Mystery of the Desert Giant Read online

  “Say, Joe,” his brother whispered, “I think we ought to go back at once and check on that actor.”

  “Right.”

  Chet was more than willing. “That guy can’t do this to me! Just let me get my hands on him!”

  The three boys raced up the street. They dashed past the astounded attendant, who tried to demand their passes. They pounded along the studio pathways, straight into the set and the crowd of extras dressed like Mexicans.

  “I want my money back!” Chet bellowed.

  Women in the crowd shrieked. Two men were sent sprawling by the sudden charge. Cries of surprise and anger arose from all directions. Someone began to fire blank cartridges. The shrieks redoubled. Whistles blew. Orders were barked.

  On one side an excited little man wearing a blue beret jumped up and down and shouted “Cut! Cut! Cut!” at the top of his lungs.

  Meanwhile, Chet was rolling on the ground, wrestling with a big actor who had objected to being run into so hard. When the two had been disentangled, and order had been restored, the small wiry man in the blue beret approached the boys with eyes blazing.

  “My gosh—the director!” Chet moaned. “Now we’re in for it!”

  The little man stepped up briskly and looked Chet up and down. “Mag—nificent!” he exclaimed unexpectedly, clapping the astounded Chet on both shoulders. “Remarkable! The very thing we wanted! Mob violence! Disorder! Wild confusion!”

  “You mean ... you’re not mad at me?” Chet faltered.

  “Mad at you? No!” The director snapped his fingers enthusiastically. “I’ll use that scene.”

  “You mean you’re really going to put all that in a movie? But I still want to find that actor who gave me a phony check—his name is Van Buskirk.”

  The director looked around the set. “He’s gone. We finished the scene he was in just before you stormed the place!”

  “That means I’m broke,” Chet said mournfully. “I’ll have to sell my infrared camera equipment.”

  “What are you talking about?” Joe demanded. “We need that in our work.”

  Frank slapped his woebegone friend on the back. “We’ll stake you to the rest of the trip.”

  Chet grinned. “That’s swell of you. But I still want my money back.”

  “Where does this Al Van Buskirk live?” Frank asked the director.

  “I don’t know. Ask at the office.”

  But the office did not know. The man was a wanderer, merely dropped in once in a while, and was paid cash for each job. Disappointed, the young sleuths went out and headed for a restaurant. After a hearty meal, Chet set off to visit his aunt and uncle, while Frank and Joe took a taxi to Willard Grafton’s home.

  Mrs. Grafton received them graciously. She was an attractive woman, somewhat younger than their own mother, but her husband’s disappearance had added lines of sorrow and anxiety to her face.

  A brown-haired, freckle-faced boy of about nine came in and eyed the Hardys uneasily. A younger brother, about seven, trailed him a moment later.

  “Steve and Mark miss their father very much,” Mrs. Grafton explained as she introduced them to the Hardys. “I’m bewildered myself,” she confided to Frank and Joe when her sons had left the room. “If you only knew how grateful the three of us would be, if you could find my husband—or even discover what happened to him!”

  “We’ll do our best,” the brothers promised.

  They learned nothing new from her, except that Willard Grafton had taken no extra clothes with him, which seemed to prove he had no intention of being gone long.

  Frank and Joe left the house and proceeded to the new, modern industrial building where Grafton’s company still manufactured electronic self-starting devices. The boys climbed to the second floor, where they located a door bearing Grafton’s name. They knocked.

  A blond secretary opened it about three inches and asked suspiciously through the crack, “Who is it? What do you want?”

  “Excuse me,” Frank began, “we want to ask some questions about Mr. Grafton.”

  Before Frank could finish, the heavy door slammed in the boys’ faces.

  CHAPTER VI

  New Evidence

  “Miss—oh, miss!” Frank called through the door. He had caught a glimpse of the secretary’s face. It was tense and frightened. Frank sensed that something was wrong. “You must let us in. We’ve come from Mrs. Grafton!”

  Behind the door, the secretary seemed to hesitate. “How can I be sure of that?”

  “Call her on the phone. Mention Frank and Joe Hardy!”

