The Mystery of the Aztec Warrior Read online

  Frank and Joe talked about the case until luncheon was ready. The meal included one of Aunt Gertrude’s famous strawberry shortcakes topped with a sea of whipped cream. Presently the conversation turned again to the mystery.

  “I think we should bone up on Mexican history,” said Frank, “especially the period when the Aztecs were in power.”

  They excused themselves from the table and went to their father’s library. Each boy selected a volume on Mexico’s fascinating history.

  “Whew! Human sacrifice!” Joe suddenly exclaimed. “They chose a young man, and for one year gave him the best food and clothes and entertainment possible, then killed him as a sacrifice to the war god!”

  “Yes, and everything was done in the name of religion, with the priests as the killers!” Frank remarked.

  The boys studied pictures of the elaborate costumes worn by Aztec warriors.

  “Pretty fancy!” Joe remarked.

  He pointed to a colorful illustration of a warrior in headdress and shirt of yellow parrot feathers and sprays of costly quetzal feathers, all decorated with gold. Another picture showed a whole squadron wearing uniforms made of jaguar skins and carrying shields adorned with golden disks, butterflies, and serpents; on their feet were embroidered sandals with thongs of orange leather.

  The Hardys looked up as they heard a car roar up in front of the house and stop.

  He grinned. “I’ll bet that’s Chet!”

  Joe peered from the window. “You’re right.”

  Coming up the walk was a stout, good-natured-looking boy, a schoolmate of the Hardys. Chet Morton was a particular friend and often but unwittingly found himself involved in the mysteries the brothers were solving.

  “Hi, fellows!” he said, as Joe opened the door and he walked in. “Why so glum?” he asked. “Something happen?”

  “Oh, nothing much, except that we rescued an unconscious man, and we’re searching for an Aztec warrior,” Frank said nonchalantly.

  Chet’s eyes bulged. “You what!”

  Quickly Frank and Joe told their friend the story of the Moore mystery. “Sounds crazy,” Chet remarked. “But the part about Mexico interests me. I’ve read some of that history myself. Say, do you know what those old Aztecs used to eat?”

  “No.”

  “They cooked with flowers,” was Chet’s surprising answer. “The acacia flower was supposed to cure melancholia. They sprinkled the flowers into an egg batter, fried it, and covered it with sugar and cinnamon.” Chet smacked his lips. “I’ve always meant to try it.”

  “You suffering from melancholia?” Frank teased.

  “Did they use any other kinds of flowers?” Joe asked.

  “Sure. They made pie fillings with roses—boiled them up with sugar and lemon, and they made a drink out of the red blossoms from the Jamaica tree. You’ve heard of eating squash blossoms, haven’t you? The Aztecs munched them during ceremonies to their rain-god.”

  Joe grinned. “I’m sure Aunt Gertrude would love to make some geranium soup!”

  Chet laughed. “I just stopped by to ask you fellows if you’d be interested in going to a movie. But now I suppose you’ll have to stick around to solve this mystery.”

  “I’m afraid we will,” Frank said. “But we’ll be in touch!”

  “Well, lots of luck to you,” said Chet as he left the house. Frank and Joe watched him roar off down the street in his open jalopy. Then suddenly both brothers wanted to be on the move themselves.

  “How about driving out to the Moore house tonight?” Joe proposed. “No restrictions on looking over the grounds.”

  “Sure thing.”

  After supper the boys took flashlights and set off in their car, with Frank at the wheel. When they reached the entrance to the Moore property, he stopped.

  “Let’s leave the car here,” he suggested.

  The boys hopped out and started up the driveway. It was still dusk, so there was no need for their flashlights. As they reached the left side of the house, the brothers were surprised to see a plump, white-haired woman standing there, gazing upward.

  Hearing them, she turned. For a moment she looked hard at the boys, then smiled. “Good evenin‘,” she said. “You startled me. I thought maybe you were burglars. But you’re nice-lookin’ lads. My name is Mary O’Brien. I used to work by the day for the dear old gentleman who lived here.”

  “You mean Mr. Moore?’ Frank asked her.

