The Mysterious Caravan

THE MYSTERIOUS CARAVAN

WHEN the Hardy Boys take a winter vacation in Jamaica, Joe finds an ancient bronze death mask washed up near their beach house during a violent storm. Did it come from a Portuguese galleon wrecked offshore centuries ago? Why are three treasure hunters determined to snatch the relic at any risk? Is it because of the cryptic Arabic words concealed in the mask?

Helping the Hardys and their friends in this bizarre mystery is William, a Jamaican boy, who flies to New York with startling news, only to be intercepted and held for ransom—the death mask!

How Frank and Joe rescue William, plunge into their father's airline-ticket theft case, and fly into a maze of danger in Africa will hold Hardy Boys fans breathless to the last page of
The Mysterious Caravan.

Frank and William raced for their lives!

W
IND
shook the flimsy seaside cottage and banged a loose shutter with such violence that Joe Hardy gave a startled jump. “If this gets any worse,” he said, “we'll be blown right off the island of Jamaica.”

“And they advertised no storms at this time of year,” his brother Frank said with a laugh.

The two boys, along with four high school friends, reclined on cots in the beach house they had rented for a ten-day winter vacation. A candle they had lit after the power failed gave a fluttering light for several seconds before expiring. Now they were talking in total darkness, trying to be heard above the crashing surf and screaming gale.

“Feel this place swaying?” Tony Prito asked.

“Like it's dancing the calypso,” Biff Hooper added as he adjusted his big frame for more comfort.

“All we need now is a steel-drum section,” was Phil Cohen's comment.

Bang!
went the shutter again.

“Whoops!” chubby Chet Morton said. “Let's see if we can fasten that plagued thing.”

“I wish we had a flashlight,” Frank muttered. He felt his way to a front window and reached out for the slatted cover, when he noticed lights tossing on the cresting seas.

“Hey, fellows! Look here! Somebody's in trouble!”

The others jumped up to peer out into the maelstrom.

“Incredible,” Phil said. “That boat won't stay afloat for long!”

“There she goes!” Chet exclaimed.

The lights disappeared for a few seconds, then shone feebly again.

“She slid down into a deep trough,” Tony said. “How can she take such a pounding?”

Once again, amid the whistling gale, the lights disappeared and the boys waited anxiously. But it stayed dark.

“Probably capsized,” Biff said.

“Come on, let's try to help,” Frank suggested. “If a victim is washed ashore, we might be able to rescue him.”

The others agreed and stepped out into the storm. They were all young and good athletes. Everyone except Phil was on the high school
football team. Phil was a lightweight, but fast as a cat and he held the county tennis championship.

Eighteen-year-old Frank, and Joe, a year younger, were the sons of world-famous sleuth Fenton Hardy. But they had become detectives in their own right. Starting with
The Tower Treasure
, their careers spanned many adventurous cases. The last one, known as
The Clue of the Hissing Serpent
, had carried them to far-off Hong Kong.

“We'll fan out along the shore,” Frank said. “But don't get pulled into the surf.”

The velvet sky was streaked with low scudding clouds, providing a ghostly backdrop for the palm trees that were bent nearly double. Fronds and branches skittered along the sand like giant spiders seeking refuge from the storm.

In seconds their sneakers were soaked, and they were drenched to the skin by rain. The hissing surf chased them up the sand; then when each gurgling wave receded, the boys ran to the water's edge, peering through the gloom for possible survivors of the shipwreck. There seemed to be none.

Separating farther from one another, the companions strung out, trying to cover as much of the shore as possible. They knew the sea currents could be tricky. People might be carried along the beach for quite a distance.

Joe had raced on ahead of the others. He
searched the sand near a spit of land, where palm trees bent close to the water's edge. Did he see something? He moved forward cautiously toward an object lying at the foot of a palm tree and bent down to examine it.

“A timber!” he said half aloud. “A ship's timber. I wonder if——” He heard a crack, then nothingness.

The large branch that hit him on the head lay beside the supine boy as the tide continued to rise. The waves lapped over Joe, rocking him to and fro.

Meanwhile, the others had searched in vain for survivors and struggled back to the cottage. They entered, skinned off their wet clothing, and toweled down. Frank fumbled in his suitcase for a change of underwear.

“Hey, Joe, did you borrow any of my things?” he asked.

No answer.

“Listen Joe. I definitely remember I had another pair of shorts here. Joe? Where are you?”

“He isn't here,” Chet said.

“Where is he?” Biff asked.

“Who knows?”

Frank felt a shiver of fear climb his backbone. Had Joe been sucked into the raging sea? Surely his shouts for help would have been drowned out!

“We'll have to find him!” Frank declared.
“Let's go!” He put his damp clothes on again and ran out into the gale. The others followed.

How long Joe had lain unconscious, he did not know. The last thing he remembered was the sound of the cracking tree. Now he heard the surf, felt it filling his ears, nose, and mouth with bitter saltiness.

The water was about to cover him completely. Joe moved, and a pain stabbed the back of his head. “I hope it isn't fractured,” he thought. Wincing with every movement, he inched higher onto the sand. The effort exhausted him, finally, and he stopped a few feet above the collar of suds lacing the beach.

He flung out his arms and breathed deeply, praying for the air to renew his strength. His left hand felt the wet sand, but his right rested on something the size of a coconut shell. It felt slimy.

The boy's fingers studied the contours of the object and his pulse quickened. “Good grief!” he thought. “It feels like a face!”

Could this be a victim of the shipwreck, half buried in the sand? Thoroughly stimulated, Joe raised himself on his elbow. At the same time he heard shouts in the distance. It was Frank and his friends.

“Here I am, over here!” he rasped, the taste of salt burning his throat. He struggled to his knees
and called out again. They heard him and rushed over. Eager hands pulled Joe to his feet.

“What happened?” Frank asked.

“I got conked by a palm tree.” Joe gingerly felt the back of his head. He had a bump the size of a large egg.