Mystery of the Desert Giant Read online

  “Then Purdy was here for another reason,” Frank declared. “We may have arrived at the right time to make a capture!”

  A gentle put-putting sound from up the river cut short the conversation. Squinting against the glare of the sun upon the water, Joe made out a good-sized motorboat carrying two people.

  “Probably Chet and his friend looking for us,” he guessed. “I’ll run down to the dock and wave.”

  As a response to Joe’s signal, the putting sound swelled to a roar like that of a buzz saw. The boat shot toward the dock, throwing up a white spray on either side of her prow.

  A lean, handsome young man, his skin deeply tanned and his blond hair bleached nearly white by the sun, leaped nimbly to the dock to secure the boat. Meanwhile, Chet began passing food supplies to Joe. “Meet Jim Weston. Jim, these are the two mystery hounds I told you about. Frank and Joe Hardy.”

  The three shook hands. Then each took an armful of packages and walked toward the cabin. Frank and Joe quickly sized up Chet’s new friend. Weston appeared to be about twenty-two years old. The brothers liked his firm handshake, and his clear, open gaze.

  “Careful!” Chet cried out to Joe. “Those are eggs! And be sure you put this meat in the refrigerator right away!”

  “Okay, okay, old lady,” Joe retorted.

  Watching from the porch, Grafton chuckled. Jim in turn looked startled at the unshaven, poorly dressed old cowboy at the other end of the porch.

  “Say,” he said in a low voice to the Hardys, “I thought something top secret was going on here.”

  “I see what you mean.” Frank laughed. “That’s part of the secret. Jim, meet Willard Grafton, the Los Angeles industrialist!”

  Courteously Grafton got up and extended his hand. “How do you do?” The strong grip and the rich, full voice of a younger man puzzled poor Weston all the more.

  Smiling, Frank explained. “Mr. Grafton had to change his appearance drastically for his own safety.”

  After a late, quick lunch, Frank, Joe, and their three companions spent the afternoon discussing the next move. It was concluded that any more daytime operations might make them targets for the enemy. They would wait until evening.

  “Suppose I go up tonight and get some shots of the whole area,” Jim suggested. “My ship’s nearby at the Ripley airstrip, and my developing equipment is there in a garage. If the photos show anything suspicious, we can get back to Blythe or over to Arizona right away to investigate.”

  “Sounds fine,” Frank approved. “Have you room for Joe and me?”

  “Sure thing. My ship’s a three-seater.”

  When the afternoon was waning, Chet spoke up on the subject nearest to his heart. “Say, everybody, it’s getting toward suppertime. I bought some especially good provisions—”

  Joe winked at the others. “Don’t mind us, Chet. Start cooking any time.”

  A gloomy look settled on their chum’s round face. “Just when I was hoping for a decent meal. You know I can’t cook worth anything. Eating is what I’m good at.”

  Willard Grafton exploded with laughter. “And I believe you, Chet! I’m not much on eating, myself, but I like to cook. Suppose we make a deal?”

  Much to the satisfaction of everyone, Grafton soon proved that he knew food as well as he knew horses and ponies. He gave each person a job to do, and within an hour a tasty spaghetti supper, prepared with Grafton’s own special sauce, was on the table.

  “Know something?” Frank asked his brother in an undertone as the five friends took a stroll toward the dock. “This is doing Grafton a lot of good. I think he’s really enjoying himself. Maybe we can convince him the world is not so bad, if we keep at it.”

  For some time the whole party had been aware of the drone of an airplane flying nearby. Now the sound suddenly increased to a terrifying, deafening roar as the craft headed toward them. It seemed as if the plane would crash right into the little cabin! But it zoomed away.

  “What’s that fool doing, buzzing us?” Jim Weston cried angrily.

  The ship, a small biplane, started around in a wide, banking turn.

  “Looks like one of those crop-dusting crates,” Jim said. “Here he comes again!”

  “Look out!”

  This time the strange aircraft came in trailing a thick, spreading, grayish cloud. The Hardys and their friends raced for the cabin but could not make it. They were enveloped in a blinding, choking chemical fog. They could see nothing, but could hear the mysterious plane roaring in for another pass.