  For about five minutes the boys waited in the hall. At last the door opened. The secretary, an intelligent, pretty young woman, seemed calm now. Before speaking, however, she locked the door. No one else was there and a tiny sign on her desk gave the girl’s name as Miss Everett.

  “I should have known by looking at you boys that you’re all right,” she apologized. “But those other men who were here this morning asking about Mr. Grafton gave me such a fright I don’t trust anybody. I’m afraid to leave the door unlocked!”

  “What other men? Not the police!” Joe broke in.

  “Oh, no. Two big, rough-looking men. They weren’t dressed very well and they talked—you know—like thugs. I wouldn’t have let them in, except they said they were hunting for Mr. Grafton, so I thought they might be private detectives.”

  “Hunting for Mr. Grafton?” The Hardy boys exchanged looks of surprise.

  “Yes. Then, as soon as they were in, they got rough and made me show them Mr. Grafton’s letters and records!” The pretty girl pointed to bruises on her wrists as evidence.

  “They wouldn’t have acted tough if they were on the up-and-up,” Joe said indignantly. “Did you call the police?”

  Miss Everett shook her head. “The men said they’d make me sorry if I breathed a word about them to anybody!”

  “It must be the same gang that’s been bothering us,” Joe deduced.

  “Maybe,” his brother returned thoughtfully. “But why are these two looking for Grafton if, as we suspect, they may be holding him? Could another gang be trying to get him away from the ones who have him?”

  Miss Everett went white. “How terrible!”

  “You’ll have to help us,” Joe appealed to the secretary. “Just tell us about Mr. Grafton. What kind of man was he? Did you like him?”

  The girl knitted her brows. “Well,” she began, “when I first came to work for Mr. Grafton, about a year ago, I thought he was a wonderful man. He was so dynamic, and he was making a great success of his business. People liked him because he was so gay and lively. He made friends with everyone he met. Then, all of a sudden, he changed.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He got moody. He would sit here brooding. When people came on business he snapped at them, and treated his customers as though they were trying to swindle him. He became suspicious of everybody.”

  “He must have had some reason,” Joe suggested.

  “Oh, yes. You see, his spirits had been very high, because he and an old college friend had pooled their resources and were negotiating to buy a new plant and double this business. Then the friend went off to Europe with all the money! Mr. Grafton didn’t want to worry his family, so he never told them.

  “After the trouble with his friend the only person he seemed to like was Mr. Wetherby. He said Mr. Wetherby was a challenging companion. Then they went off together and disappeared.”

  “What did he mean by calling Mr. Wetherby a challenging companion?” Frank asked curiously.

  “I don’t know. Mr. Grafton had grown bitter and used to say that everybody in the world was dishonest, but at least Mr. Wetherby did exciting things.”

  “What business was Wetherby in?” Frank pursued.

  The secretary shook her head. “I don’t know. But I can tell you where he lived. You might find out there.”

  The boys wrote down the address. “Thanks, Miss Everett. As soon as we leave, you’d better ca
ll the police. They’ll give you protection. Is there anything else you can tell us about Mr. Grafton?”

  “Well—his only hobby was raising Shetland ponies, if that means anything.”

  “You never know.” Frank made a note of the fact.

  Back at the hotel, Frank and Joe stepped from the elevator and walked toward their room. At the far end of the hall a man wearing a short red jacket with polished brass buttons regarded them intently.

  “Who’s that?” asked Joe, while Frank unlocked their door.

  “Just the bellman.” The boys entered the room.

  “Bellman, your grandmother!” Joe exclaimed as he checked a picture in his wallet. “If that isn’t the guy who hid in our bushes in Bayport and slugged Chet, I’ll eat this photograph!”

  Excitedly the boys rushed out and searched the corridor. The bellman had vanished.

  “Let”s ask at the desk,” Frank suggested.

  After waiting some time for the elevator, the boys went down to the hotel lobby. “We want to speak with this bellman,” Joe told the clerk on duty, showing him the full-face photograph.

  Studying the picture, the clerk shook his head. “This man isn’t one of our employees.”

  “But he must be. We just met him, in uniform, near our room!”

