The Secret Warning Page 5

  “Just as long as he doesn’t whet Chet’s appetite,” Joe needled.

  Everyone laughed and Chet went back into the house to get his swim trunks.

  The Hardys could hear the sound of a telephone ringing. A few moments later, as they were chatting with the girls, Mrs. Morton put her head out the back door.

  “Frank and Joe—”

  “Yes, Mrs. Morton?”

  “Your aunt just phoned. She asked me to tell you that Mr. Scath from the museum called again —some man is on his way to the house to see you.”

  The boys jumped to their feet. “Did Aunt Gertrude say who he was?” Frank asked.

  “No, but I guess it must be urgent. She advised you both to come home at once.”

  As they were thanking Chet’s mother for the information, Chet returned, holding a rolled towel under one arm. “What’s the matter?” he inquired plaintively. “Is the swim off?”

  “Maybe not,” said Frank. “Come on back to the house with us. We can whip over to the beach as soon as Joe and I talk to this visitor, whoever he is.”

  The three boys climbed into the convertible and sped back to the Hardy home at High and Elm streets, where they hurried into the kitchen.

  “What’s up, Aunty?” Joe inquired. “Did Mr. Scath tell you who’s coming to see us—or why?”

  Miss Hardy looked up from the pie dough she was rolling and pursed her lips. “He didn’t, and I’m sure I have no idea of the reason for his visit, since none of you has seen fit to take me into your confidence about this mystery.”

  The boys’ grins faded as the front doorbell rang. Frank and Joe hurried to answer it.

  The caller was a fat, balding, dark-complex-ioned man in a white silk suit. “Is this the Hardy residence?” he asked.

  “Yes. Please come in,” Frank said.

  The man stepped inside and handed the boys an ornate visiting card, which read:Mehmet Zufar

  Dealer in Middle Eastern

  Antiquities and Objets d’Art

  Cairo, Egypt

  Frank and Joe glanced at the card, then looked at each other excitedly. Their visitor was the owner of the golden Pharaoh’s head!

  CHAPTER IX

  The Shattered Cat

  “I SHOULD like to see Mr. Fenton Hardy, the detective,” said the stout visitor.

  Joe found himself staring with fascination at the man’s tiny black mustache, which twirled upward at each end.

  “Our father’s out of town just now, working on a case,” Frank explained. “If you’ll have a chair and tell us why you came, perhaps we can help.”

  Mehmet Zufar glared irritably, but nonetheless seated himself in the living room. Plucking out a handkerchief, he dabbed the beads of perspiration from his large forehead.

  “My dear young man,” Zufar snapped, “Fenton Hardy was recommended to me as the ablest private investigator in America. In fact, I was referred to him on a matter of the utmost importance by Mr. Scath, the museum curator. I did not come to deal with boys!”

  Frank said evenly, “I just thought we might help.”

  “If you’ll tell us what you want,” Joe put in, “we’ll inform Dad as soon as we can get in touch with him.”

  Zufar glared for a moment, then said abruptly, “My card, please!”

  The art dealer fished a gold pencil from an inside pocket and jotted something on the back of the card. “When Mr. Hardy is free,” he said, “please have him contact me at this address in New York.”

  With a final swipe of his handkerchief, Zufar clapped his straw hat back on his glistening dome and rose to depart.

  “May we call you a taxi?” Frank offered.

  “No, thank you. My car is outside.” The stout man stalked off without another word.

  As the door closed behind him, Frank and Joe dashed to the front window for a better view. They saw Zufar climb into a black limousine. A hulking, granite-faced chauffeur slammed the car door, returned to the wheel, and drove off.

  “Who was that sourpuss?” inquired Chet, coming up behind the Hardys.

  “The owner of the golden Pharaoh,” Joe replied. “I’d sure like to know what he was so worked up about—he wouldn’t tell us.”

  “Maybe Mr. Scath can give us the lowdown.” Frank glanced at his watch. “Come on! We can stop off at the museum on our way to the beach!”

  Ten minutes later the Hardys’ convertible turned into the curving driveway of the Howard Museum, which stood well back from the street among landscaped grounds. The three boys hurried up the broad marble steps of the ivy-clad building and went straight to the curator’s office.

  Mr. Scath, a slender man with wispy strands of hair and rimless pince-nez, rose to greet his visitors as they entered.

  “Come in, boys, and sit down. I take it you’ve just talked to Mr. Zufar.”

  “That’s right, sir,” said Frank. “But he insisted on seeing Dad and wouldn’t tell us what he wanted. We hoped you might fill us in.”

  “Hmm, yes. Well, he came here this morning and introduced himself as an art dealer specializing in Middle Eastern antiquities. Then he tried to interest me in a blue faience Egyptian cat, dating back to the Twentieth Dynasty.”

  “Faience?” Joe repeated. “What’s that?”

  “Earthenware, coated with an opaque glaze.”

  Frank then asked the curator, “Did you tell Mr. Zufar about the warning you received—that someone would try to sell you an Egyptian fake?”

