Ghost Stories Page 3

  She took the boy’s palm and looked at it for a long time. Joe, who had sat down on a cushion in front of the table, kept staring at her curiously.

  “You are eighteen years old,” she finally said. “You live in a town near the ocean, in a large white house. You play football and the guitar, and you are a good student. You are also very good at something else—a profession—observing … watching….”

  She took a piece of paper and a pencil. “Give me the date of your birth,” she said.

  Frank did and she wrote it down, drawing lines on the paper, crossing the lines, and making a circle.

  “Look into the crystal ball!” she suddenly commanded.

  Frank obeyed, but he was on his guard. He knew crystal balls were a great way to rivet someone’s attention while hypnotizing him, and he felt there was a good chance that that was what the woman had in mind.

  But he was wrong. After both had looked into the crystal for about a minute, she became agitated.

  “You are a detective!” she cried out angrily. “Why have you come here? I have my license. I am doing nothing wrong. Nothing the police can complain about!”

  “I’m not from the police,” Frank assured her. “My brother and I are amateur investigators and we came here only to have bur fortunes told.”

  “Oh,” she said, obviously relieved. “That is different. I have several private detectives who use my services. You may want to hire me someday. I could be very helpful in some of your cases.”

  “I bet you could,” Frank said. “You know everything about me and you’ve never seen me before.”

  “Maybe she’s seen our pictures in the paper,” Joe offered. “Every once in a while the press writes up our cases.”

  The woman looked at him, scandalized. “I have never heard of you!” she cried out. “What I told you I knew by intuition. You may not believe me but you will when I’m finished.”

  She went back to the crystal ball and stared into it once more. “I see motorcycles,” she said. “You were both on motorcycles.” Her voice became agitated again. “You’ve done this many times in the past. But now there will be danger. It could be very dangerous!”

  “You mean, we’ll have an accident?” Frank asked.

  “No. It has to do with a new case. I see—I see a man with one blue eye. In a white car. He is very dangerous. Do not listen to him. Stay away from him!”

  Her voice was almost a scream now and she appeared to be in a trance, unaware of where she was. Her eyes closed. “Beware of the Green Dragon,” she whispered. “Do not go there!”

  “What’s the Green Dragon?” Joe asked.

  But she did not pay attention to him. Her fingernails were digging into Frank’s hand, causing him considerable pain.

  “Beware of the man with one blue eye!” she panted. “Beware of the Green Dragon. Oh! Oh, I see gold! Much gold, but no good will come of it. Do not touch it. It brings—it brings—death! There is death around this gold and there is—”

  Suddenly her eyes opened wide and she stared at Frank with a half-mad look. “Simbu!” she screamed. “Simbu is there! Do not go near him!” She gasped for breath, then she keeled over and fainted on the black velvet floor.

  “Quick, Joe, see if you can find a sink and get some water!” Frank urged as he tried to revive the fortune-teller. He rubbed her hands and Joe came a moment later with a soaked hand towel and gently dabbed her forehead.

  “For a moment I thought she was putting on an act,” Frank murmured. “But she really passed out!”

  “What do you think she meant?” Joe was worried.

  “If we can revive her, maybe we can ask her,” Frank said.

  In a few minutes, the woman opened her eyes.

  “Are you all right?” Frank asked anxiously.

  She nodded slowly. “I received very strong vibrations,” she said. “Please, get out of Atlanta as fast as you can!”

  “Who’s Simbu?” Joe inquired.

  “You’ll find out if you don’t listen to me,” she replied. Slowly she got to her feet and walked out into the store. The boys followed. She took a book from a shelf and handed it to Frank. “Here,” she said. “If you must know, you can read about him in here. No charge,” she added. “My compliments. Now go away and never come back. You are bad luck, gentlemen!”

  Frank and Joe stared at her and Frank started to reply, but the expression on her face silenced him. She looked genuinely frightened.

  “Come on,” he said to his brother and went to the door, nodding good-bye to the fortune-teller.

