The Shattered Helmet (15 page)

“Maybe we can go for help,” Frank suggested. “Somebody must be living out here.”

“Let's look then,” Evan agreed.

They trudged down the road for half a mile, then Evan pointed uphill.

“There's a shepherd's place,” he said.

“Where?” Joe asked.

“The long, low stone structure. See it now?”

“Yes. Blends right into the hill.”

They climbed the slope until they reached the cottage. Evan knocked on the rough-hewn door and a peasant woman answered. He explained their predicament.

A short conversation followed during which the shepherd arrived, prodding his flock into the small stone enclosure next to the hut. The Greek couple suggested that the boys have supper and stay overnight.

“The valley is full of boulders. They drop down for some time after the storms are over,” the shepherd said.

Frank, Joe, and Evan thanked their hosts, ate with them, then settled down on piles of straw at one end of the long room. Near dawn all three awakened at the same time.

“What's that?” Joe asked.

“Sounds like a helicopter,” Frank replied. “And it seems to be getting closer!”

The boys dashed out and looked up into the gray sky. A small chopper was alighting far up on the hillside.

“What luck!” Joe said. “Maybe that guy can give us a lift!”

They raced up the hill, slipping and sliding in the soft mud. Soon they saw a small hut nestled
against the dun mountain. The boys began to shout.

The helicopter was now at rest, its rotor whirring slowly. Suddenly a familiar cry shrilled through the air.

“Help! Help!”

“It's Chet!” Evan exclaimed.

“You're right!” Frank gasped. “And look, they're dragging him to the chopper!”

C
HET
, whose hands were tied, put up a fierce resistance. When he heard the shouts, he threw himself to the ground and kicked violently.

His captors realized there would not be enough time to get Chet into the helicopter. They ran to the chopper and it rose into the air amid a maelstrom of wind and noise.

Evan, first to reach Chet, unbound his hands. The boy winced as the circulation in his wrists resumed, but quickly recovered from his ordeal. His friends surrounded him and rapidly fired questions at him.

Chet said he had been brought to the hut by Dimitri and Gerrold the previous day, and was left there, tied to a post.

“Where did they go?” Frank pressed.

“I don't know. They mentioned the word Kerkira a lot, whatever that means.”

“That's the Greek name for Corfu!” Evan said. “An island off the northwest coast near Albania. Maybe that's where they went!”

“Who were the guys with the chopper?” Frank asked.

“I have no idea. They just appeared a little while ago. Didn't say where they were going to take me. Now tell me, how did you get here just in the nick of time?”

Frank and Joe took turns explaining the latest events. Suddenly Chet clasped his stomach. “I feel weak! I haven't eaten since yesterday!”

“We know a place where you can get breakfast five minutes from here,” Evan said.

“Let's go!”

The boys worked their way back to the shepherd's hut, where they had goat's milk and bread. Then they thanked their hosts and returned to the Mercedes.

They found a national police car parked alongside. One of two officers was taking down their license number. They looked surprised at the four boys.

Evan explained their predicament in Greek and the police radioed to Navpaktos for a service car. Then Evan told the officers about Chet's rescue and the helicopter take-off. They promised to notify Athens, call the Pandropolos family, and keep a lookout for the chopper. Then they left.

Two hours later a mechanic arrived. He had
brought a spare wheel and replaced the smashed one. After paying him, the boys set off westward toward Corfu.

The narrow highway twisted and turned before it made a sweeping loop in the descent toward Navpaktos, a small town on the Gulf of Corinth. There they stopped for gas and oil.

“Let's keep on going,” Evan said. “If we're lucky, we'll catch the last ferry from Igoumenitsa to the town of Corfu.” He showed the Americans a map. The road led west to Mesolongion, then northward to Ioannina and west again to the coastal town of Igoumenitsa.

The boys spelled one another at the wheel. Frank drove for the last few miles. He skillfully negotiated the tortuous mountain road, which finally dropped down to the seacoast.

Evan pointed, “There's the ferry! It's loading. Hurry, Frank, and let me out when you come to the tollhouse.”

