The Stone Idol Read online

  Joe broke the silence. “This is a weird case, Frank. We came down here to investigate Bertrand for Kimberley. Now we’re investigating Santana for Bertrand. ”

  “It’s a switch, all right. And there’s no doubt about Santana’s guilt. We all saw him take the statuette. ”

  They went on, mulling over the problem. Soon the pavement beneath their wheels was replaced by a rough dirt road that made the car bounce up and down over large boulders and into deep potholes.

  “This ride’s giving me a crick in the neck!” Joe complained as he wrenched the wheel to avoid running into a gulch on the right.

  “And I just banged my knee on the dashboard,” Frank lamented with a grimace, rubbing the injured spot.

  When they entered the foothills of the Andes, the road led steeply upward. The air became thinner and colder, and they found breathing difficult.

  “If we get any higher, we’ll need oxygen masks,” Frank joked.

  But the road soon flattened out and they were able to catch their breath as they got used to the altitude. They drove along narrow ledges bounded by rocky mountain walls on one side and precipitous cliffs falling away for hundreds of feet on the other.

  Suddenly, as they rounded a hairpin turn, they saw another car hurtling directly at them! The road was too narrow for the two vehicles to pass. If they tried, one would go over the cliff!

  Frantically, Joe slammed on the brakes. The other driver did the same. Tires screeched on the stone surface of the road, and they came to a jolting stop with their front bumpers nearly touching. A man got out of the other car and walked up to the boys. He was obviously an Indian and shouted something in what the Hardys took to be his native language. Frank shrugged and held his hands up to indicate that they did not understand.

  Gesturing in sign language, the Indian let them know that he was going to back up and that they should follow him. Frank nodded, smiling gratefully.

  Joe trailed the man’s car until they reached a place where the road widened sufficiently to let them pass. They waved their thanks to the Indian, who waved back.

  “That was a close shave!” Frank exclaimed. “Good driving, Joe! You stopped just in time or the car would have turned into a pile of junk!”

  “Give our friend half the credit, Frank. If he hadn’t hit the brakes, he’d have plowed right into us, no matter what I did.”

  They continued on their route until they saw stones bouncing from a slope above them.

  “Watch it, Joe!” Frank warned. “It looks like a landslide’s coming our way!”

  Joe stopped. More stones hit the road and careened over the side of the cliff into the valley below.

  Then a clatter of hooves became audible, and a herd of small, woolly animals with long necks came bounding down the slope.

  “Vicuñas!” Frank exclaimed. “There’s our landslide!”

  The animals, which resembled small llamas, leaped nimbly onto the road and continued over the side of the cliff Finding footholds on what appeared to be a sheer wall, they zigzagged down the slope and began browsing on the bushes at its base.

  Joe resumed the drive. They entered a valley where they saw tents pitched near a trench. A dozen men were digging, and a station wagon parked nearby bore the legend INCA EXPEDITION U.S.A.

  “Let’s ask them if they know where the village is,” Joe suggested and pulled up to the station wagon.

  The leader of the expedition came forward. “You look like Americans,” he said.

  “We are,” Frank confirmed. “Frank and Joe Hardy from Bayport.”

  “My name’s Professor Yates. I’m in charge of this expedition. What are you boys doing this far back in the Andes?”

  “We’re looking for a nearby Indian village on the slope of the tall mountain,” Joe informed him. “Can you tell us where it is?”

  “Straight ahead, about five miles. Some of the men from the village are working here on our dig. We’re excavating one of the main Incan sites in this region, searching for articles of a civilization that flourished centuries ago.”

  “Sounds fascinating,” Joe said. “Have you found any?”

  “Oh yes, lots of stuff. What about you fellows? Are you visiting someone in the village?”

  Frank nodded. “A man named Julio Santana. ”

  “Julio? What a coincidence. You don’t have to go any further. ”

  “Why not?” Joe asked.

  “He’s right here in our camp!

