Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
“Somebody in Belem doesn't like us,” Frank agreed. “I'm glad you do, Mr. San Marten. It's nice to have a friend in a strange city.”
“I am happy to have been of assistance,” San Marten replied. “If you take my advice, you will not remain at this hotel. Go somewhere else.”
“We will,” Frank assured him, “as soon as Joe's back on his feet.”
While they were speaking, Joe regained consciousness. The doctor examined him and pronounced him out of danger.
When Joe stood up, he wobbled. “I'm a trifle queasy,” he said. But gradually he felt stronger and the physician left.
“Incidentally,” San Marten said, “where is the friend you were looking for?”
“We don't know. He checked out before we arrived,” Frank replied.
“It is strange that the young man departed so suddenly,” San Marten said. “Perhaps something happened to him.”
“Graham must have been in a tizzy,” Joe agreed. “After all, he left without his jacket.”
“And his cigarette lighter,” Frank added. “That is, if it was really his.”
A bellboy opened the door and San Marten called him in.
“Perhaps you can give us some information about the former occupant of this room?”
“Yes, sir. A very rich American by the name of Graham Retson. About my age.”
“What became of him?” Frank asked eagerly. “Did he say anything to you about where he was going?”
“All I can tell you is that he left the hotel in the company of two men. I do not know what their destination was.”
“Did you know the men?” Joe asked.
“One of them,” the bellboy stated. “I have seen him before many times at the Ver-O-Peso market. But I do not know his name or what he does.”
Close questioning of the bellboy elicited no further information and he left.
“If you like, I will be glad to take you to the Ver-O-Peso market to look for your friend,” San Marten said.
“We'd appreciate it,” Frank said.
The boys took a room at the hotel, then sallied out into Belem with the Brazilian.
Crowds of people streamed past them on the streets. Rickety cars bumped over the cobblestones. A wisp of smoke drifting by carried the scent of roasting nuts.
San Marten smiled as he sniffed the aroma. “Nuts are one of the most important exports of our country. See this truck? Those big bags piled on top are full of Brazil nuts.”
Joe noticed a monkey climb to the top of the sacks. He was about to call attention to him when suddenly one of the bags moved.
“Frank! Jump!” Joe yelled.
The massive bag smashed on the cobblestones where Frank had been. The truck stopped, the monkey disappeared, and the driver recovered his cargo.
“Thanks for the warning, Joe,” Frank said. “I'd hate to be knocked off the case by a bag of nuts. But accidents will happen.”
Joe was not convinced that it was an accident. The monkey had pushed the nuts. Could someone have put him up to it? Or was he just monkeying around?
The three stopped for lunch in a small restaurant, then continued on to the colorful market. They walked between stalls heaped with tropical fruits, sandals, and gewgaws.
Sellers offered their wares, buyers scoffed at prices, and haggling went on amid a din of Portuguese epithets.
Joe gestured toward one of the stalls. “How about a baby python, Frank? Or maybe you'd settle for some alligator teeth?”
“No thanks. I think I'll take a voodoo charm home to Aunt Gertrude,” Frank replied.
Joe tried to find an opportunity to tell his brother about the monkey but San Marten did not leave their side.
Finally they stopped in front of a witchcraft stall, where a wizened, gnome-like old man offered to sell them weird idols, magical potions, and wax figures in which to stick pins.
San Marten spoke to the man in Portuguese, then turned to the boys. “We're invited to join a voodoo rite. Buru here claims he can conjure up a vision of where your friend is.”
The witch doctor smiled and nodded, showing broken teeth.
“Tell him we don't believe in visions,” Frank said.
San Marten smiled. “I'm sure you don't. But these dances are interesting to watch, and you do not get a chance like this often.”
Frank shrugged. “Okay.”
