The Mystery of the Aztec Warrior Read online

  “Right,” said Frank. “That’s the best way to go either up or down, according to the Indians. You zigzag from left to right, so you never get tired or out of breath.”

  Shortly afterward, Mr. Hardy came in to announce that all the arrangements for the trip had been made. “I have the special passes for you three teen-agers and have reserved hotel accommodations in Mexico City. If there are any other places you want to investigate, you’ll have to make your own plans.”

  “How are we going to travel?” Chet asked.

  “In my plane,” the detective answered. “Jack Wayne will take you and then return immediately. He’ll fly down for you when you’re ready to come back.”

  Mr. Hardy had found it necessary to purchase a plane for use in emergencies connected with his work. Both Frank and Joe had piloted the craft, but Jack Wayne was always in command on long trips.

  “When do we start?” Joe asked.

  “How about tomorrow morning?”

  The three boys said they would be ready, and Chet left to go home and pack. Frank busied himself working out an itinerary of the places shown in Mr. Moore’s pictures. Joe went to the workshop to print extra copies of the deceased man’s mysterious companion.

  When this was done, the brothers drove to the airfield to check out the Hardy plane. Jack Wayne was not there, so the boys hopped into the blue-and-white, single-engine craft and Frank took the controls. Soon they were soaring above Bayport, then out over Barmet Bay.

  “Seems to be shipshape,” Frank observed, circling back.

  As they prepared to land, Joe suddenly gasped in horror. “Look out!”

  Zooming directly toward them was another plane! There was not a second to lose. Frank pulled back on the stick and sent his craft sharply upward. A collision was avoided by mere yards as the other plane sped on below them.

  The Hardys shuddered at the close call. “That pilot must be nuts!” Joe said hoarsely.

  Frank landed without further incident. From the tower they learned that a novice had been flying the other plane, and had temporarily “frozen” in panic.

  “Too bad,” said Joe. “He’d better stay grounded for a while.”

  Still shaken, the boys went home. As they entered the hall, their father was answering the phone. Mr. Weaver was calling to say that Mr. Brower had regained consciousness. Could the three detectives come to the Bayport Hospital?

  “Right away,” Mr. Hardy promised.

  The three went to the hospital. After inquiring at the Information Desk where Mr. Brower’s room was, they took the elevator to the second floor. Mr. Weaver greeted them at the door of the patient’s room.

  Although somewhat pale, Mr. Brower managed an apologetic smile. “I am sorry I put you boys to so much trouble. I was very foolish and regret having entered the house. Jonathan gave me a key years ago that I never returned.”

  Mr. Brower added that he was badly in need of the inheritance willed to him. “I was merely doing what you people are—looking for a clue to the Aztec warrior object.”

  “By finding it, you could receive your inheritance sooner,” Mr. Hardy remarked.

  “That’s right. Well, I didn’t have any luck and did have a bad accident for my trouble.”

  Mr. Hardy asked Mr. Brower if he had any idea what the Aztec warrior object was. The sick man shook his head. “Jonathan told me a long time ago that he had received a very unusual and valuable piece from a descendant of the Aztecs, but he never told me what it was. My cousin was pretty secretive.”

  “And you have no idea what this thing was?”

  “Not the slightest.”

  Mr. Brower said that his cousin had told him the precious piece had been lent to him on condition that he return it at the end of five years. “He may have meant the Aztec warrior object mentioned in the will.”

  “Then it’s possible this mysterious piece may have been sent back already and Mr. Moore forgot to take the notation out of the will,” Mr. Weaver suggested.

  Mr. Brower said he doubted this. “Only three years have gone by since Jonathan received it. My cousin said he had the object safely hidden. I have assumed it is in his house.”

  Since nothing more could be learned from Mr. Brower, his visitors left. When they reached the street, Frank suggested that they all return to the Moore home and make a still more intensive search. The others agreed and soon the lawyer was unlocking the front door of the mansion.

  Mr. Hardy, who always carried several detecting devices in the trunk of his car, went to get them.

