The Shattered Helmet (9 page)

Frank said, “Listen, Chet, I don't have much time. What I want to ask you is this: Has Saffel left school?”

“Matter of fact, yes.”

“When?”

“Right after you left.”

“Have you seen the red car?”

“No! Not since the day we saw it at the falls.”

“Thanks, Chet. How's Thelma?”

“Great, just great! I've gained five pounds eating goodies at her house.”

“How's the film course?”

“Super. I'm taking lots of footage of Thelma.”

Frank chuckled and hung up. “Joe, Saffel's gone.”

“He might have followed us,” Joe said. “Well, let's go and keep our eyes open.”

Just before sundown the boys arrived in the area where Buckles had been reported to be camping.

They made several inquiries about a man with his dog and were directed to a camper which had parked in a shady glen. Driving close to it they stopped and approached the camper. Joe knocked on the door. A woman answered.

“Sorry,” the boy said. “I think we made a mistake.”

“Whom are you looking for?” she asked.

“Buster Buckles, the old actor,” Joe said. “We were told that he's camping in this area.”

“You mean the movie funnyman with his little dog?”

“Yes, that's the one.”

A man appeared behind the woman and joined in the conversation. “He wasn't very sociable,” he said.

The couple told the boys that other neighbors
had reported Buster was on his way to Bald Eagle Mountain.

“Hardly anybody goes there,” the man said. “No facilities.”

Frank looked at a road map. Bald Eagle Mountain was not far away. The elevation showed 6,100 feet.

“Do you think we can make it before dark?” Evan asked.

“If we push hard,” Frank said.

They hopped on their bikes again and set off. In the distance a great mass of black clouds began to settle into a valley.

“That storm's a long way off,” Joe thought. But minutes later lightning forked through the sky. The valley became dark with rain, and the setting sun produced a full rainbow.

Frank, in the lead, held up his hand in a signal to stop at a crossroad. They checked their maps again and found that the road leading to Bald Eagle Mountain turned left, into the same valley where they had seen the storm.

They continued on, riding parallel to an arroyo with only a thread of water trickling through it. But the riders noticed that the stream grew larger by the minute. Now the road dipped down over a bridge to the other side of the broad gulch.

Frank and Joe crossed the bridge first. Evan was third in line. He stopped, fascinated, and reached for his camera. The Hardys did not notice
his absence until they had gone several hundred yards.

Suddenly Joe shouted and Frank turned to look. To their horror they saw a wall of water swirling down the arroyo.

“A flash flood!” Frank cried out as he wheeled his cycle around. “Evan, come on, hurry!”

The Greek boy, however, seemed mesmerized by the oncoming flood. He took some more footage. Frank and Joe raced toward him full speed. They braked to a screaming halt at the edge of the bridge and waved their arms wildly.

All at once Evan realized the danger. He stowed his camera and hopped aboard his cycle. As he did, the first wave of water swept several inches above the bridge. Evan gunned his machine and the wheels set up a spray as he flew across the span.

Seconds later three feet of muddy, boiling, sandy water flooded over the bridge, carrying pebbles and debris, just as the three cyclists reached higher ground.

They stopped to look back at the phenomenon. Evan's hands were shaking a little. The roof of a cabin swirled against the bridge, tearing apart like matchwood. Three uprooted pine trees followed. The span shuddered as they banged against the superstructure and stuck there.

“I just got out in time,” Evan said. He promised to be more careful in the future.

“You'd better,” Frank said with a grin. “We don't want to send you back to Greece in a coffin!”

The cyclists followed the uphill road, which gradually became nothing more than an indistinct trail. Off to one side, in a grassy gully, they spied about two dozen cattle being urged along by a lone cowboy. They waved to him and drove over to ask if he had seen Buckles.

“The old man with the dog?” the man said.

“Yes,” Frank replied.

“Are you looking for him, too?”

“What do you mean, too?”

The horse grew restless and the cowboy leaned over to pat the animal's neck. “A young fellow like you asked the same question about an hour ago.”

