The Mysterious Caravan (7 page)

“Nothing is impossible, Chet,” Mr. Hardy said. “Maybe Frank has something there.”

“You know all the lines in those whiskers?” Frank went on. “They might camouflage the map that leads to the hiding place of the mysterious caravan!”

“It'll take time to work this out,” Mr. Hardy said. “It might be a good idea to get a duplicate, even if you can't give it to the kidnappers.”

“We'll go to the foundry right away,” Joe said.

“Don't take it over yourself,” Mr. Hardy advised.
“Your enemies are desperate and might follow you. We'll have to do this by stealth.”

They decided to call Tony Prito. He was to arrive in his father's truck, dressed in work clothes, and would bring a toolbox in which to carry the mask out of the house.

“That'll throw Stribling and company off the trail if they're spying on us,” Joe said.

Tony agreed to cooperate. “Boy, just like a detective movie,” he said. “I'll be there in half an hour.”

When he walked into the kitchen, the boys got the mask from the safe and put it into the box Tony was carrying.

“I'll leave in our car a little later and meet you at the foundry,” Joe said. “Frank wants to go to the library, in the meantime, to get some old maps of Africa.”

Fifteen minutes after Tony had left, Joe drove to the foundry in Millvale, about ten miles away. He took a back road for a short cut. No one seemed to follow him. When he arrived, he looked for Tony's truck, but there was no sign of it.

“Good grief!” he thought. “I hope nothing has happened!”

Joe hurried into the foreman's office and asked Alex Krusinsky if the mask had been delivered.

“Not yet,” the man replied. “Was it supposed to?”

Joe felt sick in the pit of his stomach. Had Tony been waylaid and the mask stolen? He told Krusinsky about his mission, looking out at the parking lot over and over again. Then he phoned Tony's home. Mr. Prito had not seen his son since he left the house with the truck.

Joe breathed deeply, trying to control his emotions. He made a second call to his father. Mr. Hardy answered and spoke in a low voice.

“I can hardly hear you, Dad,” Joe said. He could sense his father putting his lips close to the mouthpiece.

“I can't talk any louder, Joe. A caller has just arrived, and I don't want to be overheard.”

“Do you know what happened to Tony?” Joe asked, and he told his father about his futile search for the truck.

“No,” Mr. Hardy replied. “But don't panic, Joe. Maybe the truck broke down. Just stay there till he comes and then hurry home. It's important.”

“What is it, Dad?”

But Mr. Hardy had clicked off.

No sooner had Joe put the phone down, than he looked out the office window and saw Tony pull in. The boy parked and brought his toolbox inside.

“Where've you been, Tony?” Joe asked in an irritated tone. “You had me scared to death!”

“Flat tire! It does happen now and then, you know.”

“Sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you,” Joe said, and his friend opened the toolbox to remove the mask.

Alex Krusinsky looked it over carefully. “I can do a good job on this,” he finally said. “Call me tomorrow.”

“And don't forget,” Joe warned, “it's strictly confidential.”

“Don't worry. I'll do it myself.”

The boys thanked him and left the office. On the way out Joe said, “Dad wants me to go right home for something important.”

“Maybe word from the kidnappers?”

“He didn't say.” Joe opened the door of his car. “Okay, chum, see you later. And thanks.”

Both boys drove off, and Joe thought about his father's cryptic message all the way home. He pulled into the driveway, having noticed a convertible parked in front. A man was slouched behind the wheel, with only his peaked cap showing.

Joe entered through the kitchen door. As he went in, he could hear the conversation in the living room. The visitor had a mellifluous baritone voice that Joe could not identify.

The boy walked into the room and saw his parents and Aunt Gertrude having tea with a
tall, handsome man. The suave, sun-tanned stranger was introduced to Joe as Elroy Abrams, a representative of the Jamaican Consulate. He rose to shake hands, then sat down again, crossed his legs comfortably, and looked Joe directly in the eye.

“I'll brief you quickly on my mission,” he said. “Our government was alerted to the fact that you found an ancient mask on the beach in Jamaica. It is in the police report after the beating of Ali El Ansari. I have come to reclaim that mask. It belongs to the people of our country, you know.”

“We were going to send it later, Mr. Abrams,” Joe said lamely. Through his mind flashed the question: What if this man demanded the mask right now? And how would they satisfy the kidnappers? Should he tell the whole story to Abrams?

The man went on, “You should not have kept it at all!”

“We tried to return it before our flight home,” Joe said. “But we ran into some trouble.” He did not elaborate further. “Anyway, we got on the airplane with it. Just in time, too, I might say.”

The man smiled ingratiatingly. “You won't be in any trouble if you turn it over to me now.”

Joe perspired. “What a box I'm in!” he thought.

He was interrupted by the sound of Frank's
footsteps as he came through the front door and entered the living room. Frank was introduced to Abrams; then he looked nervously at his father.

“Dad, I must speak to you alone. Could you come upstairs for a minute? It's important.”

Frank smiled at the caller. “You will excuse us, Mr. Abrams, but it's something that can't wait.”

The man nodded amiably and addressed Laura Hardy, saying that she had two mighty fine sons.

When Frank and his father entered the study and closed the door behind them, the boy pulled a letter from his pocket. It was sent by air-mail, special delivery.

“I intercepted the postman on the sidewalk,” Frank said. “It's from Sam Radley.”

As Mr. Hardy slit it open, he said, “We're in a tight fix, Frank. That gentleman from the Jamaican Consulate wants us to turn over the mask pronto.”

“Ye gods, and it's at the foundry!”

“Right. Maybe we can promise it for this evening. Trouble is, he is insistent and wants it immediately.”

“Dad, we couldn't give it to him if we had it. What about William?”

