The Mystery of the Aztec Warrior (5 page)

“And the fellow looks like an Indian!” Joe thought.

The Hardys stopped him, and Frank asked about the tattoo. The man laughed and said in English, with a Spanish accent, “I had this put on because I am direct descendant of an Aztec warrior.”

Frank and Joe were almost speechless with astonishment. Had their quest for a direct descendant of an Aztec warrior come to an end? Was this the person to whom the valuable object belonged? Frank asked the mechanic if he knew a Jonathan Moore.

“No, I am Mexican—maybe you have guessed that? I have been in your country only short time. I do not know many people.”

“Is your name, by any chance, Roberto Hermosa?” Joe asked.

The mechanic looked amused. “No. I never hear of Roberto Hermosa.”

The Hardys' enthusiasm was waning but was not entirely dispelled. From a pocket Frank pulled a picture of the man they suspected of being Roberto Hermosa. “Have you ever seen this person?” he asked.

“No, I never see that man in my life. But you call him Hermosa. For several years I work at beautiful hacienda near Taxco. It called ‘Vista Hermosa.' That mean ‘Beautiful View!' You should visit.”

Frank told the mechanic they were trying to locate the person shown in the picture.

“I wish I could help you,” the Mexican replied.

“You really are a direct descendant of an Aztec warrior?” Joe asked. When the man nodded, the young sleuth added, “Just a few days ago we heard of someone else who makes the same claim.” Joe did not mention Mr. Moore's will.

The Mexican gave a wide grin. “I have well-educated rival for my position as pure descendant. I have never seen him, but I know his name —Senor Tatloc.”

“Where does he live?” Frank questioned quickly.

“I do not know. He travels around a lot digging.”

“You mean he is an archaeologist?” Frank queried.

“That is right.”

The Hardys asked several other questions, but the Mexican was unable to answer any of them. Finally they said good-by and went to the waiting room.

On his left arm was a tattoo of an Aztec warrior

“For Pete's sake, where have you fellows been?” said Chet. “I thought you'd flown off without me!”

“It would have served you right,” Joe needled. “If you keep on eating, Chet, you'll be so overweight they won't take you on the plane.”

“Oh, all right, all right,” said Chet. “Now tell me what you've been doing.” He was astounded upon learning that his friends had picked up a good clue.

“Senor Tatloc, eh?” he repeated. Then he gave a great sigh. “I can just see you fellows making me climb all over those crumbly old ruins!”

The boys' plane finally took off. After a delicious meal on board, they fell asleep. It was Sunday morning when they awoke, and the stewardess announced that they would land at the Mexico City airport in twenty minutes. The boys quickly washed, combed their hair, and straightened their rumpled suits. Then they watched from the windows as the great plane circled and came to a landing.

“Let's take a taxi into town,” Frank suggested. “We'll get the driver to show us some of the interesting sights as we go along.”

They found a taxi driver, who grinned in delight when he found the boys spoke his native tongue. He said he would be honored to take his passengers on a sightseeing trip before delivering them to their hotel.

The boys climbed into the car, and the driver sped out of the airport and onto a wide highway. The road was bordered by low stucco houses and open-air markets with here and there a tall apartment house.

“This doesn't look very old,” Chet remarked. He sounded disappointed.

“Wait!” the driver advised. “We come to old part of city soon.”

A short time later he turned into a large square. “This is the
zócalo,”
he announced proudly. “The cathedral on the north side was finished in 1667 and built on the ruins of a great Aztec temple.”

The boys gazed at the huge church with interest. Then, pointing to a long low building which covered one side of the plaza, the driver explained that this was the National Palace. On the other sides of the square were the Palacio Municipal and an arcade which sheltered a row of small shops.

“This part looks pretty old,” Chet acknowledged.

Suddenly a taxi passed the one in which the boys were riding. A man's hand protruded from it. He was waving a white handkerchief frantically as if to attract their attention.

“Is that a signal to us?” Frank asked excitedly.

“DRIVER, pull up alongside that taxi,” Frank cried, pointing ahead.

The taximan put on a burst of speed, while the Hardys strained their eyes to see who was inside the other taxi.

They were barely able to catch a glimpse of its passengers, but Frank whispered, “That man with the handkerchief is Jack Wayne! The other man looks Mexican.”

Suddenly their own taxi stopped. Quickly Frank and Joe turned to see why. To their amazement a stranger, with flashing black eyes and swarthy skin, and holding some kind of badge in his hand, was climbing in beside their driver.

“You're under arrest!” he told the taximan.

“What! I have done nothing!” the frightened driver said.

Frank and Joe looked at each other and at Chet, who gulped nervously. Did this have something to do with them? Was this a ruse to capture them as well as Wayne? Frank whispered to the others, “We'd better get out of here—and fast!”

Joe nodded, grabbed his suitcase, and opened the door. The next moment he and Chet, swinging his bag, were on the street. Frank threw a bill to the taxi driver and hopped out with his luggage. The stranger ordered the taximan to hurry on.

Instantly horns began to toot at the boys, and cars swerved to avoid hitting them. Chet and the Hardys realized they were raising a traffic commotion. It was impossible for them to reach the sidewalk.

“I wanted to follow that other taxi,” said Frank, as a car nearly sideswiped him.

“N-not me,” quavered Chet. “We might be in jail by now!”

“We'll never be able to catch up with it now,” said Joe as the brakes of a taxi near him screeched.