“Was he blond?” Evan inquired.

The cowboy nodded. A smile crossed his wrinkled face. “You'll find the old guy up there on the mountain,” he said. “But I'm warning you. He's about as friendly as a wounded grizzly bear.”

“Thanks,” Frank said. “You've been a big help.”

The trio drove quietly around the cattle, found the dim outline of the trail again, and continued on as evening settled.

Frank said, “Do you suppose it was Saffel who asked the cowboy about Buster?”

“We'll find out,” Joe replied.

But soon it became too dark to follow the trail.
Finding the elusive Buster Buckles would have to wait until morning. They made camp at the base of three towering pine trees, ate some canned food, and crawled into their sleeping bags.

The sighing of the wind blowing through the treetops lulled the weary travelers to sleep. Frank was awakened at dawn. He had been dreaming that he was swimming in choppy water. Suddenly he realized that something was lapping against his forehead.

The boy opened his eyes slowly and saw the face of a friendly fox terrier. He reached up, patted the dog, and called to the others. “Look, fellows. We've got a mascot.”

Joe and Evan crawled out of their sleeping bags, skinned into dungarees and shirts, and combed their hair. The terrier continually jumped up and down, and Joe said, “Hold still while I look at your collar.”

Attached was a small tag. Joe studied it and whistled. “Hot dog! If this isn't luck. Little Bozo belongs to Buster Buckles!”

“Which means,” Frank said with a whoop, “that he's close by.”

“Come on, pooch,” Joe said. “Take us to your master!”

The dog yapped several times, then headed up the hill through a stand of trees.

“If we ride our bikes, we might scare the daylights
out of the old boy,” Frank said. “I don't think he'd appreciate that. Let's go on foot.”

The dog cavorted around, yapping at his newfound friends, and led them over a small hill. Down the other side, not more than three hundred yards, was a camper. Several shirts had been hung on the roof to dry.

The boys followed the dog to the door and Frank called out, “Hello, Mr. Buckles!”

Someone stirred inside. Then the door opened and a wrinkled face poked out. The gray hair was disheveled, and the eyes were full of sleep.

The face showed annoyance at being rudely awakened. The man retreated for a minute, then reappeared, wearing glasses,

“What in thunder!” he growled. “Where did you find my dog?”

“In our camp,” said Joe and introduced himself, Frank, and Evan.

“Hello and good-by,” Buster Buckles said churlishly. “Look, I came out in the wilds here to be alone. If you want my autograph, I'll give it to you, and then you can buzz off.”

“Please wait a minute, Mr. Buckles,” Frank said, trying to soothe the old fellow. “We're very sorry to bust in on you this way. But it's very important.”

“What's more important than a good night's sleep? I don't usually wake up till nine.”

Frank laughed. “Well, your dog woke us up at daylight.”

“Teddy, you shouldn't have done that!” Buster scolded the dog. “His name's Teddy—after Teddy Roosevelt.”

A smile appeared on the comic's thin lips. “All right, boys, I'm over my morning grouch. Now you may call me Buster. Let's have coffee. I've got to fix myself some breakfast. Will you join me?”

“Sure thing,” said Joe. “We're hungry, too!”

Buster brought out a gasoline stove, lighted it, and put several slices of bacon in a large frying pan. It started sizzling, and a mouth-watering aroma scented the brisk morning air.

The actor did not talk much, and the Hardys decided not to ask any questions until they had finished eating. They sat down on the ground after Buckles declined their offer to help. He removed the bacon, cracked eight eggs into the pan, and brought a loaf of bread from his larder. Then he passed around paper plates.

“Dig in,” he said simply.

After they had eaten, Buster said, “Now, tell me, what brings you here?”

Frank explained about their quest for the helmet and
The Persian Glory.

“So you're old movie bugs, eh?” Buster said. “Let me tell you, there was more guts in those pictures than there is today. Why, these young upstarts—”

“But do you know where we can find a copy of
The Persian Glory?
” Frank asked impatiently.

