The Shattered Helmet Page 2

  After scanning the bedroom for clues, Frank found that the window screen had been forced open.

  “Who could it have been?” he wondered aloud.

  “Kitten Cole is my guess,” Mr. Hardy replied.

  “Who?”

  “Kitten Cole,” the detective repeated. He told his sons that Cole was a famous cat burglar and lock expert. “He’s been part of Gerrold’s gang for years,” Mr. Hardy said. “And he has very small feet.”

  “You mean Gerrold gave him the job of leaving the tarantula to warn you to give up the investigation,” Evan asked Mr. Hardy.

  “Probably. Come on, I’ll show you what Cole looks like.” Mr. Hardy led the way to his study, opened a file cabinet, and removed a dossier. Cole’s mug shots showed that he was an odd-looking man. He had a small, narrow face, a receding chin, and an upturned nose. His height was five feet, and he weighed only ninety pounds.

  Cole’s record showed that he had served several terms in prison. But he had been out for the last three years.

  “Well, I’d better call the police,” Mr. Hardy said and dialed Chief Collig’s number. The chief, who was a good friend of the family, said he would have his men check on the Hardy residence and also be on the lookout for Cole.

  Aunt Gertrude, who had been quiet up to this time, finally regained her composure. “I told you I heard a noise,” she said. “But no one believed me!”

  “You’re right,” Mr. Hardy said. “We should have investigated. You see, you’re a better detective than all of us.”

  Mrs. Hardy threw up her hands in despair. “It’ll take us a week to straighten out this mess!”

  “Don’t worry, Mother,” Frank said. “We’ll give you a hand after the police investigation.”

  Before long, two young officers arrived. When they had finished dusting for fingerprints and made casts of the footprints under the rhododendron bush, they gathered tiny parts of the explosive device. Then they questioned the family and left.

  Everyone helped to clean up. Under Aunt Gertrude’s able direction, the job was completed sooner than had been expected.

  Finally Evan sat down to write his letter. He had just finished and come downstairs to join the others when loud backfiring could be heard in front of the Hardys’ home. Heavy feet clomped onto the porch and Chet Morton called through the front screen door to announce his arrival.

  Chet was as tall as the Hardys, with a broad back and a waistline which was far from trim. He was known all over Bayport for his enormous appetite.

  “Hi, come on in, Chet,” Joe said. “We’d like you to meet our guest.”

  The two boys shook hands. “How’s everything in Greece?” asked Chet.

  “Quiet in comparison to America,” Evan said with a grin.

  “If you want excitement, you came to the right place.”

  “Yes, I found that out already.”

  “No kidding. What happened?”

  Frank and Joe told about the intruder and the explosive tarantula.

  “Well, it might be dangerous around here,” Chet said, “but Aunt Gertrude’s baking makes up for everything. How about it, Aunty? Any of that apple pie left?”

  “I’ll get you a piece,” Miss Hardy replied.

  “You know she always saves some for you,” Frank said. “You’ve got influence!”

  As Chet ate his pie, Joe said to Evan, “Chet’s big on film-making. He’s going to drive to Hunt College with us.”

  “Right,” Chet said. “Lots of people here are interested in the subject”

  “It’s popular world-wide,” Evan said. “Young people in Greece are very keen on it.”

  “Living on campus ought to be fun,” Chet said. “I wonder what kind of chef they have up there.”

  “There you go again,” Frank said. “Always thinking about food.”

  “An army travels on its stomach,” Chet remarked solemnly. “And movie people have to live too.”

  “What kind of films have you made?” Evan asked. “I’d like to see them some time.”

  “You said the wrong thing,” Frank said with a laugh.

  “Would you really like to see some of my work?” Chet inquired. “I just happen to have a couple of reels in the car.”

  He hastened outside to his jalopy and returned with the films. Joe set up the screen while Frank readied the projector.

  “I’m warning you, Evan,” said Joe, “that Chet is his own greatest subject.”

  “Oh, cut it out,” Chet replied. “In the country, where I live, there aren’t too many people around.”