  “Wow!” Joe said when they had left the strange shop. “What an experience!”

  Frank nodded. “There was something about her and that place that almost made me believe her.”

  Joe grinned. “Maybe you should!”

  When the boys arrived at the hotel, Frank went to take a shower, and Joe curled up on the bed to read the book the woman had given them. It was about voodoo, the mystical religious cult that flourished on the island of Haiti but had its roots in Africa. The book described the more common practices and spells, incantations, and sacrifices necessary in order to perform various ceremonies.

  When Frank came out of the shower, Joe said, “If I wish to cast a spell on you and make your arm hurt, all I have to do is put a needle through the arm of a doll and you’ll feel the pain.”

  “Hm, well, don’t do it now,” Frank said. “We have to meet Dad for dinner, and I don’t need a pain anywhere.”

  “I suppose it wouldn’t really work unless you believed in voodoo,” Joe went on. “It’s all a matter of suggestion.”

  “Have you found the part on Simbu yet?” Frank asked as he took a clean shirt out of the closet.

  “He’s a chubby little fellow with rather insane eyes that wander outward,” Joe replied. “See, here’s a picture of him.”

  Frank looked over his brother’s shoulder at the reproduction. Simbu had both arms up in the air and ten fingers on each hand. He stood with his legs spread apart and had ten toes on each foot. A big belt or girdle encircled his waist.

  “Cute,” Frank said. “Who’s he supposed to be?”

  “A rare character who guards his owner’s possessions,” Joe explained. “Very few Simbu figures from the last century still exist and those that do are very valuable to collectors. There are apparently many modern imitations, but none that could pass as authentic antiques.” He handed the book to Frank. “Here, read it yourself while I take a shower.”

  Frank sat down with the book. It seemed that Simbu was a character who did not want to be collected. His job was to stay by his master’s side and protect him from evil. Whenever anyone disturbed Simbu or whatever he was guarding, terrible things would happen.

  Two Simbu dolls had been found in Haiti and had been sold to museums. In both cases, the people who had discovered them had died soon thereafter under very mysterious circumstances—and not pleasantly. Not only that, but strange things occurred in the museums. Water pipes burst; heavy plaster fell from ceilings and smashed glass cases; a fire broke out. The problems did not stop until the Simbus were taken back to where they had come from.

  Soon Frank and Joe were on their way to the lobby to meet their father. Frank carried a briefcase with several documents for the famous investigator that he had picked up from a law firm in Atlanta. After they had greeted one another, they went out into the street where Mr. Hardy hailed a taxi.

  “Take us to the Green Dragon, please,” he told the driver.

  “What!” Frank exploded. “Where are we going?”

  “A restaurant not far from here,” Mr. Hardy said. “I’m sure you’ll like it. They have great seafood.”

  The boys said no more until they were seated at a corner table in the restaurant. Then they told their father about their experience in the afternoon.

  “A man with one blue eye, with a white car?” Mr. Hardy mused. “Well, that’s no secret. I know who she’s talking about.”

  “You do?” Fran
k was flabbergasted.

  “His name is Pierre Buffon,” Mr. Hardy explained. “He wears a white eye patch and drives a white Mercedes. He’s one of the most cold-blooded cutthroats in this hemisphere.”

  “Oh, great,” Joe said. “Just the guy we want to meet.”

  “I’ve tangled with him several times,” Mr. Hardy went on. “But he’s a slippery customer. Just when you think you have him nailed, he slips through your net, or the evidence you had evaporates and you’re left with nothing while he skips off with the loot. He’s a master thief, you see. But I also suspect him of having taken many lives in the course of his work.”

  “What does he specialize in?” Frank inquired.

  “Antiques,” his father answered. “Sometimes he holds them for ransom. Other times he sells them to unscrupulous collectors, who are too greedy to care that they can never exhibit them publicly because they would be recognized as stolen goods.”

  “The fortune-teller mentioned Simbu,” Frank said. “He’s an antique. It all fits in.”