  “Indeed, I did. I told him so bluntly.” Mr. Scath gave a shrug of distaste. “The result was quite upsetting.”

  “What happened?” Frank asked.

  “Zufar became very emotional. He said that some enemy—he didn’t know who—was trying to ruin his reputation.”

  “Meaning,” Joe guessed, “the anonymous tip you received?”

  “Yes. And he said someone had evidently spread a similar rumor about a much more valuable object which he had hoped to bring to this country.”

  Frank bent forward eagerly. “Did he mention what the object was?”

  “Not then,” Mr. Scath replied, “But he did later—a solid gold head of the Pharaoh Rhamaton IV, valued at one million dollars.”

  Chet’s eyes bulged.

  The curator went on, “However, as I say, that came later. At the moment he was too worked up trying to convince me of his spotless reputation.” Mr. Scath sighed. “Anyway, Zufar gave me various personal references to call and urged me to inspect the faience cat as carefully as I pleased.”

  “What did you do?” Joe asked.

  Mr. Scath looked uncomfortable. “I didn’t quite know what to do. Finally I called two of the references he gave me—another museum and a private collector. They both assured me that their dealings with Zufar had been entirely satisfactory. They both felt he was too keen to be taken in by a fake and wouldn’t risk trying to palm one off.”

  “How about the cat?” said Frank. “Did you test it in any way?”

  “No. It seemed authentic. Zufar offered to let me keep it for a detailed examination, but I told him we had no funds available for such a purchase at this time.”

  The curator paused to polish his glasses. “Then came a dreadful piece of bad luck. Zufar went to put the cat back in the carrying case—but, in his disturbed state, he let it slip from his fingers.”

  “Did the cat break?” Chet blurted out.

  “Shattered to bits.” Mr. Scath shook his head unhappily. “What followed was even worse. Zufar himself went all to pieces.”

  The curator related that Zufar had then begun pouring out his troubles. He told of the golden Pharaoh’s head which had been lost when the Katawa sank, and said he had heard that the shipping line’s insurance company thought he was trying to defraud them, because of some false rumor about a duplicate head.

  “Did he strike you as putting on an act?” Frank asked.

  “I don’t believe so. He said he’s had nothing but bad luck ever since the gold treasure first came into his possession. Th
en he asked me to recommend a good detective agency to run down the scoundrel who was defaming him. Naturally,” Mr. Scath ended, “I suggested your father.”

  “Zufar still seemed pretty tense when he came to our place,” Joe mused. “How much is the Egyptian cat worth, Mr. Scath?”

  “Hard to say. But at least five hundred dollars.”

  “Wow!” Chet broke in. “That’s a high price for butterfingers.”

  “Incidentally,” Mr. Scath went on, “Zufar’s tale of bad luck may well be true if you accept superstition.”

  Frank said, “How so?”

  “When the tomb of Rhamaton IV was opened, a curse was supposed to fall on those who had violated the royal crypt,” Mr. Scath explained, “and the curse actually seemed to be fulfilled. The newspapers made much of it at the time.”

  “What happened?” Joe asked.

  “Soon after the discovery, the leader of the excavating party died of a heart attack. And several others in the party became ill or suffered accidents.”

  Chet shifted uneasily.

  “The Rhamaton head eventually came into the possession of a wealthy Lebanese businessman in Beirut,” Mr. Scath went on. “He was later ruined financially. Then when Zufar bought the head and was bringing it to this country, the ship sank.”

  Frank said dryly, “Seems to bear out the curse all right, except I don’t believe in ancient curses.”

  “Well, I’m not so sure I don’t,” Chet said.

  After thanking the curator, the boys left the museum and drove to the beach. An hour of swimming and sunbathing, topped off by a lunch of hamburgers, soon put even Chet in a more cheerful mood.

  At four-thirty that afternoon the Hardys picked up Iola, Chet, and Callie for Biff’s barbecue.

  The Hoopers’ wide yard, which sloped down to a pleasant, woodsy creek, was already noisy with the gay chatter of boys and girls when the Hardys’ group arrived.

  Eager shouts greeted them. Chet was promptly given a chef’s hat and apron.

  “This is my style!” he said laughingly, and soon was busy stoking the portable grill.

  Biff, a tall, blond, and rangy youth, ambled among his guests, handing out soft drinks. Then he cupped his big hands and bellowed for attention.

  “Now hear this, you guys and gals!”

  Suddenly :Biff’s jovial expression turned to one of dismay. Startled gasps and squeals came from the other guests.

  “Joe, look out!” warned Tony Prito.

  Before Joe could react, something struck him hard in the back, sending him sprawling to the ground!

  CHAPTER X

  A Four-legged Menace

  “HEY! What gives?” Joe spluttered. He tried to get up, but felt paws trampling his back.

  As he turned his head, a large wet tongue licked him across the face. His assailant was an ungainly Great Dane!

  “Down, Tivoli! Here, boy!” Biff shouted as he ran to his guest’s assistance. Everyone else was roaring with laughter.