  The boys helped to carry in a portable fluoroscope and a metal detector. Every wall, floor, and ceiling was gone over. Several times Frank and Joe became excited as the fluoroscope lighted up objects or the detector began to click, but nothing of importance was located. The Hardys had no better luck with a systematic examination for hollow walls and trap doors. Nothing was found.

  Mr. Weaver, who had followed the Hardys around in amazement, sighed. “The answer to this whole mystery must lie with Roberto Hermosa.”

  Mr. Hardy agreed that they seemed to have come to a dead end in every other direction. He asked if there had been any late word on the man who had tried to get into the house.

  “No,” Mr. Weaver replied. “Just to be sure the fellow wasn’t one of the beneficiaries, I checked each one. Every man has an alibi.” The lawyer smiled. “I tried hard to be a detective but haven’t come up with a single clue.”

  “I think you have done very well for an amateur,” said Mr. Hardy with a smile. “Here we are, trained in this kind of work, and we haven’t done any better than you!”

  When they reached Mr. Weaver’s office, the lawyer got out of the car and wished the boys the best of luck in Mexico. “It has just about everything one could wish in the way of scenery, the mystery of ancient civilizations, and the fascinating Spanish influence.”

  Joe grinned. “We’ll try to take in all of them, and solve your mystery besides.”

  When the Hardys reached home, the boys’ mother greeted them in Spanish, adding, “I thought I might as well give you a little practice.”

  Frank and Joe were amazed at their mother’s command of the language, which they and Chet already spoke.

  “I thought I’d surprise you,” she said. “I’ll tell you a little secret. I studied Spanish in school but forgot most of what I learned, so I have been taking lessons for the past two months.”

  “Mother, why don’t you come along with us?” Frank asked suddenly.

  Mrs. Hardy smiled. “I don’t think I’d be equal to meeting an Aztec warrior!”

  The Hardys spent a pleasant evening together. The following morning Chet’s father dropped his son off at the Hardy home. With warm embraces from Mrs. Hardy for Frank and Joe, and words of advice from Aunt Gertrude to watch out for jaguars, the three boys set off for the airport with Mr. Hardy.

  As they drove along the road toward the terminal, Joe exclaimed, “Isn’t that your plane, Dad, way over on that last runway?”

  “Yes, it is. I guess Jack will taxi up. We’re a little early.”

  The detective let the boys out, since he had an early appointment. He said good-by and called after them, “I hope to see you soon with the mystery solved!”

  The three young travelers walked through the administration building and out to the area where private planes taxied up to take on passengers. The Hardy plane was still at the far end of the runway. Suddenly it began to move, but instead of taxiing toward the boys, it gathered speed, rolled down the runway, and in a few moments was airborne.

  “Say, what’s going on here?” Frank asked. “Jack Wayne wouldn’t take off without us!”

  “You bet he wouldn’t!” Joe cried excitedly. “Something sure is going on! Our plane has been hijacked!”

  CHAPTER V

  The Tattoo

  “WHAT do you mean your plane’s been hijacked?” Chet Morton asked unbelievingly.

  “Just that!” Joe answered.

  “I’m afraid he�
��s right,” Frank added, starting to run toward the administration building. “We must talk to the tower right away!”

  The report from the tower was even more disturbing. Jack Wayne himself was at the controls and had asked for immediate clearance. Frank quickly told his story, and the dispatcher said he would do all he could to bring back the Hardy plane.

  The boys paced anxiously while awaiting word. Presently they were informed that there was no response to calls to the aircraft.

  “Must be a hijacking,” the tower dispatcher said. “I’ll report this to the FAA.”

  Frank and Joe told the dispatcher that they would get in touch with the police, then do some investigating at the field to see what they could learn. Their sleuthing revealed little that they did not already know.

  Several mechanics had seen Jack Wayne and even spotted him getting into the Hardy plane. They had not observed anyone going aboard with him, but they had noticed a stranger talking to him on the field.

  “What did this stranger look like?” Frank asked one of the mechanics.

