The Mystery of the Aztec Warrior Read online

  The Hardys and Chet acted casual, but were excited at the new information. Tatloc and Moore did have the common interest of collecting weapons. By this time they had reached the studio, which opened directly off the pavement of a side street. Inside, they were confronted by a life-size figure on canvas. This was indeed the man the boys had met in the hut!

  “The painting is great!” said Frank. Grinning, he added, “I wish I had money to buy it.”

  “Oh, it’s not for sale,” said Mr. Hawley. “This picture was commissioned by a man very much interested in the State Museum. The portrait is to hang there, but Senor Tatloc requested that this not be done for another two years. He didn’t say why.”

  The Hardys glanced at each other. Two years more would round out the five-year period after which Mr. Moore was to return the Aztec warrior object to its owner. Was there a definite tie-in between the two dates?

  The boys drew closer to the portrait to inspect it in detail. Señor Tatloc was arrayed in a gorgeous Aztec costume, and in his hand he held a dagger with an obsidian blade and handle, which was carved in the form of a plumed serpent. It was studded with turquoise.

  “Have you ever seen Señor Tatloc’s weapons collection?” Frank asked Mr. Hawley.

  “No, and he was rather secretive about it. In fact, Senor Tatloc remarked at the time we started this portrait that he wished it were possible for it to be painted two years from now. At that time he would have received a much more interesting dagger.”

  “What does that one look like?” Joe asked excitedly.

  “Señor Tatloc did not say.”

  The boys thought they knew the answer! The dagger must be the Aztec warrior object! Frank asked Mr. Hawley, “Did Señor Tatloc ever mention a man named Jonathan Moore?”

  “No.”

  After looking at several other fine pictures, the boys thanked the friendly artist and then said good-by. As they walked down the street toward a restaurant, Chet remarked, “That was a lucky break. You fellows just about have this mystery wrapped up, don’t you?”

  Frank shook his head. “I wish it were true, Chet. We don’t know where the living Aztec warrior is, and we don’t know where the missing dagger is hidden.”

  After lunch Chet took the wheel of their rented car. As he drove along, he caught up to a bus crowded with men, women, and children, carrying strange-shaped bundles and baskets from the market. The overflow of passengers was seated on the roof of the bus, clutching live chickens and dogs. One boy even had a baby goat.

  The sight of barnyard creatures on a bus set the three boys to laughing. Suddenly a chicken wriggled loose from under its owner’s arm. The hen squawked loudly as it flew through the air and landed smack on the windshield of the car. Startled, Chet let the car swerve, narrowly missing a deep ditch at the side of the road as he jammed on the brakes.

  “Good night!” he cried, as the stunned chicken fell into the road.

  By this time the owner of the hen, a stout woman, had yelled for the bus driver to stop and was now climbing down a ladder on the outside of the vehicle. Reaching the pavement, she ran back to the boys’ car and began to wave her arms in anger at Chet.

  He sat mute as she picked up the hen, which was dead, and demanded in voluble Spanish that Chet pay for tne finest egg layer in her flock.

  “You’d better do it,” Joe advised with a grin.

  “But it wasn’t my fault!” Chet remonstrated. “Anyway, if I have to pay her for the hen, it’s mine. But what’ll I do with a chicken? It’s probably good eating, but how could I cook it?”

  At this, both Hardys burst into laughter. Their hilarity infuriated the woman. She held the hen by its feet and waved it in the air with one hand. With the other she made irate gestures at Chet, threatening to have him arrested.

  Completely abashed and a bit frightened, Chet pulled out his wallet, removed a bill, and handed it to the woman. Her reaction was a surprise. Dark looks changed to a broad smile and with a mighty heave the woman threw the hen into the car. Then, waving the bill triumphantly, she ran back to the bus and climbed the ladder. As the vehicle started off, she blew kisses at the boys!

  The Hardys roared with laughter as Chet, red in the face, sat staring at the chicken. “What are we going to do with this?” he asked.

  “Like to stop for a picnic?” Joe needled him.

