The Mark on the Door (4 page)

In less than a minute they spotted a bright, white rotating beam from a beacon atop a building. Immediately adjacent to it, the outlines of runways began to take shape.

“There's the field!” Jack declared.

“I was never happier to see anything in my whole life.” Chet sighed with relief.

“Since our radios are out, I can't communicate with the control tower,” Jack explained. “I'll circle the field and wait for a green light.”

The pilot had just completed two circuits of the airport when a disk of green light glared from the tower. The pilot responded by banking the wings of the aircraft to the left and right several times. He then checked the wind tee to determine which runway was being used for landings. Shortly thereafter the Hardy plane touched down at Mazatlan.

In the terminal building the group underwent a routine check by customs officials, then Mr. Hardy called for a taxi.

“There wasn't time to make hotel reservations in advance,” he announced. “But we shouldn't have too much trouble this time of year.”

Soon the group was in a cab heading for the city proper. Despite the gray skies, the vivid green of the lush tropical scenery raised their spirits. As they sped along the Avenue del Mar, they could see the choppy waters of the Pacific and the mouth of the Gulf of California. People strolled slowly along the streets, men wearing colorful sarapes and women with rebozos draped over their heads and shoulders.

Arriving at a hotel, Mr. Hardy dashed inside. He reappeared after a long wait. “The hotels are busier than I thought,” he told Jack Wayne and the boys. “We'll have to take a suite. The clerk phoned several other places for me, but they don't have anything else either.”

When they were ushered into the rooms, Chet plunked himself into a comfortable chair. “Now this is what I call real luxury,” he said “When do we eat?”

“Just as soon as we freshen up,” Frank answered.

“Good! I'm not used to going without food this long,” Chet complained. “We missed lunch, and my watch tells me it's almost time for supper.”

Joe glanced at his chum's corpulent waistline. “You're stocked with enough reserve to last for weeks!”

Frank turned to his father. “What's first on your agenda, Dad?”

“A talk with Senor Marcheta,” Mr. Hardy replied. “In the morning I'll rent a car and drive to Vivira to see him.”

“Meanwhile,” Frank said, “Joe, Chet, and I will try to locate the fisherman who reported sighting the sub. Perhaps the police will tell us where we can find him.”

“I have my work cut out for me too,” announced Jack Wayne. “I'll head for the airport first thing tomorrow to see about getting the radios repaired.”

When they left the hotel to find a restaurant, the weather had improved and a magnificent sunset was visible. Palm trees swayed in a gentle breeze and the chatter of myna birds and parrots could be heard.

As the group strolled along, Chet gazed at the first seafood restaurant they came to with such a hungry expression that the others permitted him to lead them into it. After a hearty meal they walked back to the hotel. Chet, burdened down by the two large lobsters he had devoured, trailed behind the others at a snail's pace.

As they entered the lobby, the desk clerk handed Mr. Hardy a message. The detective ripped open the sealed envelope, read the letter inside with a startled expression, and quickly handed it to Frank and Joe. They were equally surprised. The hand-printed message read:

Mr. Hardy turned to the desk clerk. “Who gave you this message?”

“A boy came in with it about twenty minutes ago, sir,” the clerk answered. “He said some man paid him two pesos to deliver it.”

The Hardys and their companions hurried to their suite.

“Who could possibly know we're here?” Frank muttered as he examined the message again.

“Perhaps someone at the airport saw the flight plan I filed to Mazatlan,” Jack Wayne suggested. “I not only have to list the number of passengers aboard, but also your father's name and address as owner of the plane.”

“Even so,” Mr. Hardy commented with a puzzled expression, “no one here knows who I am.”

“Tremmer does,” Joe stated. “And that means Cardillo would also.”

“I thought you fellows said that those guys left Bayport by submarine,” Chet interrupted. “They'd have to travel like a rocket to beat us to Mazatlan.”