  “I can’t tell you much. He was rather short and dark. To tell you the truth, he was too far away for me to make out any details. I sure am sorry to hear what happened and hope you get your plane back soon.” The man returned to his work on the landing gear of a jetliner.

  As the boys walked away, Joe said, “I’ll bet that stranger is connected with our mystery—he might even be the one we chased away from the Moore house—and forced Jack to get clearance for a take-off.”

  “Let’s go to the tower and find out what’s doing,” Frank suggested.

  The dispatcher greeted the boys with a worried look. “There’s no trace of your plane, fellows. All the big airports have been notified. They haven’t been in contact with your plane.”

  Because the dispatcher was extremely busy, the three boys went back to the waiting room to discuss the unexpected situation.

  “Do you know what this means?” Joe pointed out. “A kidnapping as well as a hijacking.”

  Chet’s usually smiling face was glum. “I sure hope Jack doesn’t get hurt. He’s too swell a guy. The thing I can’t figure is, what does the kidnapper hope to accomplish?”

  “I guess if we knew the answer to that,” said Frank, “we’d have a clue on how to trace Jack and the plane.”

  Chet wanted to know what the boys were going to do. “Give up the trip?”

  The Hardys shook their heads vehemently. “Not on your life!” Joe said firmly.

  Frank decided to get in touch with Mr. Hardy. He telephoned home, but the detective was not there. Mrs. Hardy, who had answered, was alarmed by what had happened and said she would call several places where she thought her husband was going to stop.

  “You boys wait at the airport, and I’ll have him get in touch with you there if I can find him.”

  They chafed under the delay. All three tried to pass the time by reading newspapers, but the words seemed meaningless as their thoughts reverted to the missing plane and pilot.

  Finally Frank announced that he was going to call Mr. Weaver, saying it was just possible he might have some lead to offer. The lawyer was astounded at the story, and could offer no clue.

  “Do you suppose,” Frank asked, “that the man who tried to break into the Moore house could also be the hijacker?”

  “That’s very possible,” Mr. Weaver conceded. “But we don’t know anything about him.”

  “That’s right, except Joe and I did catch a glimpse of him,” Frank said. “That, together with a set of his fingerprints and shoe prints, may help to locate the man.”

  When Frank returned to the waiting room, he was delighted to find his father there. Mr. Hardy was greatly troubled by the news and concerned for Jack Wayne’s safety. He expressed the opinion that it would be difficult to locate the hijacked plane. “No hijacker would dare land at a big airport where he would be arrested immediately. He’ll probably come down at some farm or uncontrolled airfield.

  “Personally,” added Mr. Hardy, “I believe someone else is trying to locate the Aztec warrior. Apparently he is trying to scare you, thinking you’ll give up the case and not go to Mexico to search for the warrior.”

  Joe, restless, was pacing back and forth as his father talked. “If that’s the case,” he said, “why don’t we take one of the commercial flights to Mexico?”

  His father’s blue eyes twinkled. “That’s just what I was going to suggest.”

  Frank sped to the reservations counter. By the time the others reached him, he had learned that the boys could obtain reservations on a late-night flight from New York City to Mexico City. “We’ll have to take a plane out of here and change at Idlewild Airport.”

  The boys, eager to start the journey, decided to leave on the next plane to New York and spend a little time looking around the immense New York City air terminal.

  “All right,” said Mr. Hardy, and purchased three tickets.

  When the boys arrived at Idlewild, Frank and Joe watched the incoming and outgoing airliners from one of the observation decks. Chet, declaring he was hungry, had gone to a snack bar.

  Suddenly Frank grabbed Joe’s arm. “Look at that mechanic down there!” he cried excitedly.

  “What about him?” Joe asked.

  Instead of answering, Frank started to run from the deck and down the stairs with Joe following, perplexed. They dashed through a corridor until they came to a gate near where the man was standing. “We’re detectives!” said Frank to the guard. “Please let us go out and talk to that mechanic with the tattoo!”

