The Secret Warning (13 page)

“Whoa! Easy, boy! Better stay put for a bit,” Frank advised. He switched on the light, got Joe a glass of water, then helped him onto a bed.

“Feel okay?”

“Guess so. Slightly foggy, that's all.” Joe waggled his jaw. “I guess it's not broken.”

His eyes widened and he sat up again as Frank reached for a sheet of white paper propped on a table. “Our visitor left a message,” said Frank.

“What's it say?”

Frank read aloud: “‘Leave town at once or there'll be trouble!' ”

“More on the other side, isn't there?” Joe said.

When Frank turned the sheet over, his jaw tightened. Without a word, he handed the paper to Joe. The remainder of the message was:

“If only I could've nailed that creep!” Joe complained bitterly.

“Did you get a look at him?”

“No, it all happened too fast.” Joe scowled. “But—there was something familiar about him, at that. Just his general shape, or the way he moved, I'm not sure what.”

Frank went down the hall to rouse Sam Radley, whose room was several doors away. On the way back, they encountered the house detective.

“A couple of scout cars are cruising around, looking for likely suspects,” the hotel security man reported. “Can you give us any description to go on?”

“Not a very good one, unfortunately,” Frank said. “The man was tall and had on a dark suit, that's about all. He was pretty much in shadow going down the fire escape.”

The house detective took down a complete account of the incident from both boys and offered the services of a doctor for Joe, who vigorously declined. “I'm fine, now.”

Radley, meanwhile, had been prowling about the room, looking for clues. A moment after the hotel detective had left, Radley bent down and plucked something from behind the wastebasket near the window.

“Did either of you throw this away?”

The Hardys shook their heads. “What is it?” Frank asked.

“A notice of an art auction sale,” Radley replied, holding out a small brochure, “from the Holt-Hornblow Galleries in New York.”

“An art auction sale!” Joe exclaimed, looking at his brother excitedly. “The fellow must have dropped it going out the window.”

“That would figure, all right,” Frank said. “If the men who kidnapped Dad really have the gold Pharaoh's head, they may be in the art business!”

They found no marks or jottings on the brochure which might provide a further clue.

“You know something?” Frank said suddenly. “There's an angle to this business we've been overlooking all along.”

“What's that?” asked Radley.

“The gang behind all this must have had some real inside knowledge if they salvaged the head from the Katawa's strong room. Remember, no story about the head being aboard was ever published in the newspapers.”

Radley nodded. “True.”

“One of the
Katawa's
crew may have let the secret slip out,” Frank went on. “Then word was passed along, either to a museum, or an art dealer —maybe someone who knows Zufar.”

Joe suddenly leaped up off the bed as if he had been stung. “Sufferin' snakes!” he blurted. “Bogdan! Fritz Bogdan!”

“What?” Frank exclaimed.

“I mean, he was the man I saw—the guy who broke in tonight!”

Radley and Frank stared at Joe.

“How can you be sure,” Radley asked, “if you didn't see his face?”

“I'm not sure,” Joe admitted, “but at least I'm positive that's why the figure looked familiar. Tall, slightly stooped, right shoulder higher than the other—just like Bogdan!”

Frank was impressed by his brother's theory. “That definitely adds up,” he said. “Bogdan could have learned from Zufar about the head going down on the
Katawa
—maybe heard about it the same day that it happened. So he decided to steal a march on the insurance company and hire somebody to grab it before they could send down a diver of their own.”

“And remember, we suspected Bogdan was eavesdropping on us at Zufar's office,” Joe said.

Sam Radley paced back and forth worriedly. “Boys, if you're right, we'd better move fast,” he decided. “We might be able to nail Bogdan on his way back to New York from here.”

“What's your plan, Sam?” Frank asked.

“We'll have police cover the airports, and the train and bus stations,” the operative replied. “Meantime, we'll fly back to New York in our charter plane. If he's driving, we'll still get to New York before him.”

