The Mystery of the Black Rhino Read online

  Whispers of Murder

  “Anybody here?” Joe called.

  When nobody answered, they decided to make their way toward the interior of the shop, thinking that perhaps someone might be in a stockroom. They passed shelves of ornate African masks, baskets, and carvings of all kinds of animals that people normally associate with Africa

  “Where are the mounted big-game heads?” Joe asked.

  “You’ve seen too many old movies,” Frank said. “With so many species nearly extinct, people go on photo safaris today. They don’t go to kill the animals.”

  Joe was just about to call out again when they heard a door open.

  “If you want it killed, then I’m your man,” a voice said. “Don’t ever forget that.”

  Contents

  * * *

  Chapter 1: The Threat on the Subway

  Chapter 2: The Suspicious Passenger

  Chapter 3: Two of the Engines Are Gone!

  Chapter 4: Danger over Africa

  Chapter 5: The Shopkeeper in Mombasa Curios

  Chapter 6: Riot!

  Chapter 7: Poachers on the Loose

  Chapter 8: Escape!

  Chapter 9: A Death in the Hospital

  Chapter 10: Disguised

  Chapter 11: The Secret of the Hotel Zebra

  Chapter 12: Under Surveillance

  Chapter 13: Fire!

  Chapter 14: Death of the Black Rhino

  Chapter 15: Watson’s Surprise

  1 The Threat on the Subway

  * * *

  “Frank and Joe Hardy in Africa!” Chet Morton turned around and grinned at seventeen-year-old Joe Hardy, who was sitting in the backseat of Chet’s borrowed convertible. “Sounds like the name of a really bad movie.”

  “Yeah—just keep your eyes on the road, Morton!” Joe said with a grin. “Too bad you’ll be sitting in class, listening to Mr. Bannerman talk about Africa, while Frank and I will actually be there.”

  “You guys are so lucky,” Chet complained. “I wish my dad were a famous detective so he could get invited to places like Kenya.”

  “It would be fun if we could all go,” Joe said. “Just think of all the stuff we’d do.”

  “I know,” Chet said.

  “Hey, Chet, could you just drop us off in front of Fifth Avenue Africana, circle the block, and then pick us up?” eighteen-year-old Frank Hardy asked. “It would certainly make our lives a lot easier.”

  Chet shook his head. “I’ve got this all worked out, Frank. I’m taking you guys to the Pelham Bay Park subway station. It’s just a couple of blocks from my aunt’s apartment in the Bronx. The Number Six train will take you down Lexington Avenue. Then you can cross over to Fifth Avenue and take care of your business.”

  “I thought you liked to drive in Manhattan,” Frank said.

  “I do, but Mom said I needed to help my aunt pack. She’s getting kind of forgetful, and Mom wants to make sure she has everything she needs to spend a few weeks with us,” Chet said. “I’ll meet you in front of the subway station in three hours. I have to be back in Bayport by seven tonight so I can go to work.”

  “Okay,” Frank said. He looked back at Joe. “If you hadn’t forgotten to check the battery in the van like I told you to, we wouldn’t...” He stopped. He and Joe had been over this before, so there was no use in having another argument.

  Joe let it pass. He would have taken care of everything if the track coach hadn’t given the team two more hours in the weight room because he thought they hadn’t pushed themselves enough in the last couple of races.

  “Why do you need to go into New York for books on Africa anyway?” Chet asked. “Don’t they have books on Africa in the Bayport Library?”

  “Not the ones Dad needs. These are about police procedures in East Africa,” Frank said. “They’re really hard to get, too. The owner of Fifth Avenue Africana agreed to lend them to Dad, though, and he can even take them to Kenya.”

  “He said—and here I quote—,” added Joe, “I’d be honored to let the great Fenton Hardy use books from my collection.’ ”

  Chet smiled. “Here we are, guys. I’ll be circling the block here in three hours, so be looking for me.”

  The Hardy boys nodded.