  “Hit the dirt!” Frank cried out, and coughing violently, he flung himself to the ground.

  Immediately the earth was rocked by a terrific blast. The tinkle of shattered glass mingled with the noise of the airplane as it pulled away.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Sleuthing by Camera

  FRANK was the first to recover from the shock of the explosion. Holding a handkerchief to his nose, he struggled up and groped his way toward the cabin. Already a light breeze from the river had begun to disperse the fog, and he was able to check the damage. The building had not been hit, but one window had been shattered by the blast.

  “Wow! We’re in a regular war!” Joe called, joining his brother. “Anything left in here, Frank?”

  “That crop-dusting was a smoke screen, so they could bomb us,” Jim Weston declared.

  “Missed the cabin completely, though,” Joe noted. “The explosion seemed closer than it was.”

  “Out here! This is where it landed!” Chet shouted from the river’s edge.

  They hurried toward the dock. Frank, Joe, and Jim discovered that the boards nearest the camp had been crushed like matchsticks. The bomb had also gouged a big hole out of the shoreline, muddying the water all around.

  “Good night! The boat!” Frank exclaimed.

  “Don’t worry,” Willard Grafton reassured him. “She’s riding fine—didn’t even swamp.”

  Luckily Jim Weston had secured the mooring line to the very end of the dock and the boat was undamaged.

  “They must have spotted Jim and me coming down the river this noon,” Chet figured. “They tried to kill us while we were all together at the cabin!”

  Frank disagreed. “No, their aim couldn’t be that bad. More likely they wanted to destroy the boat to keep us off the river. The pilot buzzed the first time to check the boat’s position, then laid his smoke screen to cover up what he was about to do and finally dropped his bomb.”

  “But, in the meantime, the boat had drifted farther from shore,” Joe broke in. “It’s plain our enemies don’t want us to have a boat!”

  “Because they don’t want us crossing to the Arizona side,” his brother added promptly. “This gang has planned some big operation for tonight, and I’m sure the giant over there has something to do with it!”

  “Then,” Jim Weston spoke up, “the sooner we get to the airstrip the better. That’s where those crop-dusting planes operate from normally. Maybe that crop duster took off from there.”

  “Right,” Frank agreed. “As soon as it’s dark we’ll fly over the effigy in your plane. We’d better get started right away.”

  “Whoa!” Chet objected. “What about Mr. Grafton and me?”

  “Pull in the boat, so it’ll be ready when we need it. And keep a sharp lookout for any spies!”

  “But suppose they bomb us again?” Chet asked in a worried voice.

  “I think they’re too busy for that now.”

  Frank, Joe, and Jim Weston set out for the main road at a brisk walk. Reaching it, they put out their thumbs as a line of cars, already showing lighted head lamps, approached. None of the vehicles stopped for the hitchhikers.

  “What a time for a delay!” Joe fumed.

  “Let’s not give up,” Jim advised. “Somebody will take pity on us.”

  The very next car proved the young pilot to be right. “Hop in, Jim,” said a friendly voice. It was a farmer who was a good friend of Weston’s. “Where to?”

  “Ripley
airstrip, Mr. Wells—real fast!”

  “Hang on, then!”

  As they drove, Jim introduced Frank and Joe and explained that all three were engaged on a secret detective mission.

  “Sounds serious. Anything I can do to help?”

  “Well, sir,” Joe answered for the pilot, “we’ll want to go back to our boat in a mighty big hurry.”

  “Keep my car then, boys,” the generous farmer offered. “I can walk home from the airstrip. My house is right near there.”

  It was completely dark when he and the Hardys reached their destination. The car’s headlights picked out a small yellow airplane in front of some low sheds and a gasoline pump.

  “That’s mine,” said Jim briefly, leading the way toward a light in one of the sheds.

  “Tomás!” the young pilot called.

  The door swung open and an old Mexican, chewing lazily, faced them. “Si? Oh, Jim.”

  “Any take-offs in the past two hours?”

  The old fellow thought a moment. “No, señor. Nothing since noon.”