Frank slowed enough for the Greek boy to hop out, then sped to the last position in a line of cars boarding the ferry.

Evan came back with their tickets in time, gave them to the ferryman, and joined his friends aboard the boat. The whistle blew a mournful note and the craft eased out of the harbor for the crossing to Corfu.

The two hours sailing time seemed like an eternity to the Hardys. The sun lowered into the
waves and not long afterward darkness spilled over the Ionian Sea. By the time the steel ramp clanked down on the wharf at the town of Corfu, the sky was inky black. Headlights creeping off the ferry illuminated a broad plaza, bordered by shops and hotels.

“How about some chow and beddy-by?” Chet asked. “I'm beat.”

The others agreed. “We can't do any investigating this time of night, anyway,” Frank said.

They registered at the Hermes Hotel and had dinner.

“Wake me up after you catch those crooks,” Chet said when they were back in their room. “I think I can sleep for a whole week.”

The next morning, however, he rose with the others, eager to pursue the suspects. They had breakfast in the hotel's coffee shop and the waiter gave Evan directions to the police.

Half an hour later the four boys entered headquarters, where Evan conversed in Greek with the sergeant on duty. He told of their mission to capture Dimitri and Gerrold and their search for the ancient helmet.

“So! You, too!” The policeman smiled as he replied in English. Seeing their puzzled looks, he went on, “Yes. We are hunting for them, also. We know all about Gerrold and Dimitri through a teletype from Athens.”

“Any luck yet?” Frank asked.

“We found the tan Fiat—abandoned. And a small boat is missing.”

Evan looked amazed. “You mean they took off for Albania?”

“It is possible.”

“They'll be caught and tossed in jail over there,” Frank reasoned.

“Not likely. Dimitri is an Albanian. He will ask asylum for his friend, the American gangster,” the policeman said.

Frank let out a low whistle. “Dimitri an Albanian?”

“Yes. He crossed the strait illegally some years ago, obtained a fake Greek passport, and eventually slipped into the United States.”

Joe said, “So he knows this area well.”

“Yes. But our men are patrolling the strait and have not seen them. There is a good chance the fugitives are still on Kerkira.”

Evan thanked the officer. “If you learn anything, will you leave a message for us at the Hermes?”

“Certainly.”

Evan looked discouraged. Outside, he pointed northeast across the narrow belt of water to whitish hills rising starkly not more than ten miles distant.

“There's Albania. Not a very friendly country. If those criminals got away, good-by to the helmet!”

“There's still hope,” Joe said. “Those hoods could be holing up somewhere, waiting for a good chance to make a break for it.”

“The question is,
where
could they be hiding?” Chet said.

Evan was thoughtful for a few moments. “If they stole a boat, they have to hide that, too. There are many caves along the shore. Perhaps they're using one of them!”

“Let's get a boat and look,” Joe said.

The boys hastened to the waterfront and rented a sturdy eighteen-foot craft with an inboard engine. Evan purchased a detailed map of the island and they set out with the Greek at the wheel.

The coast swung north in a curve until nearly touching Albania at a place called Kouloura.

“It's only a mile and a half across at that point,” Evan said.

Unlike the area around Athens, Corfu was clothed in green hills that sloped down to the water's edge. Part of the shore was rocky, with caves cut deeply into the limestone. In other places, lagoons provided harbors for small boats and beaches for bathing.

Evan held his course a quarter mile offshore. “There's Dassia,” he said. “English people vacation here a lot. Not many Americans.” He pointed out the settlement and continued north.

The coast became more rocky, caves more abundant. Whenever a large one came into view,
Evan drove closer and they examined it carefully.

Now Albania seemed as close as a pitch from deep center field to home base. It looked chalky white in the midday sun.

“Let's put in at Kassiopi for lunch,” Evan suggested. Kassiopi was a small harbor edged with a low concrete bulkhead. Behind it were several restaurants.

“That's my kind of detective work,” Chet said. “Water sports and food.” While the others made fast the boat, he headed straight for the nearest restaurant. When his friends caught up, he was trying to make the waiter understand what he wanted.