  The guard looked at them and at first was not inclined to grant their request. But apparently the boys’ honest faces convinced him that they were telling the truth, and he let them through the gate. The mechanic was nearing the building and now Joe could see why his brother had been so excited.

  The man’s sleeves were rolled up. On his left arm was a tattoo of an Aztec warrior!

  “And the fellow looks like an Indian!” Joe thought.

  The Hardys stopped him, and Frank asked about the tattoo. The man laughed and said in English, with a Spanish accent, “I had this put on because I am direct descendant of an Aztec warrior.”

  Frank and Joe were almost speechless with astonishment. Had their quest for a direct descendant of an Aztec warrior come to an end? Was this the person to whom the valuable object belonged? Frank asked the mechanic if he knew a Jonathan Moore.

  “No, I am Mexican—maybe you have guessed that? I have been in your country only short time. I do not know many people.”

  Mexico!

  “Is your name, by any chance, Roberto Hermosa?” Joe asked.

  The mechanic looked amused. “No. I never hear of Roberto Hermosa.”

  The Hardys’ enthusiasm was waning but was not entirely dispelled. From a pocket Frank pulled a picture of the man they suspected of being Roberto Hermosa. “Have you ever seen this person?” he asked.

  “No, I never see that man in my life. But you call him Hermosa. For several years I work at beautiful hacienda near Taxco. It called ‘Vista Hermosa.’ That mean ‘Beautiful View!’ You should visit.”

  Frank told the mechanic they were trying to locate the person shown in the picture.

  “I wish I could help you,” the Mexican replied.

  “You really are a direct descendant of an Aztec warrior?” Joe asked. When the man nodded, the young sleuth added, “Just a few days ago we heard of someone else who makes the same claim.” Joe did not mention Mr. Moore’s will.

  The Mexican gave a wide grin. “I have well-educated rival for my position as pure descendant. I have never seen him, but I know his name —Senor Tatloc.”

  “Where does he live?” Frank questioned quickly.

  “I do not know. He travels around a lot digging.”

  “You mean he is an archaeologist?” Frank queried.

  “That is right.”

  The Hardys asked several other questions, but the Mexican was unable to answer an
y of them. Finally they said good-by and went to the waiting room.

  On his left arm was a tattoo of an Aztec warrior

  “For Pete’s sake, where have you fellows been?” said Chet. “I thought you’d flown off without me!”

  “It would have served you right,” Joe needled. “If you keep on eating, Chet, you’ll be so overweight they won’t take you on the plane.”

  “Oh, all right, all right,” said Chet. “Now tell me what you’ve been doing.” He was astounded upon learning that his friends had picked up a good clue.

  “Senor Tatloc, eh?” he repeated. Then he gave a great sigh. “I can just see you fellows making me climb all over those crumbly old ruins!”

  The boys’ plane finally took off. After a delicious meal on board, they fell asleep. It was Sunday morning when they awoke, and the stewardess announced that they would land at the Mexico City airport in twenty minutes. The boys quickly washed, combed their hair, and straightened their rumpled suits. Then they watched from the windows as the great plane circled and came to a landing.

  “Let’s take a taxi into town,” Frank suggested. “We’ll get the driver to show us some of the interesting sights as we go along.”

  They found a taxi driver, who grinned in delight when he found the boys spoke his native tongue. He said he would be honored to take his passengers on a sightseeing trip before delivering them to their hotel.

  The boys climbed into the car, and the driver sped out of the airport and onto a wide highway. The road was bordered by low stucco houses and open-air markets with here and there a tall apartment house.

  “This doesn’t look very old,” Chet remarked. He sounded disappointed.

  “Wait!” the driver advised. “We come to old part of city soon.”

  A short time later he turned into a large square. “This is the zócalo,” he announced proudly. “The cathedral on the north side was finished in 1667 and built on the ruins of a great Aztec temple.”

  The boys gazed at the huge church with interest. Then, pointing to a long low building which covered one side of the plaza, the driver explained that this was the National Palace. On the other sides of the square were the Palacio Municipal and an arcade which sheltered a row of small shops.