  Mr. Hardy nodded. “I know about that deadly little rascal,” he said. Then he frowned. “But Buffon is a superstitious person. He’d stay away from anything having to do with a curse.”

  “It’s so crazy,” Joe put in. “Do you really believe in that woman’s prediction?”

  Mr. Hardy shrugged. “Who knows? Perhaps she really sensed something that could happen. We’ll find out, I suppose.”

  “The fact that you took us to the Green Dragon makes me tend to believe in her,” Joe sighed. “After all, you knew nothing about what happened this afternoon.”

  “In that case,” Frank said, “my theory is that Buffon got hungry. Maybe he couldn’t resist the Simbu despite his superstition.”

  Joe paid no attention. He stared over his brother’s shoulder, his eyes wide with surprise. Frank followed his brother’s gaze and almost gasped.

  “It’s him!” he whispered. “The man with one blue eye!”

  Mr. Hardy didn’t have to turn his head. Pierre Buffon came right up to their table. “Monsieur Hardy, how pleasant to see you again,” he said in an oily, unpleasant voice.

  “It’s not a pleasure to see you, Buffon,” the detective replied. “What do you want?”

  “I was occupying this table with some friends before you came in. One of them dropped an envelope. Nothing important, it has sentimental value only. But he wishes to recover it. Have you seen an envelope, perhaps?”

  “No, we haven’t,” Mr. Hardy said.

  “Might I trouble you to stand up?” the man pressed.

  Mr. Hardy did not look pleased, but he rose. The boys followed his example. Buffon looked underneath the table and in the seat cushions, but he found nothing. His face was tense. “So sorry to bother you, Monsieur Hardy,” he said. “If you should, by any chance, find our letter, please return it. I know I can trust you, because you are an honorable man, yes?” His eyes glittered, and the boys could see that he was furious at having lost an envelope that was apparently very valuable.

  Mr. Hardy just shrugged and kept staring at the man.

  Buffon’s voice became edgy. “I should hate to have to call the police and have them search you and your sons!” He pointed at Frank’s briefcase, which stood at the side of his chair.

  Mr. Hardy stood up and threw his napkin on the table. “I’m sure that whatever is in that envelope would be very interesting for the police to read. So by all means, call them! We’ll wait.”

  Buffon snarled and mumbled something about the Hardys getting what was coming to them someday. Then he spun on his heel and walked out.

  “What do you make of that?” Joe burst out.

  “Maybe we should go back and ask the fortuneteller,” Frank quipped.

  “It is very strange,” Mr. Hardy said slowly. “And I have a feeling we haven’t seen the last of Buffon yet. Or Simbu.”

  “Tell us more about Simbu,” Frank urged.

  “He was known here in the Atlanta region because there’s a story dating back to the time before the Civil War that involves one of the dolls,” Mr. Hardy began.

  “There was a rich old man who lived alone except for a black slave whom he had treated well and who was devoted to him. The slave was a believer in voodoo and eventually converted his master to its practice. They lived in a large house not far from what is now Route three-eighty. A narrow road leads to it from the Cresthaven Diner. Anyway, when the war came and the Union army swept south and east, the old man became worried about his fortune.”

  “No wonder,” Frank said with a grin.

  Mr. Hardy nodded. “He converted everything into gold and hid it somewhere in the ground. He left it with nothing to guard it but a Simbu doll made by the faithful slave. The old man and his servant tried to keep the Union army off the property, which is shielded by a stone wall, but they were killed. And as far as we know, no one has ever found the gold.”

  “What a story!” Joe said. “Hasn’t anyone ever looked for the treasure?”

  “I suppose so,” Mr. Hardy said. “The thing is, whoever finds it, will also find a valuable Simbu doll.”

  “Then, would the discoverer fly in the face of experience and take it with the curse attached to it?” asked Frank.

  All three fell silent for a while and finished their dinner. Afterward, Frank and Joe took their father to the airport, since he had to go to New York that night.