  “You got a cow and some chickens!” Frank teased. “But of course they’re not as gorgeous as you.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but this film happens to be about Iola,” Chet said haughtily as the projector began to whir.

  A lovely girl in a swimsuit emerged from a pond, stretched, threw back her long dark hair and ran toward the camera in slow motion.

  Evan was spellbound. “Who is that beautiful girl?”

  “My sister,” Chet said proudly.

  “Really?”

  “I know it’s hard to believe,” Frank commented.

  “I certainly would like to meet her,” Evan said.

  “Forget it, pal,” Joe quipped. “I never introduce her to a prospective rival.”

  “Is she your girl friend?”

  “I’ve been dating her.”

  Evan sighed. “Too bad for me. Well, Chet, I must admit the photography is excellent.”

  “I like to use outside natural light,” Chet said. He explained details as the film went on for about ten minutes. When he rewound it, Frank said, “Now that you’ve seen Otto Preminger at his best, we’d better get our things ready so we can leave after breakfast tomorrow.”

  The next day was sunny and warm. The boys stowed their cameras and suitcases in the trunk. Mr. and Mrs. Hardy cheerfully wished them a good time at the film school, but Aunt Gertrude was less than enthusiastic about the trip.

  “Be careful of criminals!” she warned. “That thug who climbed up the drainpipe last night might follow you. Lock the doors and windows of your room.”

  “But, Aunty, it’s summer,” Joe said as he slammed the trunk shut. “We’d suffocate.”

  “Better than being murdered in your sleep,” she said dolefully.

  “All right.” Frank grinned. “We’ll be extra careful.”

  The trio left in high spirits, but Frank, who was driving, checked his rear-view mirror occasionally. Nobody seemed to be tailing them, although a red car passed them once before dropping behind in the slow lane.

  “That’s a cool foreign job,” Joe remarked idly. “I go for that neat white trim.”

  At noon they stopped at a diner for a sandwich. Frank locked the car doors before going in. When they returned after the meal, he exclaimed, “Hey, look! What are these beads on the front seat?”

  “Komboloi,” Evan said.

  “What’s that?” Chet asked.

  “Worry beads.” Evan explained that many men in Greece play with strings of beads. “It keeps their hands busy and is said to be relaxing. Personally I don’t use them.”

  “But what are they doing in the car?” Chet asked. “Didn’t you lock it, Frank?”

  “Sure did.”

  “Do you suppose that Kitten Cole, the lock expert, was following us?” Joe conjectured.

  “Probably,” Frank said. “He wants us to start worrying.”

  “As if that explosive tarantula wasn’t enough,” Joe said.

  Frank nodded. “We’d better keep our eyes open from now on,” he said. “Well, let’s get going.”

  A few miles from the town of Hunt they passed a spectacular waterfall cascading down the side of a wooded hill. A sign read Silver Mine Falls State Park. Shortly afterward, they reached their destination.

  Hunt College proved to be an attractive small school with modern buildings set against a green sloping hillside. A quiet river ran through the glade.

  The boy
s registered at the office and were directed to a dormitory. Their room, A-14, was large and airy, with double-decker bunk beds on either side. The window was some ten feet above the grassy lawn and commanded a pleasant view of a tree-lined path which led to the other buildings.

  The rest of the afternoon was spent exploring the campus. One part of the river widened into a small basin where a flock of ducks paddled about.

  It was early evening when the boys went to the cafeteria for dinner. They sat at a large table with other young men and women. After the meal a dozen students gathered around a piano. Seated at the keyboard was a smiling man in his thirties playing popular tunes.

  While Chet was working on his second dessert, Frank, Joe, and Evan joined the group. Just then a tall, blond young man entered the room. He wore a green-and-yellow checkered jacket and a red scarf tucked around his neck.

  “Good night!” Joe said. “Look who’s here—Leon Saffel!”

  Evan’s eyes widened. “Is he an instructor?”

  “If he is,” Frank said, “we might be in for a rough time!”

