The Mysterious Caravan

  THE MYSTERIOUS CARAVAN

  WHEN the Hardy Boys take a winter vacation in Jamaica, Joe finds an ancient bronze death mask washed up near their beach house during a violent storm. Did it come from a Portuguese galleon wrecked offshore centuries ago? Why are three treasure hunters determined to snatch the relic at any risk? Is it because of the cryptic Arabic words concealed in the mask?

  Helping the Hardys and their friends in this bizarre mystery is William, a Jamaican boy, who flies to New York with startling news, only to be intercepted and held for ransom—the death mask!

  How Frank and Joe rescue William, plunge into their father’s airline-ticket theft case, and fly into a maze of danger in Africa will hold Hardy Boys fans breathless to the last page of The Mysterious Caravan.

  Frank and William raced for their lives!

  The Hardy Boys Mystery Stories®

  THE

  MYSTERIOUS

  CARAVAN

  BY

  FRANKLIN W. DIXON

  GROSSET & DUNLAP

  Publishers • New York

  A member of The Putnam & Grosset Group

  Copyright © 1975 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

  Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. Printed in the U.S.A

  THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 74–10463

  ISBN: 978-1-101-65731-7

  CONTENTS

  I THE FACE IN THE SAND

  II BWANA BRUTUS

  III THREE BAD EGGS

  IV AN ANCIENT LEGEND

  V AN OMINOUS TELEGRAM

  VI BUG ON THE WINDOW

  VII FRANK’S BRAINSTORM

  VIII THE SUAVE STRANGER

  IX THE CLUE IN THE COAT

  X A MUDDY RACE

  XI CHET THE GENIUS

  XII SIGN OF THE JU-JU MAN

  XIII THE SPOOKY VILLA

  XIV FOILED BY A DONKEY

  XV THE SPY AT THE WALL

  XVI GHOST IN THE SOUQ

  XVII THE PURPLE VAT

  XVIII THE SIXTY-FORTY DEAL

  XIX FIGUE BARBARI

  XX THE MYSTERIOUS MIRAGE

  CHAPTER I

  The Face in the Sand

  WIND shook the flimsy seaside cottage and banged a loose shutter with such violence that Joe Hardy gave a startled jump. “If this gets any worse,” he said, “we’ll be blown right off the island of Jamaica.”

  “And they advertised no storms at this time of year,” his brother Frank said with a laugh.

  The two boys, along with four high school friends, reclined on cots in the beach house they had rented for a ten-day winter vacation. A candle they had lit after the power failed gave a fluttering light for several seconds before expiring. Now they were talking in total darkness, trying to be heard above the crashing surf and screaming gale.

  “Feel this place swaying?” Tony Prito asked.

  “Like it’s dancing the calypso,” Biff Hooper added as he adjusted his big frame for more comfort.

  “All we need now is a steel-drum section,” was Phil Cohen’s comment.

  Bang! went the shutter again.

  “Whoops!” chubby Chet Morton said. “Let’s see if we can fasten that plagued thing.”

  “I wish we had a flashlight,” Frank muttered. He felt his way to a front window and reached out for the slatted cover, when he noticed lights tossing on the cresting seas.

  “Hey, fellows! Look here! Somebody’s in trouble!”

  The others jumped up to peer out into the maelstrom.

  “Incredible,” Phil said. “That boat won’t stay afloat for long!”

  “There she goes!” Chet exclaimed.

  The lights disappeared for a few seconds, then shone feebly again.

  “She slid down into a deep trough,” Tony said. “How can she take such a pounding?”

  Once again, amid the whistling gale, the lights disappeared and the boys waited anxiously. But it stayed dark.

  “Probably capsized,” Biff said.

  “Come on, let’s try to help,” Frank suggested. “If a victim is washed ashore, we might be able to rescue him.”

  The others agreed and stepped out into the storm. They were all young and good athletes. Everyone except Phil was on the high school football team. Phil was a lightweight, but fast as a cat and he held the county tennis championship.