  “Okay. Now look, Tomás. My friends and I are going up in my ship. Can you light up some flares at the end of the strip a little later, so we’ll be able to land?”

  The old man nodded agreement. “How long you be gone?”

  “Not long—half hour, maybe.”

  “Good. I go out right now.”

  Overhead the stars sparkled against a clear, deep-blue sky. The moon had not yet risen. The young sleuths took places inside the little plane and Jim started the engine. The propeller turned over once, twice, then purred in a smooth idle.

  Taxiing into the light breeze, Jim gunned his motor and the little ship shot forward into the dark night. Instinctively Frank and Joe gripped their seats.

  “Don’t need flares on take-off,” Jim assured them. “I could get off this strip blindfolded.”

  It was not until the plane had soared into the air, and the twinkling lights of houses could be seen below, that the Hardy brothers relaxed.

  Climbing high, the plane went straight across the river.

  Jim said, “Frank, will you take the controls while I get out my infrared camera? As I figure it, we should be over the giants in a few moments.”

  “You know,” said Joe, “I could have sworn the place was lighted up, but it’s dark now. Say, I think I see a tiny red light.”

  “I’ll bet it’s a signal,” Frank agreed excitedly. “But not meant for us, that’s for sure!”

  “We’ll answer it, anyway,” said Jim Weston. “Swoop in low, Frank, and I’ll shoot with the camera.”

  “Look! The light’s gone. I’d better hurry.”

  Banking around, and watching his instruments carefully, Frank made a low-level run over the cliff, while Jim took several shots.

  “They drop bombs, but we fight with pictures,” Joe noted grimly. “Let’s see who wins!”

  After a second low-altitude pass, Jim took over the controls again and headed back across the

  “I’ll bet it is a signal!” Frank agreed excitedly

  river. By this time Tomás had lighted a number of orange kerosene flares to mark the small Ripley airstrip. Jim landed upwind and then taxied back to the sheds.

  “My lab is right over here,” he told them. “Follow me.”

  Carrying the exposed plates, the tall pilot led the way to a tiny shack. He unlocked the door and switched on the light in a small but neat darkroom, decorated with a number of fine aerial photographs.

  Jim quickly immersed the plates in developing fluid. As soon as the proper time had elapsed, all three crowded around the sink to examine them.

  “Here’s a man!” said Joe, pointing to one plate. “Near the smaller giant.”

  “And here are two more!” added Weston. “How about it? Are they familiar? I’m sure this one fellow is the same guy Chet photographed the other night.”

  “That’s the one all right,” Joe agreed. “The eavesdropper, the bellman—otherwise known as Al Purdy.”

  “The other two,” said Frank, “are the strong-arm men—Ringer and Caesar. And none of them were running away. They’re just standing still.”

  “Do you think they’re waiting for a plane?” Jim Weston asked.

  Frank nodded. “No doubt about it. That red light was an unmistakable signal.”

  “And I’m certain,” Joe declared, “that there were other, brighter lights until the men heard us coming. Then they put them out.”

  Jim looked puzzled. “Nobody could land a plane there, even a helicopter, in the dark. So maybe they do have a lot of lights.”

  “I’m inclined to think,” Frank broke in, “that they’re not waiting for someone to land, Jim. They’re expecting something to be dropped from a plane!”

  “Like what?”

  “A shipment of counterfeit United States government checks,” Joe answered. “That’s this gang’s racket, Jim. It’s my guess, after hearing about the zinc plates, that Wetherby’s gang prints the checks in Mexico, and then smuggles them into this country by air.”

  “I think it’s now or never to capture them,” Frank finished.

  Jim’s face lighted with pleasure. “A fight, you mean? Suits me fine. Let’s hear your plan.”

  “First—back to the cabin. Then the five of us will take the boat about a mile up the river before we cross to the Arizona side. Once over there, we can drift down to the bluff where the big giant is.”

  “I get you,” Jim responded. “That way we won’t scare them off.”

  “Right. How is that bluff, Jim? Can we climb it from the river side in the dark?”

  “Sure. It’s steep, but we can do it.”