“You're right,” Frank said with a sigh. “But hey! What if Cardillo didn't stay with the sub? He might have traveled just a short way, then gone ashore near an airport where he could catch an airliner to Miami. From there, he could fly direct to Mexico City, then by private plane, or feeder line, to Mazatlan.”

“But if Cardillo intended to fly,” Joe queried, “why bother with the sub at all?”

“That's a question I can't answer right now,” Frank admitted.

“Maybe he suddenly discovered that he had claustrophobia,” Chet quipped, “and couldn't stand to be boxed in.”

“In any event,” Mr. Hardy announced, “we have to assume that Cardillo and Tremmer know we're here. And that calls for an immediate change in my plan! I'm going to try and see Senor Marcheta tonight. I hope it isn't too late already!”

“We'll go with you,” Frank declared. “There may be trouble.”

Jack Wayne was instructed to tend to the plane's radio repairs, while the boys leaped into a rented car with Mr. Hardy.

“Vivira is less than forty miles north of Mazatlan,” Frank said, examining a road map. “Just off the main road.”

A little over an hour passed before the Hardys and Chet arrived in Vivira. It was a quiet little village with many trees, and a fountain in the center of a small plaza. Standing near the fountain was a young man.

“Donde esta el hacienda
de
Señor Marcheta?”
Frank asked the Mexican in his best high school Spanish.

The man did not answer. He eyed the Hardys and Chet for a moment, then pointed toward a large hacienda surrounded by a high stone wall, at the far end of the street.

“Gracias!”
Frank said.

“Adios!”
Chet called from the rear window.

At the spot the man had indicated, Mr. Hardy and the boys got out of the car and walked toward a decorative wrought-iron gate. Set in the wall beside the gate was a metal handle. Joe gave it a hard yank and a bell tinkled. Shortly a slim, tall man appeared, silhouetted in the doorway of the hacienda.

“Quién es ello?—Who
is it?” he asked.

“Are you Senor Marcheta?” Mr. Hardy asked.

“We're visitors from the United States. My name is Fenton Hardy. I'd like to talk to you.”

“Norte Americanos? You wish to talk to me? Why?”

“Please, Senor Marcheta,” the elder detective pleaded. “I won't take much of your time. It's important!”

The senor slowly walked toward his visitors. As he approached in the dim light the boys saw that he was an elderly, gray-haired man with a mustache and goatee. He had a kindly face and a manner that immediately commanded respect.

Mr. Hardy introduced his sons and Chet. Marcheta studied them for a moment. “I cannot deny you the hospitality of my home,” he said finally. “Come in.”

He led the visitors into his hacienda and motioned to them to be seated. “Now what is it you wish to speak to me about?” he queried.

“I'll get right to the point,” Mr. Hardy said. “I'm working on a case connected with a stock fraud involving the Costa Quimico Compañia.”

Marcheta turned pale. “I have already been questioned by members of your consulate in Guadalajara!” he cried. “I tell you, as I told them, I have no information to givel”

“Señor Marcheta, please be patient,” Mr. Hardy replied. “We're only trying to help you. If you can tell me anything at all—”

“No! I cannot!” the elderly man retorted. “You must understand. It is not for myself that I am afraid. I fear for the life of my son Juan. They have taken him away! I ...” His words trailed off. He buried his face in his hands and sank into a chair.

“So that's it,” Mr. Hardy muttered. “Those scoundrels are holding your son as a hostage!”

“That should be reason enough for you to give us your cooperation,” Joe put in.

“No, no!” Marcheta exclaimed. “I did not know what I was saying! You must go now!”

“We realize the situation you're in,” Frank said solemnly. “But if you think you're going to help your son by keeping this to yourself, you‘re—”

At that instant a large stone came crashing through the window and landed in the middle of the room.

“What's that?” Chet cried.

“Everybody get down!” Frank shouted.

Mr. Hardy pulled Marcheta out of his chair to the floor. Then Frank, followed by Joe and Chet, ran out of the house.

“Spread out and search the area!” Frank ordered. “Yell if you see anything!”