  Eighteen-year-old Frank, and Joe, a year younger, were the sons of world-famous sleuth Fenton Hardy. But they had become detectives in their own right. Starting with The Tower Treasure, their careers spanned many adventurous cases. The last one, known as The Clue of the Hissing Serpent, had carried them to far-off Hong Kong.

  “We’ll fan out along the shore,” Frank said. “But don’t get pulled into the surf.”

  The velvet sky was streaked with low scudding clouds, providing a ghostly backdrop for the palm trees that were bent nearly double. Fronds and branches skittered along the sand like giant spiders seeking refuge from the storm.

  In seconds their sneakers were soaked, and they were drenched to the skin by rain. The hissing surf chased them up the sand; then when each gurgling wave receded, the boys ran to the water’s edge, peering through the gloom for possible survivors of the shipwreck. There seemed to be none.

  Separating farther from one another, the companions strung out, trying to cover as much of the shore as possible. They knew the sea currents could be tricky. People might be carried along the beach for quite a distance.

  Joe had raced on ahead of the others. He searched the sand near a spit of land, where palm trees bent close to the water’s edge. Did he see something? He moved forward cautiously toward an object lying at the foot of a palm tree and bent down to examine it.

  “A timber!” he said half aloud. “A ship’s timber. I wonder if——” He heard a crack, then nothingness.

  The large branch that hit him on the head lay beside the supine boy as the tide continued to rise. The waves lapped over Joe, rocking him to and fro.

  Meanwhile, the others had searched in vain for survivors and struggled back to the cottage. They entered, skinned off their wet clothing, and toweled down. Frank fumbled in his suitcase for a change of underwear.

  “Hey, Joe, did you borrow any of my things?” he asked.

  No answer.

  “Listen Joe. I definitely remember I had another pair of shorts here. Joe? Where are you?”

  “He isn’t here,” Chet said.

  “Where is he?” Biff asked.

  “Who knows?”

  Frank felt a shiver of fear climb his backbone. Had Joe been sucked into the raging sea? Surely his shouts for help would have been drowned out!

  “We’ll have to find him!” Frank declared. “Let’s go!” He put his damp clothes on again and ran out into the gale. The others followed.

  How long Joe had lain unconscious, he did not know. The last thing he remembered was the sound of the cracking tree. Now he heard the surf, felt it filling his ears, nose, and mouth with bitter saltiness.

  The water was about to cover him completely. Joe moved, and a pain stabbed the back of his head. “I hope it isn’t fractured,” he thought. Wincing with every movement, he inched higher onto the sand. The effort exhausted him, finally, and he stopped a few feet above the collar of suds lacing the beach.

  He flung out his arms and breathed deeply, praying for the air to renew his strength. His left hand felt the wet sand, but his right rested on something the size of a coconut shell. It felt slimy.

  The boy’s fingers
studied the contours of the object and his pulse quickened. “Good grief!” he thought. “It feels like a face!”

  Could this be a victim of the shipwreck, half buried in the sand? Thoroughly stimulated, Joe raised himself on his elbow. At the same time he heard shouts in the distance. It was Frank and his friends.

  “Here I am, over here!” he rasped, the taste of salt burning his throat. He struggled to his knees and called out again. They heard him and rushed over. Eager hands pulled Joe to his feet.

  “What happened?” Frank asked.

  “I got conked by a palm tree.” Joe gingerly felt the back of his head. He had a bump the size of a large egg.

  “We’ll help you back,” Biff said, and he steadied the injured boy with a strong grip.

  “Wait a minute,” Joe said. “I think there’s a body in the sand. You might be stepping on it.”

  “Where?” Tony asked.

  “Right there.”

  Tony and Phil dropped to their knees and felt about.

  “Argh! Here it is,” Tony said. His hands found the face, slippery and covered with sea moss and barnacles.