  “The thing that worries me is the time,” Joe put in. “If we don’t get there before the shipment is dropped, we’ll lose our chance to catch the person or persons who get it.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?” Quickly Jim removed the plates from the developer and locked his laboratory. Within minutes the three were speeding along the highway in their borrowed automobile.

  Turning onto the humpy, gravelly road that led to their cabin, they were forced to slow down. The car’s headlights picked out gaping holes and big stones in the road, and the car lurched and bounced a good deal even at low speed.

  “Wait!” cried Joe suddenly. “Somebody walking toward us!”

  As the jouncing car drew nearer the person, Frank and Joe recognized the heavy-set figure of their friend Chet Morton. Quickly Jim halted.

  “Chet!” Joe exclaimed, jumping out. “What’s happened? Where are you going?”

  “Brr!” the stout boy shuddered, as though he had seen a ghost. “Something weird is going on. There are two Mr. Graftons in the cabin!”

  CHAPTER XIX

  The Attack

  “Two Graftons! Talk sense, Chet!” Joe snapped.

  “We haven’t a minute to waste now!”

  “S-so help me,” the scared Chet stuttered. “I was getting the boat ready, and when I went back into the cabin there were two of them—talking to each other!”

  Without waiting to hear more, Frank and Joe set off at a headlong run on a short cut to the cabin. Jim and Chet followed slowly on the rough road in the car.

  The black shape of the little cabin loomed in front of the Hardys. Inside, a single kerosene lamp lighted the room dimly. Bursting in, Joe and Frank froze in astonishment. In the flickering shadows stood Willard Grafton, talking to his double.

  Slowly, the two figures turned to face the boys. Both were tall, slim, and unshaven. They wore identical shabby clothes. For one long, ghostly moment they stared mutely at the two youths.

  Then abruptly the weird silence was shattered by a familiar laugh from one of them. “Dad!” both boys cried out at the same instant.

  “Who did you think I was—Willard Grafton’s twin?”

  Fenton Hardy and his sons embraced warmly. “Glad to find you both in one piece, boys. Hear you had a little rough play earlier this evening.”

 
“Nothing serious, Dad,” Joe replied. “But what a trick for you to play on us! What’s the idea, anyhow?”

  “If you think you’re surprised, you should have seen me,” Grafton put in. “I took him for a member of the gang.”

  The famous detective gave another hearty laugh. “You boys sure cover ground fast. I’ve been trailing you for days. Up to Colorado, and then back again. Mr. Grafton’s friend Redland, the ranch owner, gave me the story. Lent me these clothes and told me just how to disguise myself. I followed you back here and hung around Blythe awhile.”

  “But why the disguise, Dad?” Joe asked. “Those crooks are out to get Grafton. If they learned about his masquerade, they might have attacked you by mistake.”

  “Just what I figured,” Fenton Hardy admitted. “I was hoping they’d try it, so I could capture them.”

  Frank, eager not to miss the capture of the suspects across the river, quickly told his father of the necessity of speed. “Let’s exchange stories in the boat,” he urged.

  Mr. Hardy was in agreement. Just then two automobile doors slammed outside. Chet entered the cabin cautiously, followed by Jim Weston.

  “Hello, Chet!” the detective boomed. “Where’d you disappear so fast?” he added slyly.

  “Mr. Hardy!” Chet exclaimed in astonishment. “Say, that’s not fair, sir—to scare a guy so.”

  After making his peace with Chet and shaking hands with Jim Weston, the detective said he understood the group was about to set off on a mission.

  “Tell you all about it in the boat,” Frank promised. “But don’t talk loudly, anybody. Voices carry across water.”

  As Jim piloted the motorboat upstream, hugging the California shore, engine quiet and lights out, the brothers briefed their father on the sleuthing they had done. They included details of the recent camera pictures.

  “And now tell us your story,” Joe begged.

  The detective, in a whisper loud enough for them to hear, said, “First, for my case: I’ve been after a shrewd bunch of counterfeiters of United States government checks, but I haven’t caught them yet.”

  Mr. Hardy took something from his wallet. Cupping one hand over the end of his flashlight, he clicked it on and held the light to a paper. “Chet, is this the kind of check that actor gave you?”