“I thought you might be coming to that,” the actor said, leaning forward on his camp stool. “I think—”

Just then a thunderous explosion rent the air and shook the ground!

“I
T
's an earthquake!” Buster Buckles cried out, and dived headlong into his camper. Tail between legs, Teddy slunk in after him.

At first the boys looked at each other in stunned silence. Then Frank exclaimed, “Something's happened over the hill!”

They raced up the slope toward their campsite. When they reached the brow of the hill, they looked down on a scene of utter devastation!

At the place where the bikes had stood there were now three shallow holes in the ground. The machines had been blown to bits! Parts dangled from the pine trees. A wheel had smashed into a rock, and a handlebar stuck out of the ground. Only the sleeping bags were still intact and lay crumpled on the ground about thirty feet away.

In stunned disbelief, the boys walked down the hill to the site of the demolition.

“This is terrible!” Evan whispered. “We've been dynamited!”

“Our enemies are really desperate to get us out of the way,” Joe said.

“Somebody must have been spying on us,” Evan conjectured, “and when we disappeared over the hill, set up the explosives.”

Frank nodded. “Good thing they didn't go off while we were sleeping!”

The three boys poked around the debris for clues. After searching in vain, Frank said, “Remember what Cole said in the restaurant? ‘The kid's gone for the big stuff.' That kid could have been Leon Saffel going for the dynamite!”

The boys made one more round of the area. This time they picked up their sleeping bags and the motorcycle license plates, one of which had become embedded in the trunk of a pine tree.

“I think the police and insurance company will need these for evidence,” Frank remarked as they trudged back over the hill.

Waiting on the other side was Buster Buckles, a rifle on his shoulder.

“Hey, Buster!” Joe called out. “Put the shooting iron away. The varmints are gone!”

“Oh, it ain't real,” Buster replied, explaining that the gun was an old comedy prop he carried along to scare off snoopers.

The actor plied them with questions about the explosion. Upon hearing the details, he blanched.

“Listen, I'm getting out of here!” he declared.

“But the bad guys are gone!” Frank insisted.

“How do you know they won't come back? Maybe they'll blow up my camper next! The whole world's gone cuckoo. You can't even find peace in the wilds of Arizony.”

Frank agreed they should leave and report the bombing to the police.

“Could you give us a ride to the next town?” he inquired.

Buster nodded. Then he said, “Hey, what was that you were asking about
The Persian Glory?
”

“We are looking for a copy of the film,” Joe said. “That's why we're here. Do you have one?”

Buster shook his head. As the boys moaned their disappointment, he added brightly, “I think I have an outtake, though.”

“What's that?” Evan asked.

Buster explained that an outtake was film footage that had been clipped out for one reason or another.

“It might have been a poor shot,” he said, “or cut to tighten the action. Or, perhaps, the film was just too long.”

He went on to say that one old Hollywood movie had been eight hours long. “They edited out six hours of it. “Boy, was the director ever mad!”

“But how come you have outtakes of films?” Frank asked.

Buster explained that his hobby had been to collect them. “I used to splice them all together,” he said. “It made a very funny movie. You could hardly follow the plot.” He slapped his knee with delight. Suddenly his face turned serious again.

“We're getting out of here, boys,” he said, and carried the little stove back into the camper.

Frank pressed for more information. “Do you really have some footage on
The Persian Glory?
”

“I think I do. I'm not sure.”

“Where is it?”

“At my place.”

“You mean your home in California?”

“That's right. I have cans of film in the back of the garage. They're under a pile of junk, but I'm sure I could find them.”

“Then let's go!” Joe cried.

Buster looked reproachful. “What's the hurry? I came here to fish!”

“But—but Mr. Buckles, this is important,” Joe said. “It can't wait!”

Frank signaled his brother to be quiet. Then he said, “All right, Buster. It's your vacation and up to you how long you want to stay. But after that, may we go to California with you?”

“Sure.” When Buster was certain that every scrap had been picked up from the campsite, he spoke again of the fishing trip.