  Just then Frank noticed a little girl standing not far away in a field. Evidently she had heard the commotion while playing near her farm home which was not far away. Without a word, Frank picked up the hen. He walked over to the child and handed it to her.

  “You take this home,” he said, smiling.

  “Gracias,” the little girl said, and ran off across the field.

  The boys drove on and toward evening reached the quaint village of Patzcuaro. They checked into a small hotel on one of the narrow streets. After washing up, they lost no time in trying to find a clue to Senor Tatloc’s whereabouts. As they questioned people in the hotel and on the street, they showed the pictures of the archaeologist. No one had seen the man in town. Disappointed, the boys went to bed.

  “I can’t get the reference to butterfly nets out of my mind,” said Frank, just before they all went to sleep. “Tomorrow morning let’s go down to the lake and question fishermen.”

  This procedure brought results. Three men said they had seen the stranger in the pictures. He was in a public launch heading for the island of Janitzio. The boys could see the hilly island, far out in the lake. Atop it was a huge statue of Morelos, the priest who headed the victorious revolution of 1810.

  At once Frank inquired about renting a launch to take them over to the island. He was directed to a small dock where a boat was waiting. The boys quickly climbed aboard, and soon the craft was chugging across the water.

  The boys were fascinated as they watched fishermen swing their huge nets, which resembled giant butterfly wings, and gracefully let them down into the water. As the nets were raised again, thousands of tiny fish the size of sardines squirmed and flopped inside.

  The pilot of the launch told his passengers it took years to become skilled at using these nets.

  “What do they do with such tiny fish?” Joe inquired.

  “They are taken to Janitzio, dried on mats in the sun, and sent mostly to Mexico City. They are considered a great delicacy.”

  As the boat drew near the island, the boys saw that along the beach was a row of crudely hewn dugouts which belonged to the fishermen.

  “They’re unusually wide and long compared to the ones we sometimes use for camping trips,” Frank said.

  Here and there on the beach were groups of women busily mending fish nets. Their dexterity amazed the boys.

  Frank made arrangements for the pilot to wait, and they began their sleuthing. First, Frank showed the pictures of Señor Tatloc to the women, who pointed up the hilly street just beyond. It was a narrow, cobblestone road lined with shops and houses. In front of them stood huge poles between which the giant butterfly nets had been stretched.

  Again Frank showed the pictures, this time to some men, who also pointed up the hill.

  “Now we’re getting some place!” said Joe, starting off at a fast pace.

  “Hold on!” Frank advised. “I don’t see any policemen around, and we may run into trouble. I think we should get a couple of husky men to go with us.”

  The other boys agreed. Two fishermen, with pleasant faces and bulging muscles, were chosen. When Frank explained the situation, the men looked startled and one said:

  “Kidnappers on our island! Zapato and Pancho will be glad to help you search.”

  The group trekked up the hill, inquiring at each shop and house, but they met with no success. At the top the road turned left. The Hardys decided that the searchers would divide their work.

  Frank chose the most distant point and sprinted ahead of the others toward the last house on the street. All the doorways were open.

  “Nothing looks sinister or suspicious around
here,” he thought.

  Nevertheless, Frank inquired at each dwelling. As he came to one where no one seemed to be at home, he was suddenly yanked inside and the door closed.

  Frank’s cry for help was cut off by a gag being thrust into his mouth. The next instant his arms were pinioned and a huge fish net wound round him. He was then thrown into a comer of the one-room shack, where a pile of fish nets was tossed over him.

  Frank churned with anger at being caught off guard. There was silence for several minutes, then Frank heard a man say, “What can I do for you?”

  “Can you identify the man in this photograph?” It was Joe speaking!

  There was a slight pause, then the man answered, “Yes, I saw this old fellow. He was with two other men. They went down to the lake. An American boy was following them.”

  “Thank you very much,” said Joe. “We’ll go right down there and look for them.”

  Silence followed. As Frank lay helpless, he knew that Joe and the others had left.

  CHAPTER XX

  A Secret Unearthed

  THE silence was broken by Frank’s captor starting to taunt him. “You thought you were so smart, but I have outwitted you this time.”