San Marten again spoke in Portuguese to the witch doctor, who bowed and gestured. Then he led the way through his stall, between piles of dried snake skins and jungle herbs, to a small door at the rear. He opened it, and a narrow spiral stone staircase lay before them
Cackling softly to himself, Buru lifted a battered lantern off the wall, lighted it, and descended. The air became cool and the stone walls dripped moisture. The lantern threw flickering rays of light that only made the darkness behind seem more intense.
The old man stopped in front of a heavy wooden door and spoke in his native tongue. San
Marten translated: “We are in a subcellar far below the level of the street. The magical rites are held down here to prevent unwelcome intrusions by unbelievers, especially the police!”
The police! A shiver ran down Frank's spine. What kind of a place were they being taken to?
Bum pulled out a black key. The lock clicked and the door opened into a large musty room. Enormous dust-coated beams supported the high ceiling.
About twenty silent natives sat in a circle on the stone floor. All were dressed in flowing white robes. An earthenware jug passed from hand to hand around the circle, each man taking a swig as it reached him.
“My friends,” San Marten whispered, “you have entered the world of macumba.”
“Macumba?” Joe asked, puzzled. “What's that?”
“A form of voodoo. These people are convinced they can bring back departed spirits by means of a magical dance. The spirit possesses one of the dancers.”
“They're not dancing now,” Frank remarked.
“They are preparing for it by drinking the secret brew. A vile concoction, I assure you. I tasted it once.”
The macumba mediums began swaying from side to side. They broke into a rhythmical chant and clapped their hands.
“This is the sacred song,” San Marten explained. “By chanting these verses, they seek to placate the dead and open the path of communication.”
The shadowy faces assumed ecstatic expressions as the Hardys watched. In the lamplight black eyes glowed like embers. The chant rose to a soaring crescendo.
Suddenly the nearest man got to his feet and began a jig. One by one the others imitated him, until they were all on their feet, stamping and waving their hands.
The circle began to move. Fascinated, Frank drew closer. The wild-eyed macumba dancers seemed to have hypnotized him. As if drawn by an invisible magnet, he moved into the middle of the ring, which revolved faster and faster.
Suddenly a piercing shriek brought Frank out of his trance. One of the natives fell to the floor, clutching at his throat. The others screamed and danced more wildly.
Frank looked around. The hair rose on the back of his neck.
“This is ridiculous,” he thought. “I have to get out of here.” He plunged between two of the dancers, looking for his brother and San Marten. A chill went down his spine when he realized that that they were no longer with him.
Frank began a systematic search, making his way to the rear of the circle, and walking once
around. No luck! Again he pressed himself between the ecstatically gyrating bodies to the center. San Marten and Joe were nowhere in sight! Had they left?
Frank looked for the door. It had disappeared, too! His pulse beat like a jackhammer. He was trapped amid the zealots of voodoo!
W
ITH
sinuous movements, hands reached out toward Frank. Was he about to become a victim of macumba rites?
“Not if I can help it,” he thought. “I'll go down swinging before I let those lunatics get me!” He assumed a judo stance, ready to hit the first attacker with a karate chop.
“Cool it, Frank,” came a low familiar voice. “It's me.”
“Joe?” Frank was dumbfounded. In the dim light he could barely make out his brother's features.
“Right. Don't let the party costume fool you. I just put it on for this shindig. Same for my dancing partner here. He's not what he seems.”
Frank recognized San Marten. “What's the big idea?” he demanded.
“San Marten suggested joining the dance,” Joe said. “I figured you were coming, too.”
“I thought we might learn something that would lead us to Graham Retson,” San Marten said.
“Down here with these weirdos?” Frank shook his head. “Let's get out of here. We can resume our conference when we get away from these shimmy-shakers.”
The voodoo dancers were becoming more frenzied. Their chanting became stentorian, and their contortions more furious.
Frank saw Buru coming toward them as Joe and San Marten slipped back into their own clothes. The old man motioned to them, then led the way around the dancing circle, edging along so as not to attract attention, to a point where a big stone block stood against the wall.
Gesturing to the others to help, he began to push at the block. The rest pitched in, shifted the obstruction to one side, and gained access to an opening through which they had to crawl on their hands and knees.