The Ace Air Service pilot had planned to stay overnight at a motel near the Philadelphia airport. Sam telephoned him and arranged to have the plane readied for take-off immediately.

In less than an hour Radley and the boys were bound for La Guardia Airport.

As soon as they landed, they checked telephone directories to find Bogdan's home address, but could find no listing.

“Wait
a second,” Frank said. “Maybe Zufar can
tell us.”

He plucked out the art dealer's calling card. Zufar had jotted two telephone numbers on the back, along with the address of Bogdan's curio shop. One was the shop's number. The other proved to be that of Zufar's hotel.

A few moments after Frank had dialed it, Zufar's voice came hoarsely over the line, sounding as if he had just been awakened. “Yes? Who is calling?”

Frank explained the situation hastily. Zufar seemed to be flustered and incredulous at the idea that Bogdan might be involved in the Pharaoh's head plot. But he gave Frank the curio-shop proprietor's unlisted home number and address, which he said was an apartment not far from the shop.

“Let's try Bogdan by phone first,” Joe suggested.

Frank called the number but got no response. Nor was there any answer from the shop number. The three sleuths hailed a taxi and sped into Manhattan.

Bogdan's apartment was on the first floor of an old converted brownstone. Its windows were dark, and the doorbell could be heard ringing hollowly inside.

“Maybe he hasn't come back from Philadelphia yet,” Frank conjectured.

“We'd better keep a stakeout,” said Radley. It was decided that he would remain on watch outside the brownstone while the Hardys covered the curio shop.

The boys taxied to the address and settled down to wait in an all-night drugstore across the street, which commanded a clear view of the shop entrance. The early morning passed slowly with no sign of Bogdan.

By ten o'clock neither the proprietor nor any of his employees had appeared to open the shop.

Finally Sam Radley arrived on the scene. Frank and Joe hurried across the street to meet him. The operative reported that he had called the Holt-Hornblow Galleries and confirmed the fact that a notice of the art auction sale had been sent to Fritz Bogdan. “I think we'd better call the police,” Radley told the boys.

“Hold it!” Joe said. “Here's Zufar!”

The art dealer was just stepping out of a taxi. He looked upset at sight of the trio and twiddled his mustache nervously as they apprised him of the situation.

“Do you have a key to the shop?” Radley asked. When Zufar nodded, he went on, “Then suppose we go inside and search the premises.”

“B-b-but we have no right to do that!” the dealer spluttered. “I merely occupy office space here as a favor from Bogdan.”

“Look,” Frank said angrily, “our dad was kidnapped carrying out a dangerous assignment for you. Your friend Bogdan may be behind the whole thing—including the theft of your golden Pharaoh's head.”

Joe broke in. “We'll call the police and get a warrant.”

Zufar fished out a silk handkerchief and daubed his perspiring face. “No, no—please! Let us do as you wish.” He unlocked the front door of the shop and they went inside.

Radley made a hasty survey of the premises—showroom, offices, and storage space at the rear—to make sure that no one was about.

“What do you expect to find?” Zufar asked.

“Evidence,” said Radley. “If Bogdan did mastermind this plot, the Pharaoh's head may be hidden here somewhere!”

The three sleuths began a thorough search. Would they find solid evidence linking Bogdan to the plot—and would it lead them to their missing father?

The boys and Sam probed into closets, crates, desks, rolled-up rugs—all in vain. Their hopes began to dwindle.

In the dusty showroom Frank paused and stared around despairingly. Once again, the faded, upright Egyptian mummy case caught his eye. On a sudden hunch, he strode toward it.

“Joe! Sam!”

His cry brought the others rushing over. Frank pointed to several tiny borings in the case. “These look like air holes!”

Together, the three pried at the mummy case, until Joe found a catch. When Frank and Sam wrenched off the lid, the trio gasped.