  “Careful as we dig,” Phil cautioned. “If it’s been in the water long, it might fall apart.”

  Biff still held onto Joe as the others clawed the sand from around the face.

  “Hey, it’s a skull!” Frank cried.

  Phil felt it. “Half a skull,” he said with a shudder. “The back of it is sheared right off!”

  “Leave it be,” Chet advised. “In a voodoo place like this I want nothing to do with a skull. Its ghost may come to claim it!”

  “What are you scared of?” Frank asked. “This might be a help to the authorities. It could have been a missing person.”

  “It feels like a face!” Joe thought.

  “Most likely a murder victim,” Biff said.

  Joe bent down impatiently and picked the thing up. It had not felt like a skeleton to him. He remembered the cold lips and firm chin. “We’ll take it back to the cottage,” he said, “and examine it there.”

  All five trudged along the beach, with eyes still peeled for possible bodies from the shipwreck, but had seen nothing by the time they entered the beach house and shut the door behind them.

  Phil, who had a medical career in mind, got the first-aid kit and applied medication to Joe’s bump.

  Frank fixed the shutter while Biff lit the candle on the table. They all pulled up wooden chairs to look at Joe’s find.

  “See. It’s not a skull,” Joe said. He pressed his thumbs into what should have been soft flesh.

  “Hard as a rock,” Frank observed.

  “Suppose it’s ossified?” Tony asked.

  “Hardly,” Phil said. “Not in the water.”

  The light flickered over what appeared to be a man’s face. The nose was straight, the chin firm with a curly beard.

  “It’s some kind of mask,” Joe said. He pulled out his penknife, flipped open a blade, and was about to scratch away the covering of sea growth when Phil stopped him.

  “Hold it,” Phil said. “This should be done by an expert, or it’ll be ruined!”

  “What about you?” Frank said. “Didn’t you work for the museum once?”

  “Right. I restored old artifacts. That’s why I was worried when Joe tackled it.”

  “Well, can you do it?”

  “I’ll try. But no guarantees!” Phil took the knife and started to work on the mask. “It’s metal,” he said after a while. “See it shine?”

  “Am I glad,” Chet said. “No skull, no ghost!”

  “Where do you suppose it came from?” Tony asked.

  “That’s anybody’s guess,” Frank said.

  The boys watched, fascinated, as Phil worked on the mask carefully.

  “I’m glad you’re feeling better about the ghost,” Tony ribbed Chet. “I didn’t know you believed in spooks.”

  Chet grinned wryly. “You never can——”

  His words were cut off by three loud raps on the door. They all jumped!

  CHAPTER II

  Bwana Brutus

  IT was the middle of the night and the boys were not expecting a visitor. Could it be a shipwreck survivor? Frank raised his hand in a signal of caution as the knocks came again, this time even louder.

  “Who’s there?” he called.

  “It is I. William.”

  Frank stepped forward and flung the door open. “Hi, William. Come on in.”

  Framed in the entrance stood a tall, well-built black youth, about the same age as the boys from Bayport. He had a handsome face, lit up now by a broad white smile. Like the others, he wore cut-off jeans and a tee shirt. Around his neck dangled a small trinket carved in the shape of an African native.

  The boys had met William on the beach shortly after their arrival and had become friends. Joe had developed a special interest in William’s hobby of African lore and his great admiration for King Mansa Musa. He had even learned a few words of Swahili, which William was studying.

  “Hujambo?” (“How are you?”) William asked.

  “Sijambo, ahsante,” (“I am well, thank you,”) Joe replied.

  “You learn Swahili fast,” William said with a nod as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “I came because I feared your house might have been blown down.”

  “Thanks,” Phil said. “The cottage survived but we nearly lost Joe.”

  “How so? And what do we have here?” The Jamaican boy looked curiously at the mask.

  “It’s a long story,” Joe said.

  Spelling one another, the companions told their guest about the lights on the sea, Joe’s disappearance, and the discovery of the strange face in the sand.