  5 Mistaken Identity

  Frank and Joe stared at each other in amazement. What luck to catch up to Julio Santana so quickly!

  “He must have come directly here after he escaped from us,” Joe thought. Aloud he said, “Can we see him, Professor Yates?”

  “No problem. Come on.”

  Yates led the way over to the spot where the excavation was taking place. A mound of earth rose beside the trench where the men were working. Figurines, shards of broken pottery, and other archeological discoveries were laid out on a table next to it.

  A young woman sat at a table writing in a notebook. Yates introduced her to the Hardys as Gloria Nemitz from Milwaukee.

  “I’m listing all the stuff we dig up,” she said. “Each piece gets a number and a description.”

  “Gloria, where’s Julio Santana?” Yates asked.

  “He left camp a little while ago. He said he’d be back later on. ”

  “Why don’t you wait here till he returns?” Yates invited.

  “We’d like to, Professor,” said Frank. “We could use a rest. ”

  “You can have chow with us in the meantime.”

  Joe patted his stomach and grinned. “That’s even better!”

  Yates introduced the Hardys to the rest of the crew on the dig. Then loaves of bread and cans of food were brought from the store tent, and all sat down on the ground and pitched in.

  Gloria Nemitz was next to the Hardys. “Are you friends of Julio’s?” she inquired.

  “We met him,” Joe said evasively, “in Santiago.”

  “That figures,” she said. “He spends a lot of time in Santiago.”

  Then they began to chat about the Incan Empire that extended through the Andes before the coming of the Spanish Conquistadors. After the meal was over, the Hardys helped clean up. Santana still had not arrived.

  “You boys look strong enough to help with the dig,” Yates declared. “Want to give us a hand while you’re waiting?”

  “We’d be glad to,” Frank and Joe agreed enthusiastically.

  Yates chuckled. “Good. Let’s see what you find.” He handed Joe a pickax and Frank a spade, and showed them where to work. Joe began cutting a furrow along a line indicated by a cord stretched between two posts. Frank got down in the trench and turned over the earth carefully so as not to break anything he might strike. Other members of the dig worked beside them, lifting the earth out of the trench and adding it to the mound.

  After some labor with the pickax, Joe felt his implement strike stone. He scratched away the earth with his hands and uncovered a series of stones in a straight line. Beneath them he came to a second series.

  “Professor, this looks like a flight of stairs,” the boy called out.

  “I thought the steps might be there,” Yates commented after surveying Joe’s discovery. “That’s why I had the cord tied as a guideline. My men can now start excavating the rest of the stairs.”

  Meanwhile, Frank had been cautiously digging in the trench and uncovered a pot. Using his fingers, he carefully brushed the earth away, removed the container, and held it up. The sunlight gleamed on the representation of an animal with a pointed snout, heavy leather plates around the body, and a long tail.

  “I found a pot with an armadillo on it!” Frank exclaimed.

  “That’s a real treasure,” said Yates enthusiastically. “All we had dug up so far were shards, or bits and pieces of pottery. Now we have an intact container. It’s an example of armadillo ware from Central America. Shows trade was carried on be
tween Central America and Chile in ancient times. Well, you boys have done enough. Have a rest until Julio gets here.”

  “There he is!” Gloria called out. She pointed to a pickup truck rolling into the camp. It stopped near the Hardys’ car. The boys ran forward and waited expectantly as the driver got out. However, they gaped in surprise when they saw he was a portly man with blond hair and blue eyes!

  “Julio, the Hardy boys are here to see you,” Yates said. “They’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Why is that?”

  Frank gulped. “Mr. Santana, we thought you were somebody else. We’re looking for a man with the same name. He’s from Easter Island and is dark-complexioned with dark hair. ”

  Santana grinned. “I am from Santiago. I deliver provisions to this camp.” He pointed to boxes of food stacked in the back of the pickup.

  “You don’t know the other Julio Santana, by any chance?” Joe queried.

  “No, I do not.”

