet declared. At the door he turned around and waved gaily to the Greek couple. “Harry F. Stowe!”

When the Kolourises looked perplexed, the Hardys laughed and Chet realized his mistake. “F. Harry Stowe,” he corrected himself.

“Parakalo,”
Mr. Kolouris said with a grin. “You sure can speak Greek well!”

As the boys drove toward the campus, Frank reminded the others of the red car which had passed them on the first day of their trip.

“I'll bet it was the same one this Greek fellow was driving,” he said.

“You think he planted the worry beads on our front seat?” Chet asked.

“Yes. But Kitten Cole must have been with him,
because whoever did that pulled a nifty lock job.”

“A dangerous pair,” remarked Joe. “We'll have to watch out for them.”

The following morning Frank went to a phone booth and called Actors Equity again. This time he reached them without delay. Buster Buckles, he learned, lived in a suburb of Los Angeles. His telephone number was 748–2948.

Frank opened the door a crack and quickly clued in the others. Then he called California, using the family's credit card number.

The voice at the other end was obviously a recording. It told Frank that Buckles' phone had been temporarily disconnected.

“Oh nuts!” Frank said, stepping out of the booth. He told the boys the result of his call.

“Do you suppose the old boy has died?” Joe asked.

“I don't think so. Actors Equity would have known about that.”

“I've got it,” Joe said, snapping his fingers. “Let's get in touch with Rena Bartlett.”

“The Hollywood columnist?” asked Chet.

“Sure. She knows all about the actors.”

“It's worth a try,” Frank agreed and went into the booth again. It took him a while before he reached the columnist's office in Hollywood, where he spoke to a secretary. She was cordial, but insisted that he put his request in writing to Miss Bartlett, who was very busy.

“But this is urgent!” Frank pleaded. He told of the call to Actors Equity and of Buckles' disconnected telephone.

“All right,” she finally said. “I'll see what I can do. Hold on.”

A few seconds later a voice said, “Rena Bartlett.”

Frank introduced himself to the columnist and explained their problem in finding a copy of
The Persian Glory
, and their search for the shattered helmet.

“What an interesting story,” she said. “Just the thing to use in my television show.”

“But, Miss Bartlett,” Frank said, “this is a secret mission. We don't want the whole world to know about the helmet!”

There was silence on the other end for a few moments. Finally Rena Bartlett said, “Will you promise to let me know the solution—first?”

“Certainly,” Frank said. “You'll get an exclusive report if we find the thing.”

“That's a deal. Now, as to Buster Buckles. He and his dog are touring the Southwest in a half-ton pickup camper. Last time I heard he was in the Sangre de Cristo mountains near Santa Fe, New Mexico. So far as I know, he's still there. I'd love to have him and his dog on my show. And you, too. What's your name again?”

“Frank Hardy. But please, no publicity until we solved the case!”

“Don't worry. You can rely on me.”

Frank thanked her and hung up. When the others heard the latest news, Joe said, “We're getting somewhere, Frank! Let's fly down to New Mexico.”

“But what about our film-making course?” Chet asked.

“We'll have to see what kind of arrangement we can make,” Frank said. “Right now we'd better get to class. It starts in five minutes.”

They went to the theater to watch the action color rushes. Even with the few lectures they had attended, the students had improved noticeably. Evan's film had been selected as a good example, and everyone chuckled at Chet's antics.

After the work of other classmates had been flashed on the screen, Jeff announced, “That's all for today.”

“What about Frank's and mine?” Joe asked.

“You drew blanks.”

“What?”

“There was nothing on your film. Sorry.”

The announcement was greeted with mixed derision and needling. Saffel's boos were exceptionally loud.

Frank and Joe were dumbfounded. If it had happened to only one, it would have been understandable. But both?

“Maybe the film was faulty,” Frank said as they hurried back to the dorm.

“But I used the same kind!” Chet said.

The boys made a beeline for the closet where the cameras were kept. They opened them and examined the inside mechanisms.

“Good grief!” Evan cried out. “It looks as if someone sprayed paint on your lenses! They're all blacked out!”

“Ruined! Our cameras are ruined!” Joe fumed. “And I'll bet it was Saffel who did it! Under the guise of ransacking our room!”

“But what about Chet's equipment and mine?” Evan asked. “Wouldn't he have damaged that too?”

“Not necessarily,” Frank said. “It's Joe and me he can't stomach. Come on. Let's go find him!”

Saffel was not in his dorm. One of his roommates, Ron Kennedy, said that he had driven off in his car a few minutes before.

“Where did he go?” Joe asked.

Ron tilted back in his chair with a humorous grin. “How come you want to know? It seems you and Leon aren't exactly buddies.”

“We're not. And if it's a big secret, Ron, don't tell us where he went. We just wanted to give him something.”

“In that case,” Ron said, “I'll tell you. He mentioned something about the falls.”

“Thanks,” Frank said and turned to go.

“What is it you're going to give him?” Ron inquired.

“A punch in the nose!” Joe said.

The boys hurried to their car. They drove off through town and took the road to Silver Mine Falls. Joe was at the wheel. He braked the car just before their destination and rolled slowly into the parking area.

Evan said, “There's his car.” It stood at the far end of the lot. Near it was a foreign red car with white trim! Two people were in the front seats.

As Frank drove closer, one of them suddenly jumped out. Leon Saffel!

The red car drove off, kicking up a cloud of dust that concealed the license plate.

Leon hurried toward his own car, but the Hardys and their friends intercepted him.

“Not so fast, Leon,” Frank said.

“What do you want?” Saffel's face showed fright and anger.

“Did you paint our cameras?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You broke into our room and sprayed paint on the lenses!” Frank insisted.

Leon denied this vehemently.

“You climbed into our window!” Joe said. “We found your footprints below the ledge.”

“Tell it to the campus cops,” Leon replied with a smirk.

“We did that already. But we haven't reported that we found your fingerprints on the cameras.”

“You couldn't have!”

“Because you wore gloves?”

Saffel did not reply. He slid into the front seat of his car and fumbled with the keys.

Chet, meanwhile, glanced into the back seat. “Wow! Look at this, Frank!” He pointed to a white glove and a can of spray paint.

Saffel reached over the backrest, grabbed the paint can, and jumped out of the car. He started running across the parking lot, with Joe in hot pursuit.

Suddenly he whirled around, aimed the nozzle at the boy, and pushed the release button.