They reached another stone staircase. Hastening upward, they returned to the witch doctor's stall. With their hands they shielded their eyes from the daylight until they became reaccustomed to it.
The two Brazilians began an animated conversation.
Frank tugged at Joe's sleeve and the boys moved off to one side, out of earshot.
“Wow! Am I glad to be back on earth!” Frank said.
Joe grinned. “Actually, it was fun!” Then he became serious. “A lot of strange things have happened since our arrival,” he said. “That bag of nuts which fell off the truck, for instance. It was pushed by a monkey!”
“That figures,” Frank said. “Somebody's after us. And I'd include San Marten among the suspects. I haven't yet discovered why he's so concerned about us.”
“I think he's okay,” Joe said.
“Maybe so. But I don't see why he brought us to this place. He can't take that voodoo stuff seriously.”
“Of course not. He just thought it would be interesting for us to watch.”
“And what about his showing up at the hotel just at the right time? He claimed the door was open, but I'll bet somebody locked it after we went into the room. And how come part of the fire escape ladder was missing just when I needed it?”
“How's that again?”
Frank told his brother about his movements while Joe had been unconscious. “When I tried to call for a doctor, I got no answer. After San Marten had come in, the desk answered immediately.”
“That doesn't prove anything. The clerk might have had another call.”
“And how do you explain the locked door?”
“It could have been stuck.”
“Then the bellboy walked in when nobody called for him.”
“He might have been sent to take out the dishes. I saw a tray and a couple of glasses on one of the dressers.”
Frank sighed. “Maybe you're right, but the whole thing is too pat, tooâ”
Just then San Marten beckoned to the Hardys. “Buru has a prediction about where to find Graham. He says he had a vision that your friend is going up the Amazon to Manaus.”
“Where's that?”
“It's a port near the juncture of the Amazon and the Negro rivers nearly a thousand miles from here.”
“Baloney!” Frank murmured to Joe.
The witch doctor sensed their skepticism. He smiled and spoke volubly.
San Marten said, “He warns that we had better believe his vision. Otherwise serious harm might come to Graham. If you want to find him, go to Manaus.”
“We'll think it over,” Frank began, “and when we reachâ”
He was interrupted by a rustling sound at the back of the stall. Furry fingers pulled the curtains
apart. A simian face appeared in the opening. Frank and Joe saw a howler monkey about three feet tall, with silky black fur and a savage expression.
The Hardys got only a brief glimpse before the face pulled back behind the curtains.
“So you keep a monkey for a pet, Buru,” Joe said.
When San Marten translated that remark, the witch doctor shook his head angrily and went into a torrent of negatives.
“He denies he has a monkey on the premises,” San Marten reported.
“We saw it!” Frank insisted.
“Buru says that whatever you saw was caused by your imagination.”
“Like his visions,” Joe scoffed.
San Marten smiled. “Perhaps. Still I believe it would be better if I left your comparison untranslated. Witch doctors are not the best-tempered people in Belem.”
Joe looked amused. “You mean Buru might place a curse on us?”
Sensing hostility, Frank said, “We'd better return to the Excelsior Grao Para.”
“Not there, my friends,” San Marten protested. “My home in the suburbs is at your disposal. Please use it freely as long as you stay in Belem.”
Frank and Joe, however, would not be swayed.
“You see,” Frank stated, “we need to be in the city while looking for our friend.”
“Some other time,” Joe promised. “We'll take a rain check just now.”
They parted with friendly handshakes, and the boys went to the hotel. The desk clerk waved to them. “Mr. Graham returned while you were out.”
“Is he here now?” Joe asked excitedly.
“No. He came for his leather jacket and departed again.”
“Did he give you any forwarding address this time?” Frank queried.
“All he said was that he was going to Manaus, and that he could not wait. He mentioned no address in that city.”
The boys went to their room and Joe closed the door. “Good night, Frank! Buru was right. It's incredible!”