  Mary O’Brien nodded. “It was sad, his death. Such a fine person. I enjoyed workin’ for him. I was just relivin’ those nice times.”

  Frank and Joe asked the woman if she had worked there recently. “Not for a couple of years,” Mary O’Brien answered. “Lately Mr. Moore wasn’t here much—he traveled a lot—so he didn’t have any regular help.”

  “Miss O’Brien,” said Frank, “did you ever hear Mr. Moore mention an Aztec warrior?”

  A blank look came over the woman’s face. “I never heard of such a thing.”

  “Mr. Moore traveled a lot in Mexico, didn’t he?” Joe questioned.

  “Oh my, yes—several times. He was a great one for bringin’ back souvenirs from there.”

  “What did he do with them?” Frank queried.

  “Well, some he kept and some he gave away.”

  The boys asked her if Mr. Moore had ever mentioned any friends in Mexico or people with whom he had traveled. Mary O’Brien shook her head. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Moore didn’t talk a whole lot. He did say one time, though, that he was lookin’ around Mexico for Indian weapons for his collection. A man traveled with him. But I’m sure he never mentioned his name.”

  “You say Mr. Moore had a collection of weapons?” Frank asked.

  “He did have,” Mary O‘Brien answered. “He was talkin’ about givin’ the weapons to a museum. I wish you could’ve seen them. I used to have to dust every one, and some of the old pieces were pretty deadly lookin’.”

  “And you never heard Mr. Moore use the word ‘Mexico’ or ‘Aztec’ in connection with any of the weapons?” Joe questioned.

  “No, he never did. The pieces came from Europe and Africa. Well, I got to be goin’. Good-by, boys.”

  The same thought was running through the minds of the brothers. Could the mysterious property of the Aztec warrior be some kind of weapon?

  Frank and Joe walked silently across the lawn, past the front of the large house. As they looked down the right side of it, each gave a start.

  A man, standing on a box, was trying to get into a first-floor window!

  CHAPTER III

  A Mysterious Companion

  AT ONCE Frank and Joe sped toward the intruder. Unfortunately, the stranger spotted the Hardys. Jumping quickly from the box, he picked up a rock and threw it at the boys. Then he turned in the opposite direction and fled. The boys dodged the rock.

  “Stop!” Joe yelled, although he knew the command was useless.

  The brothers turned on their flashlights and dashed after the short, dark-haired figure, but he apparently was familiar with a rear exit from the grounds and disappeared among the shadows. Frank and Joe searched thoroughly, but the beams revealed only a series of dim footprints which faded out on a concrete path.

  “I suppose we should report this,” said Frank as they gave up the chase. “I’ll stay here and keep watch. Joe, you go and phone the police.”

  Soon two officers arrived in a patrol car and examined the area where the intruder had been. They lifted fingerprints which the man had left on the window sill and said they would take along the box with the shoe prints on it.

  “Thanks for the tip, boys,” the driver of the patrol car said as the officers started away. “If you see any more burglars, let us know.”

  After the men had gone, Frank and Joe began their search for possible clues to the Aztec mystery. Beaming their flashlights around, they looked for some time with no success.

  Then suddenly Frank exclaimed, “I think I’ve found something!”

  Joe ra
n to his brother’s side as Frank focused his light on a large tree. Crudely carved into the trunk were the head and shoulders of an Indian.

  “It’s hard to tell what he represents,” Frank remarked, “but he could be an Aztec warrior.”

  The boys examined the whole tree trunk, looking for more clues. Another carving? A hollow spot? Nothing came to light.

  “Maybe something is buried in the ground near here,” Joe suggested.

  There seemed to be no place within a radius of five feet of the tree trunk which looked as if it had been dug up. The ground was level, and the grass was the same color and texture as the surrounding area.

  “If something’s buried here we can’t dig it up tonight,” Frank said practically. “Let’s get Mr. Weaver’s permission to do some digging here in the morning.”

  “I’m with you,” his brother said.

  Frank and Joe returned home and reported their discovery to Mr. Hardy, telling about the collection of weapons.