  Frank had an uneasy feeling on the way and looked out the rear window of the taxi. “Someone’s following us,” he said. At the next traffic light, the car behind them had to pull up close and the boys recognized the one-eyed man’s white Mercedes.

  “He thinks we have his envelope!” Joe burst out.

  “Yes,” Mr. Hardy said. “We have to be very careful. You especially, since you’re staying here. What are your plans for the next few days?”

  “We’ll ride up the coast and spend some time at the various beaches,” Frank replied. “Oh, by the way, I almost forgot to give you your papers.”

  He handed Mr. Hardy the documents, and a few minutes later they arrived at the airport. Pierre Buffon was nowhere to be seen. After the detective had boarded his flight, Frank and Joe took another cab to their hotel. Frank spotted Buffon’s car across the street.

  “I wonder what he’s up to,” Joe said.

  “Maybe he figures we have his envelope and decided to watch our every move,” Frank said. “We’ll have to keep an eye on him all night.”

  The boys paid the cabbie and went into the hotel. When they arrived at their room, Frank tossed his briefcase on the bed. Joe stared at it.

  “Frank! Something’s sticking to the bottom!” he cried out, pointing. “What is it?”

  Frank looked and pulled off an envelope. “I don’t believe it!” he exclaimed. “It stuck to my briefcase on a piece of gum! Obviously it’s the envelope Buffon was looking for!”

  “Open it,” Joe urged. “I can’t wait to see what has such sentimental value to an arch criminal.”

  The envelope contained a faded and tattered piece of paper with a strange message written on it. Frank read it aloud:

  Not where you think it be

  But up the hill and down

  The roots sink deep

  And Simbu will not sleep

  If you dare steal the gold

  He will punish you tenfold.

  The boys were stunned. “It must be the work of the old man Dad told us about,” Joe said finally. “The man who hid the gold with the help of his slave and left a Simbu to guard it.”

  “Just as the fortune-teller predicted,” Frank said, a hollow ring to his voice. “We’re being lured to look for the treasure guarded by an idol who brings death to those who fool with it.”

  “Now who sounds superstitious?” Joe tried to make light of the matter.

  “Call it what you want. You have to admit something strange is going on here.”

  “You’re right,” Joe said somberly. “What do you think we should do next?�
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  “Well, I don’t think we should just let it go and throw the message in the wastebasket. I’d like to pursue it, and if we find the gold, we can turn it over to the police or some charity to dispose of it.”

  “That’s my feeling too,” Joe said enthusiastically.

  Frank walked to the window and peered through the curtains to see if Buffon was still watching the hotel. “It’s starting to rain,” he reported. “And our friend is still out there. Ah! He’s pulling away. I suppose he figures we won’t go anywhere in a storm.”

  The skies had opened up and the wind rushed through the treetops.

  “Let’s fool him!” Joe declared. “It’ll be a wet ride, but we have good rain gear and I have a couple of entrenching tools in my luggage that I brought for camping.”

  “Right!”

  A few minutes later, the boys walked out the back door of the hotel to where their bikes were parked. Gently they eased the motorcycles out to the main street, again looking for the white Mercedes. But the coast was clear and the boys accelerated along the mostly empty road to their target, the property near the Cresthaven Diner.

  Luck was with them and soon the rain stopped. The clouds cleared away and a beautiful, brilliant moon guided them. They passed the diner and took the road next to it for a few miles. Then they pulled up alongside some heavy road construction equipment that stood near the stone wall enclosing the old man’s property. They parked their bikes and walked through the gate. Clouds skittered across the moon. The wind picked up and soon rain started to fall once more.

  “This isn’t much fun,” Joe grumbled, when even the flashlights were of little help in guiding them through wide-spreading oak trees with strands of Spanish moss hanging down from their limbs.

  Night birds screamed in their ears and went flapping off in the rain. Frogs were calling. Frank stumbled knee-deep into a swamp and felt something slither across his legs. A snake, or a muskrat? Whatever it was, it scared him out of his wits, and he shot forward as if a jet were attached to him.