Mr. Hardy had taken the letter from the envelope and a photograph fell to his desk.

“Oh, good,” he said. “Sam got a picture of
our man Scott.” He scanned the letter. “It was taken unknown to him at an employees' picnic,” Radley had written.

Frank stared at the snapshot and gasped. “Oh, no!”

He took a magnifying glass from the desk drawer and focused on Scott. The people in the photo were magnified to twice their size.

The Hardys exchanged shocked glances. “No doubt, Dad.” Frank said. “This man is in our living room
right now!”

T
HE
suspense and excitement were nearly unbearable. Although the sound of their voices was well insulated from the floor below, Frank found himself talking in a whisper.

“Dad, what do you make of it? If the man is really the airline-ticket thief, why does he want the death mask? And how did he know about it?”

“Easy, Frank,” his father replied. “Maybe there's a connection we don't know about, though he did show us his credentials. I'll phone the Jamaican Consulate in New York.”

The operator gave Mr. Hardy the number, and his call went through in a few moments.

After the detective had identified himself, he said, “We have a visitor here named Elroy Abrams. He is representing himself as an official of the Jamaican Consulate. I'd like to verify his credentials.”

A minute or two of silence followed. “No, Mr. Hardy,” was the reply. “We have no person by that name in our employ.”

“Then he must be an impostor!” Mr. Hardy said. After hanging up, he tapped out the number of Bayport Police Headquarters and spoke to Chief Collig, asking him to send two men over to arrest Abrams.

“Three squad cars are investigating an accident on the highway,” the chief said. “But I'll have someone there as soon as I can.”

“Well,” Mr. Hardy said to Frank, “let's go down and see what Mr. Abrams-Scott has to say for himself.”

“Are you going to nab him right away?”

“No. Not until the police arrive.”

When father and son returned to the living room, Mrs. Hardy had just brought in another pot of tea and a tray of cookies.

“Good,” Frank thought. “This'll give us the time we need.”

The boy's heart was thumping at the bizarre situation. Joe seemed embarrassed to have the bogus official dun him for the mask. The women, in an affable mood, were chatting with the caller, whose charisma was undeniable.

After munching on a couple of cookies, for which he complimented his hostesses, the caller pressed his napkin to his lips and said with some finality, “Now what about the mask? I have to
leave shortly to get back to New York. Joe, will you bring it to me?”

Joe was not often tongue-tied. In fact, Frank had never known his brother to lack for an answer. But this time Joe's mouth opened and no words came out.

Frank quickly took up the slack in the conversation. He had to keep the ball rolling until the police arrived.

“First of all,” Frank said, “Joe and I want you to know that we appreciate your kindness. You've been fair with us, and we'll be fair with you, Mr. Scott.”

Instantly the boy was stunned by his own blunder as well as by Scott's reaction, which hit like a thunderclap. Realizing he had been found out, the man overturned his tray, the utensils and china thudding onto the carpet. Joe was immobilized by the suddenness of it all. He thought the man had gone crazy!

Mrs. Hardy emitted a cry and Aunt Gertrude screamed, knocking over the half-empty teapot. The liquid spilled on Mr. Hardy's trousers. The impostor leaped up, grabbed his stylish leather coat, and tried to struggle into it while dashing for the door.

“Get him!” Mr. Hardy cried out. Frank lunged and so did Joe. The leather slipped through their fingers and Kenleigh Scott dashed down the front steps, still struggling to get into his coat.

Joe leaped from the top step, grasped the dangling sleeve, and hung on with bulldog tenacity. Scott whirled around. He struggled free of the garment and ran into the waiting car, the back door of which was open. Wheels skidded in the soft snow for a second; then the vehicle took off like a rocket.

Frank made a mental note of the license number. Then he groaned. “Where are the police? Why didn't they come in time?”

“Frank, will you tell me what this is all about?” Joe asked. “Why did Abrams flip his lid?”

“His name isn't Abrams,” Frank said, as they returned, shivering, into the house. “That was Kenleigh Scott. We were just about to catch him when I blew it!”

Still shaking from the ordeal, Mrs. Hardy and her sister-in-law were busy cleaning up the mess on the living room floor. They were dazed by their guest's explosive departure, and when Mr. Hardy explained what had happened, Aunt Gertrude sank onto the sofa.

“A criminal! In our house!” she said weakly. “And we served him tea! Oh, dear, he might have murdered us all!”

Frank and Joe pitched in with the cleanup job until a squad car arrived. After the patrolmen were given a description of the getaway car, one of them immediately radioed headquarters. The other units would be on the lookout for it.

The impostor leaped up!

Shortly afterwards headquarters called back. It had been a rental car, signed out by an A. E. Dingo.

“Hey, Frank!” Joe exclaimed. “Dingo is the name in the Swahili wordbook! He's the one that William thought was dangerous!”

“Well, he got away this time,” Frank said. He turned to his father. “I'm sorry, Dad. If we had caught Scott, you might have wound up your case quickly.”

“Don't worry about it, son,” Mr. Hardy replied. “It doesn't always work out that easily.”

“Have you tried to figure out the double role of Kenleigh Scott in the ticket-mask mysteries?” asked Joe.

“That has me up a tree,” the detective ruefully admitted. “But if there's an answer, we'll find it!”

Now the Hardy family was settled again after the frightening experience, and Mr. Hardy said, “Gertrude, don't wash these dishes.”

“Goodness sakes! Why not? I'll use double-hot water on that cutthroat's cup!”

“Wait a minute. We need fingerprints,” her brother replied. He assigned Frank to lift prints from the cup handle, the edge of the saucer, and the spoon. Then he examined the fine leather coat that now lay on the sofa.

“Look at the label, boys,” he said. “It's from Paris.”