  “Now we’re trying to figure out what this mask is all about,” Frank concluded. “Have a seat while Phil scrapes off the sea moss.”

  “Take my place,” Chet said, offering William his chair.

  “Thank you, Chet. You are very considerate.” William spoke with a slow, measured cadence. His English, with a slight British inflection, was perfect.

  “I’m just sleepy,” Chet said with a yawn. “I want to go to bed. Hey, what’s that under your belt?”

  “A present for you all,” William said. He drew out a plastic-covered paperback book and handed it to Chet. “This is the Swahili word book I was telling you about.”

  “Oh, great! Thanks,” Chet said, and he moved his cot out toward the table in order to catch a little light from the candle. He thumped his pillow into a ball and lay back to read the book.

  The others, meanwhile, watched as Phil continued to work on the mask.

  “That is a most distinguished face,” William said. “Probably the replica of an important man.”

  The knife blade worked about the eyes. They were blank. The mouth, cleaned of the greenish covering, looked stern and noble. Even the beard seemed patrician, with every curl carefully arranged.

  “Wait a sec,” Phil said. “You know what? I think this is a death mask. Remember the pictures in our ancient history textbook?”

  “You’re right,” Joe said. “When a famous or rich person died they’d take a plaster impression of the face and make a mask from it.”

  “Sometimes,” William added, “even while the person was living, they would do this.”

  Phil stopped scraping and looked closely at the treasure.

  “A real handsome guy,” Tony said. “He looks Italian.”

  “Maybe a Roman or a Greek,” William ventured.

  “Let’s call him Brutus for the moment,” Biff suggested.

  “Not bad,” Phil said with a smile. He wrinkled his brow in thought. “Habari za asubuhi, Bwana Brutus.”

  “Very good,” William said. “Good morning, Mr. Brutus. You are learning fast, Phil.”

  From the cot came Chet’s sleepy voice. “That’s nothing. Nahitaji vigwe vya viatu.”

  “What’d he say?” Joe asked.

  “I need a pair of shoelaces,” William translated.
“Chet, your pronunciation is quite acceptable.”

  But there was no more comment from Chet. The book rested on his chest, which rose and fell rhythmically to the sound of gentle snoring.

  The boys were getting sleepier by the minute, but Phil kept on cleaning the mask.

  “Now the face looks pretty good,” he finally said. “Let’s try to dig some of this crud out of the back.”

  The mud and other detritus came out in big chunks, and soon the mask resembled a hollow shell. When Tony wiped off the last few sandy particles with his handkerchief, he peered intently into the back of the cast. “I think there’s some writing here,” he said, handing the mask to Joe, who squinted at the odd-looking lettering written in several neat lines. But he could make nothing of it, either.

  Phil examined the text. “It looks like Arabic to me,” he said. “What do you say, William?”

  “You may be right. Did you know the word Swahili is a modified form of the Arabic sawa-hil, meaning ‘coast people?’”

  “You’re a walking encyclopedia,” Biff said with admiration. “Why the coast people?”

  “It was the language of East Africa,” William explained, “and it was carried to the interior by traders and missionaries.”

  When talk swung back to the mysterious mask, Phil said, “We ought to keep it a secret. What say, Frank?”

  “Yes, until we learn more about it. I’ll hide it in my gear.”

  “Good idea,” Joe agreed. “And now let’s call it a night. Will you stay with us, William? We have an extra sleeping bag.”

  “I would be honored to be your guest.”

  Frank snuffed out the candle and stretched out on his cot. The last thing he remembered was William telling Phil about Mansa Musa, fabulously rich king of Mali in fourteenth-century West Africa.

  The storm abated sometime during the night, and when Frank awoke the next morning, the bright Caribbean sunshine was sifting through the cracks in the shutters. He rose and flung them open, flooding the cottage with daylight. As he shielded his eyes to peer out at the sea, he noted knots of people standing on the beach. They seemed to be talking excitedly.