 

 

 

 

 

T
HE boys were shocked at the sight of their father in the mummy case.

“Dad!” Joe cried in great alarm.

Frank felt Mr. Hardy's wrist and found a weak pulse. Carefully they eased the unconscious detective from the case.

“There's a sofa in Bogdan's office,” said Sam. “Let's carry him in there.”

They had taken only a few steps when Joe's eyes suddenly bulged. “That green Buddha!” he exclaimed.

“What's the matter?” Frank asked.

“Wait till we attend to Dad and I'll show you!”

The three laid Fenton Hardy on the sofa in Bogdan's office. Mehmet Zufar, visibly shaken, watched as Radley loosened the investigator's collar, then checked his respiration.

“I'd say he's been drugged,” Sam declared. “We'd better get him to a hospital!”

While the operative telephoned for an ambulance and notified the police, Joe led Frank back to the Buddha figure.

“Take a look at that. Does anything about it strike you as odd?”

The large figure was coated with the pale-green patina of weathered bronze. It was seated in the “lotus” position, legs crossed, hands cupped in the lap.

Frank studied the Buddha intently for a moment. “Hmm. The head doesn't seem to match somehow—it's canted slightly to the left.”

“Exactly. As if it was made separately from the body and then fitted on.”

Frank's face suddenly lit up. “Jumpin' Jupiter! You think—?”

“I think this Buddha needs his skull X-rayed, that's what!”

As Joe seized the statue's head with both hands, Zufar came rushing up to the boys.

“Ya khabar!”
he gasped. “What are you doing? You may damage the—”

“Relax, Mr. Zufar. If this is one-piece bronze, I can't damage it. If not—” As he spoke, Joe applied a slight twisting pressure to the statue's head.

Suddenly the neck seemed to move inside its tight-fitting necklace. An instant later the whole head came off in Joe's hands!

“You were right!” Frank shouted.

The lower portion of the neck, which had fitted inside the necklace, showed none of the greenish bronze patina of the rest of the figure. Instead, it appeared to be hard-baked clay!

Frank lifted the head. “Wow! Heavy as lead!” he exclaimed. “The weight alone proves it was never part of the original hollow bronze casting.” He turned it upside down to examine the base of the neck.

“Looks like solid clay,” said Joe.

“It's clay, all right,” Frank agreed. “The surface has been bronzed over and doctored with paint to give it the same weathered look as the body. But whether the clay's solid or not is another question.”

“Let's find out!” Joe urged.

He lugged the head back to the storage room, followed by Frank and Zufar. Here Joe laid the head on a worktable, then picked up a hammer and chisel, evidently used for prying open crates.

“Wh-wh-what are you going to do?” Zufar stuttered, wringing his hands anxiously.

“See if this Buddha has a split personality.” Joe poised the chisel on the head and gave it a sharp rap with the hammer. The face cracked and the clay fell away. They saw a yellow gleam of metal.

“The golden Pharaoh!”
the boys cried out.

Zufar stared in stunned silence as the boys extricated the head from its broken clay shell. Frank and Joe were awed by the sheer beauty of the centuries-old statuette.

A tiny vulture and cobra protruded side by side from the Pharaoh's headdress. A long, slender goatee hung from the chin of the masklike golden face.

“Great Scott! What's going on!”

All three turned as Radley strode, wide-eyed, into the room. He told the boys that an ambulance was on the way, then they quickly related what had happened.

“The Pharaoh's head!” Sam exclaimed in astonishment. He turned to Zufar and asked, “Is it authentic?”

The perspiring art dealer lifted the object in trembling hands and examined it carefully.

“I should say it is unquestionably the same head that I was bringing to America—or, if not, the cleverest imitation I have ever seen. Of course, only a detailed examination by an expert Egyptologist—”

“Even that wouldn't prove it was the same one that went down on the
Katawa,
would it?” Joe broke in. “What if Rhamaton IV had two of these heads made—is that possible?”