  CHAPTER III

  Firecracker Plan

  LEON SAFFEL’S gaze swept across the room, but he showed no recognition of the boys as he walked toward the piano. He squared his shoulders, tugged at the lapels of his jacket, and fussed with his scarf.

  “Oh, boy!” Joe said. “Isn’t he cute?”

  “Don’t be jealous,” Frank quipped.

  By now Chet had joined his companions and the Hardys clued him in. Chet watched as Saffel squeezed onto the bench beside the pianist and smiled into the faces of those gathered around.

  “Yep. He probably is a prof,” Chet said. “If he has it in for you guys, I suggest you get a refund and split.”

  “And you?” Joe asked.

  Chet studied his fingernails. “I’ll stay, of course. Ol’ Chet can make friends with a polecat.”

  “Then he’s your man,” Frank said. He got four bottles of Coke from a nearby machine and handed them out. Sipping their drinks, the boys edged closer to the piano. The player ran his fingers up the keyboard and broke into a familiar camping song.

  Everyone joined in and the formality of a new situation melted into carefree camaraderie. A slim girl with long jet-black hair hopped onto the piano and gave a solo performance of one of the verses. The students clapped. Leon Saffel, however, cleared his throat and said:

  “My dear, that was quite good, but you tend to go flat in the higher register. You should really take vocal lessons.”

  “I say she’s very good!”

  All eyes turned to the speaker. He was in his twenties, wore a green sweater, had reddish hair and a full beard.

  “Thank you,” replied the girl and blew him a kiss. Then she looked hard at Leon. “I do take lessons.”

  A high-pitched laugh of embarrassment filled the room. The girl continued to stare at Leon and added, “Perhaps you could give me some pointers. I presume you’re a teacher.”

  “Oh, no. I don’t teach. I’m a student here.”

  Chet, who was taking a long swig of Coke, tried to swallow, but choked. The Coke sprayed from his mouth as if from an atomizer. It hit Leon in the back of his neck, dripping all over his collar and the silk scarf.

  Several girls held their hands to their faces to suppress giggles, but a few boys openly guffawed.

  Saffel wheeled around and glared at Chet while daubing at the wetness with a breast pocket handkerchief.

  “I’m sorry, Leon,” Chet said. “It was one of those things. I get the hiccups sometimes.”

  “Well, get them somewhere else!” Saffel fumed. Then he did a double-take. “How come you know my name?”

  “Why—er—I’ve heard about you.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Some of my friends saw you lying down in Bayport Airport.”

  Saffel’s eyes scanned the other faces. “So! You’re here!” he said, having discovered the Hardys and Evan.

  Frank stepped forward. “Look, Saffel. Why don’t you let bygones be bygones? We’re all here to learn something about film-making, and we should be friends.” He held out his hand.

  Leon tossed his head. “I’m particular about my friends!”

  The red-haired young man said, “You fellows better kiss and make up now, because you might be working together later on.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says Jeff Riker, one of your instructors.” He winked at the pianist and left.

  “You’d better believe him,” said the player. He started another lively tune and the tension was broken.

  Half an hour later the pianist stopped playing. He walked over to the Hardys and their friends. “I’m Johnny Almquist,” he said, and shook hands. “I teach English at Hunt and drop in for a look-see during the film course.” He continued in a low voice, “Don’t be too hard on Saffel. I understand he’s a rich kid. Sort of spoiled, you know. He ate in town tonight because he didn’t like the carrots on our menu.”

  “He sounds like a doll,” Frank said, then added, “Thanks for the tip. We’ll try to be nice to him.”

  “Okay. See you around. Don’t forget, the first meeting is at nine tomorrow morning.”

  Before going to bed, the boys told Chet about their latest mystery—the search for the ancient helmet.

  “Sorry,” Chet said, “but I think this is one case you’re not going to solve.”

  Evan looked disappointed and Chet added, “You’ve got absolutely nothing to go on.”