The boys groped their way through the darkness. As Frank neared the rear of the hacienda, a man suddenly sprang from behind a bush several yards away and pulled what looked like a coiled bullwhip from his belt. Then a long raw-hide tentacle lashed out toward Frank!

CHAPTER V

SWISH! The end of the whip stung Frank's ankles and wound tightly around them! The man gave a sharp tug, and the boy crashed to the ground.

Quick as a cat, the man retrieved the whip and lashed out at a branch of a nearby tree. The slender tentacle coiled around the branch to form a clove hitch. As Frank scrambled to his feet, the intruder used it to swing himself, trapeze-fashion, to the top of the wall. The next instant he was gone!

The other boys came running. “What happened? Are you all right?” Joe shouted.

“I ran into the man we're looking for,” Frank explained, rubbing his ankles. “And he's mighty handy with a whip.”

The three boys returned to the hacienda to find Marcheta in a state of panic. “All is lost!” he cried. “I shall never see my son again!”

When Mr. Hardy heard Frank's story, he handed the boys a piece of paper. “This was wrapped around the rock,” he said.

On it was a drawing of flames issuing from a cluster of branches with the letter P in the center. The symbol again! Under the drawing was a message written in Spanish. Translated, it read:

“Señor Marcheta,” Frank said quickly, “do you know what this symbol stands for?”

“I do not! Nor do I care! The safety of my son is all that concerns me!”

“If you really mean that,” Mr. Hardy said, “you'll let us help you.”

“It is because you are here that my son is in greater danger than ever!” Marcheta insisted.

Mr. Hardy stroked his chin thoughtfully, and turned to the señor. “There's one way we might be able to protect your son—fight fire with fire. Señor Marcheta, you must go into hiding!”

“You mean leave here? Never! Never! Not while Juan is in their hands!”

“But it's for your son's sake,” Mr. Hardy urged. “If you were to disappear, the kidnappers would begin wondering what you're up to. Until they knew, I'm certain they wouldn't harm your son. He's their only insurance that you won't go to the authorities.”

The senor nervously shifted in his chair. After thinking the plan over, he said slowly, “Perhaps you are right. But I will not leave Mexico.”

“How about Mexico City?” Joe suggested. “It's easier to hide out in a populated place.”

“Good idea,” Mr. Hardy agreed.

“What about Señora Marcheta?” Frank inquired.

“I sent my wife away for her own protection. Only I know where she is. As for your plan, it is a fine one. How do you propose to do it?”

“We'll have to figure out how to get you away without being seen,” Mr. Hardy explained. “Then you can be flown to Mexico City in my plane.”

“But we can't risk going to Mazatlan Airport,” Frank warned. “We already suspect that the gang has a spy there.”

“How about having Jack fly here?” Joe said. “There must be lots of level country nearby.”

“There is a large cattle ranch approximately six miles north of Vivira,” Marcheta replied. “It is very flat and would be ideal for your purpose.”

“Then it's settled!” Mr. Hardy declared. “But to insure absolute secrecy, we'll have Jack fly to the rendezvous point after dark. It's too late now, so it will have to be tomorrow night.”

The Hardys outlined their plan. The detective and the boys would remain with Marcheta that night to make sure no harm would come to him. In the morning one of the boys would drive to Mazatlan to give Jack Wayne his instructions, then return to the hacienda to take Mr. Hardy and Senor Marcheta to the cattle ranch.

“But there's still the problem of getting Senor Marcheta out of the hacienda without being seen,” Joe commented.

“I've been thinking about that,” Frank said. “And I have an idea.”

“How about letting us in on it?” Chet urged.

“I'm almost the same height and build as Senor Marcheta,” Frank declared. “If you will lend me some of your clothes, senor, I'll improvise a disguise that might fool whoever's spying on us.”

“Could such a plan work?” the señor asked.

“It's worth a try,” Frank replied. “Joe and Chet should go with me to make it appear that I'm in need of protection. We'll leave first thing in the morning.”