  The clerk shook his head again. “Oh, Sam!” he called to a porter who was standing nearby. “Ever see this fellow before?” He showed the photograph. “These boys just saw him upstairs in a bellman’s uniform.”

  “Not one of ours.” The porter was even more definite.

  “Then he must have borrowed the uniform,” Joe declared.

  “Must be, sir,” agreed the porter. “All our bellmen are young. This man’s a good forty years old. I’ll call the house detective.”

  Together, the detective and the boys searched the room where the bellmen changed their clothes, then checked the stairways and other possible hiding places. The mysterious suspect was not around.

  Disappointed and puzzled, Joe and Frank returned to their room with the detective. “What did this man look like?” the detective asked.

  Joe handed him the photograph and said, “He was not heavy, but looked strong. About five-feet-nine in height.”

  “Well, we’ll watch for him!” the detective promised as he left.

  “Joe, that bellman was here to spy on you and me,” Frank said grimly as he locked the window leading to the fire escape and double-checked the lock on the hall door.

  “You’re right. Well, let’s go to Mr. Wetherby’s address and see what we can find out.”

  The place was a boardinghouse, run by a bright-eyed, talkative Mrs. Watson. The rather stout lady, whose hair was just turning gray, met the boys at the door. White flour showed on her hands and her apron, and the pleasant aroma of baking came from the kitchen.

  “Mr. Wetherby? I should say I do know something about him! A very good boarder he was, too, and knew good cooking when he tasted it! But come in, come in. We can’t talk on the street. I’ll have a pot of tea in a jiffy!”

  Frank and Joe winked at each other. The price they would have to pay for information on Wetherby would be an hour at tea with the company-loving landlady. They followed her into a neat parlor.

  “Tsk-tsk! That Mr. Wetherby,” the bustling woman clucked. “Twelve months I tried to fatten that man—he was such a skinny fellow. I never could understand it. He ate everything I gave him, too.”

  Talking all the time, Mrs. Watson brought in teapot, cups, butter, fruit preserves, paper napkins, and finally a plate of fresh hot biscuits.

  “He certainly should have gained weight here.” Frank laughed.

  “Yes—you’d think so. But then he was a peculiar man. He used up so much energy just coming and going at all hours. His hair was thinning, too, and he wasn’t what you would call an old man.”

  “Coming and going?” Frank pricked up his ears. “Didn’t he have any regular position?”

  “Goodness me, he paid his rent, if that’s what you mean. Do try another one of these biscuits, both of you! And when my boarders settle promptly, you know, I don’t inquire further.”

  “They sure are wonderful biscuits, Mrs. Watson,” Joe spoke up enthusiastically. “So Mr. Wetherby was a good roomer?”

  “You must have been sorry to lose him,” Frank added sympathetically. “But then, he didn’t leave owing you any money—except perhaps a week’s room and board.”

  “Why, dear me, no,” the woman protested. “Mr. Wetherby doesn’t owe me a penny. Six months’ room and board he paid me in advance, that last week, and he hasn’t been here to get a bit of value for his money!”

  “These are the best biscuits I ever tasted!” Joe remarked. The hospitable lady beamed. “So Mr. Wetherby had planned a little trip?”

  “I suppose so,” Mrs. Watson assented. “He was often away for long stays.”

  Suddenly, to Frank’s and Joe’s complete surprise, their hostess leaned forward in her chair and gave them a sly wink! “He was always mixed up in those things, you know!”

  Lowering her voice, although there was nobody to eavesdrop, the talkative lady went on confidentially, “Those Latin-American countries. You know, there is always some kind of fighting going on down there. I don’t pay much attention to it.”

  “Yes, they often have revolutions,” Frank agreed.

  “Well, I used to wonder, when I cleaned Mr. Wetherby’s room. He had pictures of himself in an airplane—a war airplane, it was. Then there was a picture of a lot of them wearing those big ten-gallon hats, and do you know, all the men wore pistols and belts full of bullets, including Mr. Wetherby!”

  “No wonder Mr. Grafton thought Wetherby did exciting things!” Frank exclaimed.