  The man’s voice was not familiar, so Frank knew he was neither Jack Wayne’s kidnapper nor the phony detective.

  The man went on, “You and Senor Tatloc will never be released until you tell us where the valuable Aztec dagger is. You fooled my friends once with an imitation.”

  Frank felt as if he would suffocate beneath the fish nets. As he shifted uncomfortably, Frank suddenly became aware of another human being lying next to him. The prisoner must be Senor Tatloc! Frank’s heart pounded excitedly, but quickly his hopes of rescue or escape faded.

  Meanwhile, Joe and his companions had reached the shore. Their launch was still there.

  Joe rushed up to the pilot. “Did my brother leave here in another boat?” he asked quickly.

  “No. I haven’t seen him.”

  Joe looked at Chet and the two fishermen, Zapato and Pancho. “Frank must have been captured! I’ll bet he’s in the hut where that man told me Frank went down the hill!”

  He turned and hurried back up the incline, with the other three following him.

  It did not take the group long to reach the hut. The two men inside looked startled as the searchers walked in boldly.

  “Where’s my brother?” Joe demanded.

  “What do you mean?” asked one of the men.

  By this time Joe’s and Chet’s eyes had become accustomed to the semidarkness of the hut. One of the men was the phony detective!

  Frank, hearing the commotion, made a desperate attempt to move and managed to thump the earthen floor once with his feet.

  “He’s here!” Chet exclaimed.

  At this, the two thugs made a rush for the doorway. Zapato and Pancho grabbed them, while Chet blocked the entrance.

  Joe was already throwing aside the heap of fish nets and now set about freeing the two prisoners. He released Frank first, then the archaeologist. The elderly man looked exhausted.

  “Thank goodness you have come!” he murmured.

  Gently Frank and Joe carried Senor Tatloc out to the street.

  “I’ll be all right,” he said. “Last night I heard my kidnappers talking about you boys and your famous father. You must be excellent detectives to have traced me here!”

  “They certainly are excellent detectives!” said Pancho. “But this one!” he exclaimed, glaring at his prisoner. “He lives here—among us. But he’s a bad one. I should have known right away he would be mixed up in this evil thing.” He gave the prisoner a shake. “What shall we do with these two bad ones?”

  “We must take them to the police in Patzcuaro,” Joe replied. “Could you go there with us?”

  “We will be glad to,” said Zapato.

  The island residents along the way watched in open-mouthed amazement as the prisoners were marched down to the launch.

  The pilot stared in disbelief. “You caught the kidnappers?” he cried out.

  “We sure did,” Chet answered.

  The prisoners were sullen and refused to talk. Señor Tatloc, however, told the whole story of his abduction. He had suspected the mountaintop held the ruins of an ancient temple and had gone there to investigate.

  “I was captured and taken to the hut where these same two men tried to force a secret from me. Then you boys came and were taken prisoners. How did you escape?”

  “Chet Morton rescued us,” Joe replied.

  Senor Tatloc said he had been dragged down the mountainside, put into a car, and driven to Patzcuaro. “These men”—he pointed to the prisoners—“threatened to torture me if I didn’t tell them what they wanted to know. But I refused.”

  The prisoners’ eyes flashed with hate, and the phony detective snarled, “Don’t think you’re safe! You haven’t captured our friends yet, and they’re going to get what they want!”

  “The police will take care of that,” said Frank.

  As soon as the group reached Patzcuaro, they went to police headquarters and the prisoners were taken into custody. The fishermen said they must return to the island. Frank tried to pay them for their work, but they refused the money.

  “First time in my life I ever captured a crook,” said Zapato with a wide grin. “It has been a pleasure meeting you brave boys.” There was a round of thanks, then the two islanders left.

  When the officer in charge heard that the phony detective was wanted in Mexico City and Oaxaca, he telephoned the police in both cities. After a while he came back to the boys, smiling broadly.

  “I have excellent news for you,” the officer said. “The leader of the gang, Pedro Jimenez, has been taken into custody in Mexico City.”