While lunch was being prepared, the young detectives asked several people if two men resembling the fugitives had been seen in the area. They showed Gerrold's picture around, but got no result.

Finally the waiter beckoned them to an outdoor table. Evan shot one more query at him. The waiter cocked his head, examined the photograph, and lifted an eyebrow.

“Yes, I saw this man. I made up a dozen sandwiches this morning for him to take out, together with two Thermos bottles of hot coffee.”

“Where did he go?” Frank asked.

The waiter shrugged.

Nevertheless, the boys were elated. “Those crooks must be hiding somewhere nearby,” Joe
said, “biding their time. It's unlikely they'd leave in broad daylight. Let's hurry and continue our search.”

When they had finished, Evan took the helm again and skillfully guided the boat as close to the shore as he could without scraping the bottom.

Every navigable cave was entered and the work grew tedious and tiring.

“We'll never make it by nightfall,” Chet said, shielding his eyes from the low sun.

“I'm not giving up yet,” Evan stated grimly.

They continued their search until dusk, but then the light became so dim that the boat was in danger of being ripped by underwater crags.

“We'll have to call it a day,” Joe said.

“Okay,” Evan agreed. “I guess— Hey, what's that?”

An aircraft engine broke the stillness.

“It's a chopper I” Chet cried out. “Look, the same kind that nearly got me!”

T
HE
helicopter landed on a rocky promontory not far from where their boat lay hidden by a jutting boulder. A man appeared, seemingly out of the ground, got into the chopper and the craft took off.

“He must have come from the rear entrance to a cave,” Frank said excitedly.

“Yes, I see the opening,” Joe said. “Right behind that rock.”

Evan cut the engine and began maneuvering the boat with an oar. “Should we go in?”

“We don't really know if the cave is empty,” Frank said. “Someone else might still be there.”

Evan paddled the boat softly through the water and finally stopped at the entrance to the cave. The boys sat silently for a few minutes, straining to pick up a sound. There was none.

Finally Frank said, “Let's go in. Joe, you stay here as a lookout.” He took a flashlight from a
locker and the boys climbed over the rocks inside the cave, using their light as sparingly as possible. They passed several cracks and crevices in the crumbling limestone walls, then came upon a flat area floored with hard-packed sand. Footprints were all over the place.

Suddenly the light fell upon a small outboard boat.

“No doubt the stolen one,” Evan said. “Hey, look at this!”

On the floor of the boat lay a neatly tied brown carton. Evan reached for it.

“Wait!” Frank commanded. “It might be a booby trap.” He cut the string carefully, then gingerly opened the top of the carton.
Inside lay the shattered helmet!

“Wow!” exclaimed Chet. “Look at that!”

“Quiet!” hissed Frank. “They might hear us!”

“Of course we hear you!” Dimitri's voice boomed out. They whirled around to see the Albanian and Gerrold step out of a shadowy crevice. Dimitri held a brilliant flashlight.

“I wouldn't touch that helmet!” he said.

“Says you,” Frank declared. He picked up the box. “Come on, Chet. Show Evan how to run interference against these thugs.”

Suddenly a voice behind the boys spoke with chilling effect. “Put that helmet down!”

Frank turned slowly to look into the nose of a nickel-plated pistol.

“Spiro Vanides!” Frank gasped.

Evan said, “You—you— I can't believe it!”

“Neither will anybody else,” Vanides said coldly. “I wanted this helmet and I have it, thanks to my friends—and of course your good detective work.”

The three boys were stunned by Vanides' admission.

“You risked an awful lot for the helmet,” Frank said. “Why?”

“Why?” The shipper waggled the gun toward Evan. “Because of his Uncle Nick, that's why!”

“My uncle never harmed you!” Evan protested.

“Oh no? He gets the fat shipping contracts. He's praised for his charity. He wants Agamemnon's helmet to present to the state! More praise, more glory!”

Vanides' face flushed with hatred. “Now I have the helmet and Nick's favorite nephew and assorted trash from the United States!”