  Chet pulled quickly into a no-parking zone, let Frank and Joe out, then rejoined traffic on the avenue.

  Frank and Joe got their subway tokens at a booth near the turnstile, then headed to the platform for the train that would take them downtown.

  “Good—it’s not crowded!” Joe said when they reached the platform. “I don’t like being jammed in a train like a sardine.”

  “It’s not rush hour. We may have some trouble coming back up, though,” Frank said. He nudged Joe and nodded toward a couple of teenage boys leaning against one of the girders. “Look how those guys are eyeing that woman’s purse.”

  An elderly woman with a rather large black purse was standing at the edge of the platform, unaware that she was being watched.

  Just as the Hardy boys heard the train approaching, Frank said, “They know we’re watching them. Maybe that’ll keep them from trying anything.”

  “Yeah. And maybe they won’t get on the train, either,” Joe said. “They do look like trouble.”

  The train screeched to a halt, and the doors hissed open.

  The Hardy boys waited just a minute to make sure the elderly woman got on the train safely, then they got on and sat a couple of seats away from her.

  Just as the doors to the car started to close, the two teenage boys jumped aboard, too.

  “Punks!” Frank whispered to Joe. “They’re probably mad at us for keeping them from stealing her purse in the station.”

  “Yeah,” Joe agreed.

  He knew they had to be vigilant without antagonizing the two teens. The last thing they needed was to get involved in something that would keep them from meeting Chet and his aunt at the agreed time.

  Frank pulled a subway map from his pocket and looked at it for several minutes. “We’ll get off at Fifty-first Street,” he said. “That way, we’ll just be a couple of blocks or so from the bookstore.”

  Nothing happened between the boys and the older woman after the train had picked up and discharged passengers at several stations in the Bronx, so the Hardy boys began to relax.

  They had begun to think that the two teens had forgotten about the elderly woman and her purse. Just as the train crossed the Harlem River into Manhattan and started slowing down for the 125th Street Station, though, the two suspicious-looking guys stood up and got ready to get off. They held on to the hand straps and started whispering to each other.

  “They’re going to try something,” Joe whispered to Frank. “Get ready.”

  Now the train was coming into the station. Frank could see that the platform was crowded.

  Just as the train stopped and the doors hissed open, the two punks made their move.

  Joe had never seen such quickness.

  One teen snatched the woman’s purse and handed it to his friend, who was off and into the crowd in less than a blink of the eye. The original thief was right behind his friend.

  The woman started screaming.

  “We’ll get your purse back for you!” Frank shouted.

  Joe and Frank broke through the crowds of waiting passengers.

  “Stop those kids! Stop them!” Joe shouted to anyone who might listen. “They stole a woman’s purse!” His shouts seemed to be drowned out by a train arriving from downtown.

  The doors of their train closed behind them, and the train sped on downtown.

  “There they are!” Frank shouted.

  Joe looked. The two boys were racing up the steps toward the street
.

  The Hardy boys ran after them.

  When they reached the top of the steps, Frank and Joe could see the two teens heading east on 125th Street.

  Frank knew they were in the part of New York City known as Spanish Harlem. His class had gone on a field trip to El Museo del Barrio last year. His art teacher had wanted the class to see the hundreds of santos, hand-carved wooden saints in the Spanish Catholic tradition.

  The Hardy boys started after the two thieves.

  “I bet those guys didn’t expect we’d do this,” Frank said. “They probably thought we wouldn’t leave the platform. Let’s keep them in sight until we can find a police officer.”

  “Yeah,” Joe agreed.

  The Hardy boys had to dodge traffic and pedestrians as they crossed against the light at Park Avenue.

  Up ahead the two teens turned left at Madison Avenue. They were heading downtown.

  “Where do you think they’re going?” Frank asked. “We can’t chase them all over Manhattan.”

  Joe shrugged.

  Frank didn’t have to wait long for an answer. As the two teens crossed 124th Street, they entered Marcus Garvey Park and headed down a secluded footpath.