  “Pedro Jimenez!” Señor Tatloc exclaimed bitterly. “He was my guide and helper for many years!”

  The officer interrupted to say he had further information. “The man who kidnapped your pilot,” he told the Hardys, “is also in custody in Mexico City. The other two vaqueros were jailed in Oaxaca after their friend talked. They gave the false report about Senor Tatloc’s death. The whole gang has now been caught.”

  “What a relief!” said Senor Tatloc. Chet and the Hardys grinned their satisfaction.

  Before leaving police headquarters, the boys learned that Jimenez had confessed his guilt. He had been working for a very wealthy, dishonest collector who would go to any length to get what he wanted. The hoodlums in Mexico City and the young zealots at Monte Alban were not part of Jimenez’s gang.

  The Hardys thanked the police for all their help, then left with Chet and Senor Tatloc for the hotel. Here Frank made the elderly archaeologist lie down to rest while the boys explained about Mr. Moore’s directive to the Hardys to find the Aztec warrior and return his property to him. Briefly, they outlined their adventures since undertaking the case, including their meeting with Roberto Hermosa.

  The archaeologist listened intently, and when Frank and Joe finished, he said quietly:

  “Now I will tell you the story of the Aztec warrior object. One day, about six months ago, after discharging Jimenez—he had become very surly—I was in a hotel room talking on the phone with my good friend Mr. Moore. I caught Jimenez eavesdropping. I’m afraid he overheard enough of our conversation to have planned the theft of a dagger—a priceless heirloom which has been in my family nearly a thousand years. My relatives bicker about it. They think the weapon should be sold and the money divided among them. I don’t agree, mostly because it belongs to me. For this reason I have always kept its whereabouts a secret.”

  As Senor Tatloc paused, Frank asked, “You lent the dagger to Mr. Moore, but no one knew this except you two and Pedro Jimenez?”

  “That’s right.”

  Chet asked a bit impatiently, “What does the weapon look like, Senor Tatloc?”

  “The blade is made of obsidian and is still sharp. The handle, beautifully carved in the shape of an Aztec warr
ior, is inlaid with jade and turquoise and rubies.

  “Three years ago when Mr. Moore came down here looking for old weapons, I showed him my collection. He begged me to sell him the dagger. I told him I didn’t think it should be taken out of Mexico, and said that I planned to will it to the State Museum. Finally he persuaded me to let him enjoy having it in his possession for a while. Knowing that he could be trusted to take good care of the dagger and return it within the five-year period we agreed upon, I let him take it.”

  “Did Mr. Moore ever tell you where he kept the dagger?” Joe asked.

  “No, he did not tell me. Do you mean it hasn’t been found?”

  “Not yet, Señor Tatloc.”

  The archaeologist looked stunned. “I shouldn’t have let him talk me into borrowing it. But he was very persuasive—in fact, he offered a check to finance a museum field expedition. We arranged to have a guarded stipulation in both our wills for the return of the relic.”

  “I’m sure we’ll locate it,” Frank said. “But the dagger is certainly well hidden. Mr. Moore must have known—or suspected—that thieves were after it.”

  “Where does Roberto Hermosa fit into the picture?” Joe asked.

  Señor Tatloc answered, “To prevent anyone’s learning I owned the object mentioned in Mr. Moore’s will, we chose Roberto Hermosa to make the identification of me. Roberto knew that I had lent Mr. Moore an heirloom, but did not know what the object was. I am deeply grieved to hear of Mr. Moore’s death, and I must say that he took every precaution to keep our secret. During the telephone conversation that Jiminez overheard, I told Mr. Moore that as soon as I received the dagger I was going to present it to the State Museum. I was afraid that some of my greedy relatives might get hold of it. I would like to go to Bayport with you and help search for the heirloom.”

  “Great!” Frank said.

  He told the archaeologist about the pictures they had found among Mr. Moore’s slides. “One was taken in a garden.”

  “Oh, yes, that was at a house outside Mexico City. Mr. Moore rented it for a month.”