  “That’s very interesting,” the detective said. “I’ll ask Mr. Weaver about it. And I agree with you there’s a good possibility an object is buried near the tree.”

  He phoned Mr. Weaver, who consented to having the area spaded up. He said he would meet the Hardys at the Moore estate about nine the next morning.

  In answer to a question about the weapons collection, the lawyer said, “Mr. Moore gave it away a year ago. I came across the list of items. None of them had anything to do with the Aztecs.”

  As soon as Mr. Weaver and the Hardys arrived at the Moore estate the next day, Mr. Weaver produced spades, a shovel, and pickax from the garage. During the next hour, sod was carefully lifted, then deep holes were made in the ground. There were no signs of anything having been buried. Disappointed, Frank and Joe filled in the holes and patted the squares of sod back into place, got the garden hose, and sprinkled the grass generously.

  Mr. Hardy said, “Otis, if you can take the time, I’d like to go into the house and search through Mr. Moore’s letters for clues to both Aztec warriors.”

  The attorney consented, saying he would help, although Mr. Moore’s more recent correspondence had already been read.

  Frank asked, “How about Joe and me looking through some more of those slides?”

  “Good idea,” said Mr. Weaver. “By the way, the police told me this morning that the fingerprints of that would-be intruder last night aren’t on record, so he’s not a previous offender as far as they can ascertain.”

  “And how about Mr. Brower—has he regained consciousness?” Frank asked.

  “Not yet,” replied Mr. Weaver, unlocking the house. “But his condition is better, and the doctors expect him to become conscious soon.”

  The boys hurried inside. They immediately set up the projector and screen and brought out more boxes of slides. It was some time before they came across a second box of Mexican pictures, but in a few minutes Joe exclaimed excitedly:

  “Here’s a real clue!”

  The picture had been taken in front of a pyramid and showed the mysterious companion of Mr. Moore in the full costume of an ancient warrior.

  “Hold everything until I get Dad and Mr. Weaver!” Frank said.

  He ran off to the library, where the men were going through old letters and memorandums, and asked them to come look at the picture.

  “Hmm!” said the detective, after seeing it. “I believe this is an excellent lead. The man in the picture may well be the one Mr. Moore referred to as the Aztec warrior.”

  “And is the rightful owner of the property we can’t find,” Mr. Weaver added.

  “Who is he?” Frank asked. “Roberto Hermosa or someone else?”

  “I’m sure this settles one thing,” Joe spoke up, “and that is, the person we’re trying to find is definitely in Mexico.”

  Mr. Hardy smiled. “Come now, Joe. Don’t jump to conclusions. It does seem likely the man is in Mexico, but he might only have been visiting there.”

  Mr. Weaver pointed out that even if this were the man they were looking for, there was nothing in the picture to indicate what the property was which should be returned to him.

  “What I can’t understand,” the lawyer added, “is why Mr. Moore put this whole stipulation in his will without giving the name of the owner.”

  “And why hold up payments to the beneficiaries until the mystery is solved?” Mr. Hardy asked.

  Frank remarked, “Mr. Moore might have been trying to protect both the owner and his possession for some special reason.”

  “You have a point there,” said Mr. Weaver. “But what was the reason?”

  “If it’s something very valuable,” Joe remarked, “Mr. Moore may have been trying to keep thieves from knowing about the Aztec warrior object.”

  “Then we’d better watch our step,” Mr. Hardy commented.

  The hunt for clues proceeded. The men went on with their search among the letters, and the boys continued to look at slide after slide. They came across a picture of the mysterious man alongside a tremendous tree. Printed on the slide were the words: TULE TREE AT MITLA.

  “Wow! I never saw such a big tree trunk!” Joe exclaimed.

  A few minutes later they came to another picture marked: ZÓCALO AT TAXCO.

  “Here’s our friend again!” said Frank, as the familiar figure was shown on the screen.

  When Mr. Hardy and Mr. Weaver returned to the room, the boys showed them the two slides.

  The detective rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I feel pretty sure we’ll find the man in these pictures in Mexico.”