  Yates had been listening to the conversation. “A case of mistaken identity, eh?” he said. “That’s too bad. And there’s no use asking the Indians on the dig about your Julio Santana. They’re very close-mouthed with strangers.”

  “Then we’ll have to go on to the village,” Frank said. His voice showed his disappointment.

  “Well, it’s not far,” Gloria pointed out sympathetically.

  The Hardys said good-bye to their hosts and drove on toward the Indian village. People were tramping along the road, and Frank, now at the wheel, had to slow down frequently to avoid running into one of them.

  They were dressed in their native clothing. The men wore rough boots, heavy shirts and trousers, broad-brimmed hats, and ponchos over their shoulders. The women had on colorful skirts, shawls, and aprons. Many of them wore hats with high crowns resembling derbies.

  Most people gave the Hardys sullen stares. Some deliberately stayed in the middle of the road and forced Frank to drive around them.

  “What’s eating them?” he wondered. “What do they have against us?”

  Joe shrugged. “Maybe they don’t like strangers. Professor Yates said something to that effect, remember?”

  At last the Hardys came to the village. They saw a number of wooden houses, but the main square was surrounded by rows of two-story buildings of modern, prefabricated design that looked like military barracks.

  “They must have been put up by the Chilean army,” Joe guessed.

  Just then a tall, muscular Indian stepped in front of their car, held up his hand with a scowl, and made Frank stop. He shouted something to the people in the square, and they began to gather around the boys.

  “I don’t think we’re going to get much cooperation out of them,” Joe said apprehensively.

  “Looks like a freeze-out for us,” Frank agreed. “I don’t like it one bit.”

  The crowd was large and hostile. Some of the men started to push the Hardys’ car, which rocked back and forth.

  Frank rolled down his window and tried to explain in Spanish why he and Joe were there. But threatening cries drowned out his words, and the Indians rocked the car more violently.

  “They’re going to turn us over!” Joe cried.

  The Hardys braced themselves against the dashboard, while the natives violently tilted the vehicle up on two wheels.

  Suddenly an older man pushed through the crowd and shouted something at the Indians. The men let go and stepped aside, as the car fell back on its four wheels with a crash.

  “Who are you?” the man demanded.

  “Frank and Joe Hardy from Bayport in the United States,” Frank replied, glad that the man had spoken English.

  The Indian nodded. “I thought you were Americans. I learned your language when I worked for an archeological expedition. My name is Ata Copac. I am the village leader.”

  “Why are your people so hostile to us?” Joe asked.

  Copac smiled. “They thought you were tax collectors from Santiago.” He turned and spoke to the villagers in their native language. Their sullen stares turned into pleasant smiles, and a number came up and shook hands with Frank and Joe. Then the men drifted away from the car, leaving the Hardys alone with Ata Copac.

  “Why are you here?” the village leader inquired. “Are you tourists?”

  “No. We’re looking for a man named Julio Santana,” Joe explained.

  “From Easter Island,” Frank put in. “We were told he might be in this village because he has relatives here.”

  “I know Julio Santana,” Ata Copac said. “But he is not here. His village is on the opposite slope of the mountain.”

  “How do we get there?” Frank inquired.

  “Over the mountain pass. ”

  “Then we’d better be on our way. It’s getting dark. ”

  Ata Copac shook his head. “You cannot drive. The path is too steep. You will have to go on foot. And you will not find your way in the darkness. I suggest you stay here for the night and set out in the morning. You can sleep in an empty hut.”

  The Hardys gratefully accepted the invitation. Ata Copac got in the car with them and showed Frank where to drive. The hut was a one-story building with a table, a couple of chairs, and several canvas cots. Blankets were piled on the cots.

  “I think you will be comfortable here,” the village leader declared. “Tonight we celebrate one of our holidays. Perhaps you will join us?”

  “We sure will!” The boys grinned.