  The landlady caught the name. “Yes, and he brought that gentleman here, too,” she added. Evidently she was pleased to have such surprising news to tell.

  “This Mr. Grafton, he told me how Mr. Wetherby used to fight in those foreign wars. He said Mr. Wetherby did it just for the adventure. He certainly admired Mr. Wetherby.”

  “You don’t know what country he fought in, do you, Mrs. Watson?” Frank inquired.

  “Dear me, I wouldn’t know one of those places from another. Let me see—you boys finish those biscuits while I look around.” She bustled upstairs.

  “I’m stuffed!” Joe whispered. “You eat the last biscuits, Frank, so we can keep in her good graces!”

  “I can’t.” Frank grinned, slipped the biscuits into his paper napkin, and put them into his pocket. “For Chet!”

  In a moment Mrs. Watson returned. Seeing the empty plate, she exclaimed, “Dear me, you boys have been such good company, I’m going to give you this!”

  She placed a copper coin in Frank’s palm. “It was on Mr. Wetherby’s bureau when he first came here. I wanted it for a souvenir because it looks just like a penny, you know, and he gave it to me.”

  “República de Mexico!” Frank read eagerly.

  They whirled to see two brawny men climb into the room

  “Thanks very much to—the best cook in California!”

  When the Hardys returned to the hotel, they found Chet waiting for them and told their story.

  “You mean Wetherby used to be a pilot for a bunch of rebels in Mexico?” he asked in disbelief.

  “Right. And Mexico isn’t far from Ripley. Let’s have a look at the map.” Joe took one of the California-Arizona-northern Mexico area from his rucksack and spread it on the floor.

  “Those missing men might have taken a boat right down the Colorado River into Mexico,” Frank pointed out.

  “Maybe Wetherby was involved in a new revolution!” Joe added. “Or some other illegal business.”

  A sudden rap at the door brought the boys hastily to their feet. Before they could answer, however, it opened and a man came in. He closed the door and stood facing the boys.

  “The bellman!” Joe exclaimed. The man was not in uniform.

  At the same time the boys heard a wi
ndow open. They whirled to see two brawny men climb into the room from the fire escape!

  “Yes, I unlocked the window,” the bellman told the boys in a harsh, unpleasant voice. “And now you kids start talking—or else me and Ringer and Caesar over there are going to make you!”

  CHAPTER VII

  An Exciting Identification

  INSTINCTIVELY the three boys backed up until they felt a wall behind them.

  “What do you expect us to talk about?” Frank demanded, to gain time.

  “About Grafton,” snarled the fake bellman. “How much do you know? Come on—talk!”

  The two brawny henchmen, Ringer and Caesar, advanced menacingly from the window, while the bellman moved in from the door.

  “Quarterback sneak left!” Frank called, dropping to a football player’s crouch.

  Catching the signal, Chet, who played center for Bayport High, lowered one shoulder and plunged forward into the advancing Ringer. At the same instant Joe unleashed a body block that sent Caesar crashing backward into a desk. Frank, meanwhile, rushed the surprised bellman and threw him to the floor.

  Caught off guard, the intruders fought back viciously for a few moments. But the agility and speed of the boys more than made up for the size and strength of their attackers. Caesar was groggy from his fall, and Ringer gasped for breath.

  The bellman was the first to struggle to his feet. “Clear out!” he cried to his companions, knocking Chet off Ringer. Caesar was able to free himself, and the three men fled out the door. The boys went after them, but the men rushed into a service elevator. Apparently the bellman had left the door open for a quick getaway. The door slammed and the car shot downward.

  “We’d never catch ’em by racing down the stairs,” Joe panted.

  “No,” Frank agreed. “And they’ll lose themselves in the street before we can overtake them.”

  “They didn’t get away scot free, though,” Chet announced after the boys reached their room. “The man I blocked out dropped this. It may be a valuable clue.”

  Frank took the carefully folded paper from Chet and spread it out. “Why, this is a copy of our flight plan from Blythe to Los Angeles! One of their gang must have sneaked into the airport office and copied the original. That’s how they trailed us here.”