  Frank and Joe watched their father’s face as he gazed off into space. What was going through his mind? Suddenly he turned to his sons. “Boys, I believe that you and I had better divide up work on this case. I can’t get away from here right now because of other commitments. How about you fellows going to Mexico and seeing if you can locate Roberto Hermosa?”

  Joe grinned. “I could be ready to leave in an hour,” he said. “And boy, what a trip!”

  “You just buy my plane ticket, Dad,” said Frank, “and I’ll be on my way!”

  Mr. Hardy smiled. “It won’t be that easy. There’s a ruling against teen-agers going around Mexico without an adult. I’ll have to arrange for special passes for two young detectives on a worthwhile mission.”

  As Mr. Hardy stopped speaking, Mr. Weaver clapped him on the shoulder. “Fenton, that’s a brilliant idea. You and I will keep on hunting around here for the Aztec warrior property. It will be kind of a race to see which half of this team comes out ahead.”

  Mr. Hardy laughed, then said to Frank and Joe, “How would you like to take Chet Morton along?”

  “You mean it!” the boys exclaimed together.

  Their father nodded. “He’ll hold you down if you get too fool-HARDY!”

  The brothers grinned. Then Frank asked Mr. Weaver if he might take the slides showing the mysterious man and make prints of them. The lawyer consented. The boys hurried home. After lunch, Joe went to the workshop to make the prints, while Frank telephoned Chet. There was a war whoop from the other end of the line.

  “Hot tamales!” Chet exclaimed. “I can have all of them I want!”

  “How about coming over so we can talk about our trip?” Frank asked.

  “Be right there,” Chet promised.

  “Meet you out in our workshop,” said Frank.

  Fifteen minutes later the boys heard the sound of a familiar horn. Instead of a few blasts, the raucous noise continued.

  “Chet sure is happy!” said Joe with a grin. “Well, we may as well go out and welcome him!”

  Standing at the curb was Chet’s jalopy, its horn still blowing continuously. The stout boy was not inside the car. He was standing on the sidewalk, his face red with embarrassment.

  Aunt Gertrude was there, wagging a finger at him and saying, “The idea! If you don’t know how to take care of a car, you have no business running one!”

  By this time several neighbors had come rus
hing toward the jalopy. One woman called out, “Is something the matter at your house, Miss Hardy?”

  Frank and Joe howled with laughter as they hurried toward the scene.

  CHAPTER IV

  The Hijacked Plane

  FRANK waved at the crowd gathered near Chet’s jalopy. “Nothing’s wrong here except a little short in the horn-button wiring,” he said.

  Joe quickly released the car hood and disconnected a wire. The horn stopped blowing.

  “What’ll I do now if I want to use it?” Chet asked, dismayed, as the onlookers dispersed.

  “Just get the wire replaced,” said Joe.

  Chet scratched his head. “I haven’t many spare parts, but I do have some extra wire!”

  “Get to it, boy,” said Joe. “Unless you want us to send for a mechanic!”

  “Okay, okay,” Chet agreed. He found a pair of pliers in the dashboard compartment and went to work. With Frank and Joe’s help he soon had the old wire replaced and the horn in proper working order.

  “Thanks, fellows,” he said. “I didn’t mean to hold up your plans. Tell me about this Mexican trip. I can’t wait to go.”

  First they gave Chet some kidding advice about eating in Mexico. “You’ll have to be careful,” Frank told him, “or you’ll burn up your insides.”

  “Oh, all their food isn’t hot,” Chet retorted. “Tortillas and enchiladas are mighty good eating, but no red pepper chocolate sauce for me.”

  Joe chanted in a singsong, off-key voice:“For making tortillas you’ll use a metate. And for a bed we’ll use a petate.”

  Chet scowled. “You won’t catch me sleeping on any straw mat. I’m not an Aztec!”

  Frank and Joe laughed, then led the way into the house to brief Chet on the trip and show him the prints. “We’re going to the various places where Mr. Moore took pictures,” Frank told him.

  “That means we’ll see some Indian ruins?”

  “We sure will—probably several of them.”

  Chet looked dubious. “I hope you won’t ask me to climb to the top and look for clues. I hear those steps are so narrow you have to walk sideways to keep from falling off.”