  “They’re probably going to find a place to dump the purse once they’ve removed what they want,” Joe said.

  “Come on—let’s pick up the pace!” Frank shouted.

  With a burst of speed that would have pleased their track coach, the Hardy boys raced into Marcus Garvey Park.

  Suddenly one of the punks looked behind him. Joe thought the expression on the guy’s face was priceless.

  “They can’t believe it’s us!” Frank shouted. “Come on. We’ll show them why we won the state championship last month!”

  The Hardy boys had almost reached the two teens when they suddenly veered off the path and into the woods.

  When Frank and Joe reached the place where they thought the thieves had left the path, they stopped. “It’s a little spooky here, even in the daytime,” Frank said. “They could be hiding anywhere.”

  Just then the two punks rushed out of the trees toward them, catching the Hardy boys by surprise.

  “Here’s what you’re looking for, man!” one of the teens said. He shoved the purse at Frank and took off. The force caused Frank to stumble against Joe. They both tumbled to the ground in a heap.

  “Hey! What was that all . . . ,” Joe started to say. He looked up to find himself flanked by two police officers.

  When Frank started to stand up, one officer drew his gun and said, “Stay where you are!”

  “You don’t understand, Officer,” Frank protested. “We’re not the ones who stole this purse.”

  “We know all about the fencing operation that operates out of this park, boys,” the second officer said. “Why do you think we’re here? We’ve been keeping this place under surveillance for several weeks.”

  “Our backup caught your two friends,” the first officer said.

  “They’re not our friends,” Frank said. “We were chasing them, trying to get the purse back for the woman on the subway.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the second officer said. “Keep talking. Maybe one of these years you’ll make sense.”

  “We’re not part of any fencing operation,” Joe explained. “We’re the ones who chased the guys who stole the purse.”

  “Leave the purse on the ground and stand up,” the first officer said. “You can finish your story at the station.”

  “Great.” Joe rolled his eyes. “We’ll never get Dad’s books now.”

  “That’s what you get for doing a good deed,” Frank said. Suddenly he had an idea. “Could I show you my driver’s license?”

  The second officer gave him a funny look. “What are you trying to pull? Most crooks don’t want to be identified.”

  “I told you, Officer, we’re not crooks,” Frank explained. “I think if you’ll take a look at my driver’s license, this misunderstanding will all be cleared up.”

  “Take your wallet out slowly,” the first officer said.

  Frank began to remove his wallet. When it was out of his pocket, he handed it to the officer.

  “Frank Hardy,” the first officer read. “Bayport.” He blinked and looked at Frank. “Are you? . . .”

  Frank nodded. “We’re Fenton Hardy’s sons,” he said. “Have you heard of him?”

  “Have I heard of him? Have I heard of peanut butter and jelly? I’m Al Fielding,” the first officer said. “My dad used to talk about Mr. Hardy all the time.” He introduced the Hardy boys to the other officer, whose name was Randy. “Our dads were in the same precinct here in New York for several years, before yours decided to become a private detective.”

  “Why don’t you let us tell you how all this happened?” Joe said. “You know we wouldn’t steal a woman’s purse.”

  “No way. Not Fenton Hardy’s boys,” Al said. “But I’ll still need for you to fill out a report about what happened. Whoever handed you this purse is part of a gang that steals purses on the Number Six subway and then fences them here in Marcus Garvey Park.’

  “We know the drill,” Frank said.

  As they followed Al and Randy to their squad car, Frank explained where they had been headed when the purse snatching took place.

  “We’ll make this easy. We’ll take you there, and on the way, Randy here can fill you in on this fencing operation,” Al said. “It’s the least we can do for your help with breaking up this ring.”

  As they headed to Fifth Avenue Africana in the patrol car, the Hardy boys gave the officers the full story.

  “We had no idea we’d be breaking up a purse snatching ring,” Joe said. “We just weren’t going to let them get away with taking that woman’s purse.”