  When they stepped outside, night had fallen and torches shone in a field just behind the hut. The villagers were piling up logs in the middle of the field. When they finished, they lit the kindling and an enormous bonfire roared up through the logs.

  Women began to roast meat over the fire, and the rest of the feast came from jars of corn, peas, and potatoes. The natives filed past, plate in hand, to get their share of the food.

  “Chet should be here,” Frank said to Joe. He was referring to their best friend, Chet Morton, who liked eating better than anything in the world.

  Frank chuckled. “You’re right. Chet could devour all this food by himself. ”

  Ata Copac and the Hardys sat down at one end of a long table set up in the field and pitched into their dinner with gusto.

  Afterward, the Indians performed on drums and wind instruments. Frank and Joe found the music strange at first, but after a while began to appreciate the rhythmic beat.

  “We could play these numbers at high school graduation,” Frank said jokingly.

  “And we could cut a disc for our stereo,” Joe quipped, “except that we don’t have a sound stage. I’d like to have a go at those drums!”

  “So would I. They’re as good as the ones we have at school. ”

  Frank and Joe were in the band at Bayport High. They usually played guitars, but they recently doubled on the drums.

  Ata Copac put his arms around the Hardys’ shoulders. “Oh, please give us a demonstration!”

  Then he translated for the villagers. Many voices called out to the boys.

  “They want you to play for them,” Ata Copac interpreted.

  “Okay, let’s go, Joe,” Frank said. “We can’t say no to our public. What’ll we start with?”

  “The Bayport Rag,” Joe suggested.

  Taking over a couple of drums from the grinning Indians, the Hardys went into their familiar routine. They began with a low rhythm, and then increased the sound until their drumming echoed over the village. The audience clapped and shouted. They swayed in time to the rhythm, and applauded loudly at the end.

  The celebration finished shortly afterward. The boys returned to their hut, slipped under the blankets on their cots, and went to sleep.

  A noise outside wakened Joe in the middle of the night. He stepped to the window and looked out. In the moonlight, he could see a man at their car, twisting the cap off the gas tank!

  Joe rushed to the door and swung it open. The man heard him and looked up.

  He was Julio Santana!

  6
Disguised as Natives

  Santana darted away from the car, and Joe ran after him. The chase led between rows of barracks-like houses, behind the main store of the village, and across the square.

  The young detective strained his eyes in the moonlight to keep Santana in sight. But he was hampered by running in his bare feet. By the time he reached the opposite side of the square, the Easter Islander had vanished into the night.

  Joe came to a halt, wincing at the sharp pebbles underfoot. Realizing that any further pursuit was hopeless, he turned and went back to the hut where Frank and he were spending the night. After making sure that no gas had been siphoned from the car’s tank, he woke Frank up and told him what happened. The boys decided to take turns standing watch for the rest of the night, in case Santana came back. However, all was quiet until eight o‘clock in the morning, when they decided to get dressed.

  “Santana must have been watching from the mountain to see if anybody was after him,” Frank said as he pulled on his jeans. “He recognized us and tried to put our car out of commission by emptying the gas tank.”

  “And I’m sure he must be at the other village now,” Joe added. “We’ve got to check him out.”

  The boys made a breakfast of some army rations they found in the hut. They were just finishing when a knock sounded on the door and Ata Copac entered.

  “I have come to give you directions,” he said. “You follow the road over the pass, turn right along a cliff, and you will come to a bridge over a deep gorge. Cross the bridge and you will see the village on the other side of the canyon.”

  “Thank you,” Frank said. “And something else has just occurred to me. It would be better if we had a disguise. ”

  “Why is that?”

  The Hardys explained about Santana and his theft of the Easter Island idol.

  “He might stir up the villagers against us if we look like outsiders,” Frank said, “Or we might be mistaken for tax collectors again.”

  Ata Copac nodded. “I understand, and I will help you. If Santana is a thief, I wish him to be caught. If you find him with the idol, I will ask his village leader to have him arrested. Now, come with me.”