Finally the boys held up their hands and the motorists realized the trio's predicament. One car after another came to a grinding halt to let the visitors run to the sidewalk.

Chet, speechless with relief, sat down on his suitcase and wiped the perspiration from his face. “Don't ever do that to me again!” he pleaded. “I lost five years off my life.”

“Too bad it wasn't ten pounds,” said Joe. “We took our lives in our hands—and all for nothing!”

Frank said it was his fault and asked if either of the boys had obtained the license number of the taxi carrying Jack Wayne. Neither of them had.

“I was too busy watching traffic,” Joe confessed. “I did notice one thing, though. The taxi was yellow.”

“And needed paint,” Chet added.

“I saw a triangular dent in the right-hand back door,” Frank said. “Well, that's pretty good identification. I think we should track down that taxi and quiz the driver.”

“Not me!” Chet said firmly. “Do you realize all that has happened to us in the short time we've been in this city? I think you fellows imagined that was Jack Wayne. He would have called out to us. I vote we go to our hotel. Me for a bath and a nap.”

Frank had spotted an empty taxi and hailed it. The boys climbed in with their luggage, and the driver was directed to their hotel. The room assigned to them was large and had three beds in it. Chet gave a flying leap and sprawled onto one of them.

“Boy, does this feel good!” He closed his eyes, and a minute later it was evident from his deep breathing that the stout boy was asleep.

“First casualty,” Frank said with a grin. “I guess we'll have to carry on alone for a while.” He became serious. “It seems to me that Jack Wayne must still be a prisoner and was waving a distress signal.”

“Do you suppose it was just a coincidence that he saw us?” Joe asked.

“I doubt it,” Frank replied. “But I'm fairly sure that we weren't supposed to see him. His taxi was following us and because of the flow of traffic was forced to pass us. I'll bet the man who jumped into our taxi to arrest the driver was a phony and an accomplice of the abductors. Maybe it was an attempt to capture us.”

“Good logic, but we still haven't a clue to who our enemies are,” said Joe. “One thing seems certain. That Aztec warrior object must be mighty valuable.”

Frank looked at Chet, then said, “Joe, while he's asleep, how about you and me going to police headquarters and reporting everything?”

“We certainly need all the help we can get,” said Joe. “Let's go!”

Frank wrote a note to Chet, then the boys went downstairs and asked the way to the
policia.
It was not far, so the brothers decided to walk. When Chief Diaz heard their story he told them that the taxi driver had reported the incident of the attempted arrest. The phony officer had jumped out of the taxi at the next traffic light.

Gravely the chief said, “I had a report from the States about your friend Jack Wayne, but we have no leads to him. He did not land at our airport. Now you say he probably is in our city. I will use every method to find this man.”

“We'd appreciate that,” Frank said. “Perhaps you can also help us find two other men we are looking for—Señor Tatloc, the archaeologist, and a Roberto Hermosa.” The chief promised he would help them in any way he could.

The boys thanked him and left. As they retraced their steps to the hotel, Joe said, “Why don't we hire a taxi and cruise around to see if we can find the one which was carrying Jack?”

Frank waved down an oncoming taxi. After the boys had jumped in, he described to the driver in Spanish the kind of car for which they were searching.

The man looked inquisitive. He said politely, “It is not for a driver like me, Gomez, to be curious about my passengers' wishes, but may I know why the two young gentlemen wish to locate this vehicle?”

Joe smiled. “Would you believe me if I told you we're after a kidnapper?”

The Mexican's black eyes blinked several times. “I do not wish to have any trouble with a kidnapper,” he said, “but I will ride around the streets so you can find the car you seek.”

He went up one street and down another, through alleyways and back onto the famous Paseo de la Reforma. There had been no sign of the yellow taxicab with a dent in a back door.

Gomez looked at his meter. “This ride will be very expensive for you,” he said.

“Give us another ten minutes please,” Frank replied, glancing at his watch. “That'll make it an even hour.”

The time was just about up when suddenly Joe cried out, “I see it! Gomez, stop!”

Their driver pulled to the curb directly behind the yellow taxi. The boys asked Gomez to wait for them, then ran up to talk to the other driver.

“Excuse me,” said Frank, “but we're trying to find a friend of ours—an American—and a Mexican companion. They were riding in your taxi a little over an hour ago. Do you know where they went?”

“Sí, sí,”
the taximan replied. “I dropped them at the Lagunilla Market.”

“Lagunilla Market?” Frank repeated. “What's that?”

The driver laughed. “It is a place where people go to find bargains. Most of the merchandise is old and poor. Once in a while, however, something fine turns up. The merchants there have bought most of their things from strangers, and occasionally it is stolen property.”

“Let's have this man take us to the Lagunilla Market,” Frank suggested. “I'll pay Gomez.”

The boys changed taxis and were taken to an old, shabby-looking section of town. The open-air market ran from one street to another. Many of the vendors had their merchandise spread out on straw mats or blankets on the ground. A few had small booths with canopies set up. They were loudly hawking their wares in both Spanish and English.

The Hardys soon found that the merchants were suspicious and the boys had to buy trinkets in order to get responses to their questions.

“We may go bankrupt before we get a clue,” said Joe with a grin.

They had gone nearly the full length of the market when they came to a woman merchant selling silver jewelry. Frank put his question to her, and instead of being ignored, it was answered at once.