  “Well, my dad always said that Fenton Hardy had the golden touch when it came to detective work,” Al said. “It seems he’s passed it down to his sons.”

  For the rest of the drive, the Hardy boys explained why they were going to Fifth Avenue Africana.

  “Dad’s been invited to speak at a conference of East African police organizations in Nairobi, Kenya,” Frank said. “We’re going with him. We’ve never been to Africa before.”

  “That’ll be some trip,” Al said as he pulled up to a store. “This should be it.”

  The front of the building had an ornately lettered sign that read FIFTH AVENUE AFRICANA.

  “Thanks for the ride!” Frank said. “Now we may be able to get Dads books and meet Chet on time.”

  “Do you know how to get back to Pelham Bay Park?” Al asked.

  Joe nodded. “We take the uptown Number Six at the Fifty-first Street Station,” he said.

  “Right,” Al said.

  The Hardy boys jumped out and thanked Al and Randy again for the ride downtown.

  “Tell your dad that Big Al Fielding’s son said hello,” Al said.

  “We’ll do that,” Joe said.

  “If I have any more questions about the purse snatching,” Al said, “I’ll call you in Bayport before you leave for Africa.” The police car pulled away from the curb and headed uptown.

  Frank checked his watch. “We’re in pretty good shape time-wise, Joe, but we need to hurry. Come on.”

  The shop door made a loud buzzing noise when they entered, but the darkened interior didn’t reveal any clerks or customers.

  “Maybe there just aren’t a lot of people in New York City who are interested in Africana today,” Frank observed.

  “Maybe,” Joe said. “Anybody here?” he called.

  When nobody answered, they decided to make their way toward the interior of the shop, thinking that perhaps someone might be in a stockroom. They passed shelves of ornate wooden and metal African masks, intricately woven baskets, and carvings of all kinds of animals that people normally associate with Africa—especially elephants, lions, rhinoceroses, and giraffes.

  “Where are the mounted big-game heads?” Joe asked.

  “You’ve seen too many ol
d movies,” Frank said. “With so many species nearly extinct, people go on photo safaris today They don’t go to kill the animals.”

  Joe was just about to call out again when they heard a door open.

  “If you want it killed, then I’m your man,” a voice said. “Don’t ever forget that.”

  2 The Suspicious Passenger

  * * *

  The voice belonged to one of the biggest men the Hardy boys had ever seen. He was dressed in a safari jacket and a hunter’s hat.

  As the departing man pushed past them, Frank could see that his skin was sunburned. He looks like he’s just come back from a safari himself, Frank thought.

  “Wow,” Joe whispered. “He looks pretty nasty!”

  “You’re telling me,” Frank agreed. “He wouldn’t have to shoot big game. One look at his face and the animals would be scared to death.”

  “May I help you?”

  The boys turned toward the voice coming from the rear of the shop. In the dim light they could barely make out the form of another man. He was smaller than the first one, and dressed in casual clothes.

  “We’re Frank and Joe Hardy,” Frank said. “We’ve come to pick up some books for our father, Fenton Hardy.”

  Immediately the man’s total demeanor changed. He almost rushed toward them with a smile on his face and his hand extended.

  “Oh, yes! This is indeed a pleasure! I’m Donald Watson, the owner of Fifth Avenue Africana,” Watson said, as he grasped both of the Hardy boys’ hands at once. “I wish your father could have come with you. I’ve always wanted to meet the famous Fenton Hardy.”

  “Dad’s got so much work to do—to get ready for the conference—that he couldn’t,” Joe explained. “But he did send his best wishes and thanks for letting him borrow your books.”

  “Oh, it’s my pleasure,” Watson said. “They’re in my office. Come. I’ll get them for you. Would you care for something to drink? I think I have some soda in the fridge.”

  Frank glanced at his watch. Even after the detour to catch the purse snatchers, they were a little ahead of schedule. “Actually, I am kind of thirsty,” he said. “What about you, Joe?”