  “Well,” Frank reasoned, “if we could dig up a copy of The Persian Glory, we could find out what the helmet looks like and take it from there. And Hunt might just be the place to start. Some of these film people might give us a lead.”

  The first lecture next morning was given by Jeff Riker in a small theater packed with young people.

  “Motion pictures used to be strictly entertainment, but are now beginning to gain recognition as an art form,” Riker said. “As we discuss techniques, we will study old films at the same time.”

  The theater darkened and two reels of a classic comedy were shown. Discussion followed about the overdrawn acting and the fine lighting for the period in which the movie was made.

  “With the arrival of sound movies,” Jeff went on, “not much attention was paid to the oldies. Many were mislaid in studios. Some were destroyed by fires. Others were stolen. But films have a way of turning up in some forgotten vault or dusty attic, or in the hands of private collectors.”

  Frank whispered to Joe, “Jeff Riker would be the one to ask about The Persian Glory.”

  After class the instructor was besieged by enthusiastic questioners. The Hardys had to wait until lunch to talk with Riker. They found him sitting alone at the far end of the cafeteria.

  “Hi, fellows,” he said as they approached. “What can I do for you?”

  “We’re looking for an old film,” Frank replied.

  “Pull up chairs.”

  The boys told about the lost helmet, the recovery of which hinged on locating the movie in which it was used.

  “There are no photos of this helmet?” Jeff asked.

  “Not one.”

  “What’s the name of the film?”

  “The Persian Glory.”

  Riker let out a low whistle. “That’s one of those lost movies. Collectors have been trying to find a copy for years.”

  Frank sighed. “What rotten luck! Well, don’t tell anyone about this, please. The fewer who know about our search the better.”

  Riker agreed.

  After lunch there was another class. A woman instructor stressed the mood in film-making.

  She said, “I want you to go out this afternoon and shoot some footage indicating mood.”

  Several hands were raised in question. What kind of mood? Where could it be found? Would it be illustrated by people or locale?

  “That’s up to you. Film whatever you like,” she said. “Tranquillity, excitement, or whatever.”

  As they
left the class to get their cameras, Joe said, “I vote for excitement.”

  “Like what?” Chet asked.

  “Like photographing a waterfall, for instance,” Joe replied. “Remember Silver Mine Falls we passed on the way?”

  “Not a bad idea,” Frank agreed.

  The boys got their cameras, loaded them with 16-millimeter film, jumped into their car and headed toward Silver Mine Falls. On the way Chet suddenly cried out, “Hey, Joel Stop a minute.”

  Joe had hardly braked the car on the side of the road when Chet opened the door and jumped out. He made a beeline for a small roadside stand covered with red, white, and blue bunting. A big sign beside it announced Fireworks.

  “Chet, come back here,” Frank called out. “We haven’t got time for that!”

  But Chet had already made a purchase, which he slipped into his pocket. He hastened back to the car and slammed the door.

  “What did you buy?” Evan asked.

  A wide grin spread over Chet’s freckled face. “Firecrackers.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding! We’re up here for some serious work, and you want to go around shooting off firecrackers!” Joe shook his head.

  “Not shooting off,” Chet said. “They’re for a special purpose.”

  “Like what?” asked Frank.

  “I intend to set them off tonight to scare our fancy friend, Leon Saffel.”

  “Oh no you don’t!” Frank said. “You’ll have us thrown out of Hunt before we get started.”

  “That’s right,” Joe agreed. “Hand them over, Chet.”

  “B-but—”

  “Come on,” Joe urged. “All we need now is a big ruckus to blast our chance for finding a clue to The Persian Glory.”

  “Okay,” Chet replied and gave the package to Joe, who slipped it in the pocket of his windbreaker.

  Then he drove off again. Shortly afterward, he turned into a parking area several hundred yards from the falls.

  Carrying their cameras and tripods, the group set off along a narrow path which led to the bottom of the falls. From high up on the hillside the water leaped down in three cascades until it frothed into a whirlpool basin.

  A rushing stream carried it off under a bridge and finally to the river which flowed past Hunt College.