  Joe finally struggled to his feet. “For Pete’s sake,” he gasped, wiping his face, “where’d that monster come from?”

  “He’s no monster—he’s my big surprise,” said Biff, hanging on to the huge dog with both hands. “I’ll have you know this magnificent creature comes from champion—Oof!”

  Biff broke off with a grunt as the Dane pulled free from his grip and went bounding off among the young people. “Hey, come here! I said, come, Tivoli!”

  The dog paid no attention. He pranced happily about the lawn, barging into several teen-agers and spilling their soda pop. Biff pursued his pet, but the Great Dane eluded him as nimbly as a swivel-hipped quarterback.

  “Watch it, Chet!” Tony Prito shouted. “He’s going for the hot dogs!”

  The party was in an uproar. Phil Cohen, at Biff’s frantic request, ran into the house and got a chain-link training collar.

  With Frank helping, Biff finally put the collar around Tivoli’s neck—but not before the dog had gulped five frankfurters and a package of hamburger meat.

  “Don’t you ever feed the poor thing?” Tony joked.

  “Feed him?” Biff said indignantly. “Listen, he’s had three big meals today already!” Then he added hastily, “Tivoli’s not really such a terribly big eater—”

  A chorus of disbelieving laughs greeted his words.

  “He’s not!” Biff insisted. “It’s just that he got half-starved when he was being shipped here, so now he’s making up for lost time.”

  Iola giggled. “And how! I’ll bet even Chet has a canary’s appetite by comparison!”

  “You still haven’t told us how you got him, Biff,” said Jim Foy, a Chinese youth.

  “I won him in a mail-order contest.” Biff explained that he had submitted the winning slogan for a new cereal and had received Tivoli as first prize.

  “How old is the mutt?” asked Jerry Gilroy.

  “Mutt my eye!” Biff retorted. “This dog comes from purebred stock. His father and mother were both international champions—and Tivoli will be, too, someday. He’s just nine months old.”

  “Nine months?” Chet echoed. “Good night, he’s as big as a colt already! How big will he be when he’s full grown?”

  “Big enough to make the best watchdog in Bayport,” Biff said proudly. He cleared his throat. “Ahem! It just happens that Tivoli—er—arrived at a bad time, with us going on vacation. So as I was about to announce, one of you lucky people can have the privilege of keeping this future champ while I’m gone.”

  Another chorus of laughter arose.

  “Did you say lucky?” teased Callie.

  “Does the offer include a cage?” Phil added.

  “ ’Fraid you’re wasting your time, Biff old pal,” added another boy. “You’ll have to board him at a kennel—if you can find one big enough.”

  Summoning up a hearty pitchman’s smile, Biff went on, “Listen, gang. Think what an impression Tivoli will make when you take him out on a leash.”

  Tony chuckled. “He’ll make an impression all right. Everybody’ll run for cover.”

  “You’ll have to admit he’d make a great guard dog,” Biff persevered.

  Frank turned to Joe and remarked thoughtfully, “You know, he’s right. I’ve been worried about us leaving Aunt Gertrude alone when we go back to Whalebone Island—in case that prowler shows up again. Tivoli might be just the answer!”

  Joe nodded. “You have a point there.”

  “Okay, Biff,” Frank said in a louder voice. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  “You mean you’ll take him?”

  “For two weeks.”

  Biff gave a whoop of joy and the other teen-agers began crowding around the Hardys to offer joking words of warning and advice.

  When the party broke up at seven-thirty, Frank and Joe drove Tivoli home in their convertible with the top up and the windows raised.

  “We’d better go in first and break the news gently,” Frank said as they parked in the driveway.

  Joe chuckled. “We may need Tivoli to protect us.”

  As the boys went in the front door, Aunt Gertrude came into the hallway. “Do either of you know if your father was expecting some sort of shipment?” she asked.

  “A shipment?” Joe said blankly. “Of what?”

  “That’s just what I’m trying to find out. A crate came for him while you were gone. I didn’t know what else to do with it so I had the truck driver and his helper carry it down to the basement.”

  “It’s news to us, Aunty,” said Frank. “Let’s take a look.”

  Miss Hardy led the way down the cellar stairs. She pointed to a large wooden crate standing against the wall. It was about four feet high. Stenciled on one side was the name FENTON HARDY and the address of the Hardy home.

  “What about the receipt?” Joe suggested. “Wouldn’t that tell us the contents?”

  “Oh dear! I forgot to ask for the carbon copy when I signed it,” said Miss Hardy. “But, anyway, the handwriting on the rec
eipt was illegible.”

  “Didn’t the driver even know where the box came from?” Frank asked.

  “He said he’d picked it up at some New York warehouse. That was all he could tell me.”

  Frank eyed the mysterious crate. “Maybe we should call Dad.”

  “Oh, I didn’t neglect that,” said Miss Hardy. “I tried to contact Fenton over the radio but he didn’t answer.”

  “No wonder—his radio got smashed on Whalebone Island,” Joe explained. “But we can probably call him at his hotel.”

  As Joe picked up the basement extension telephone, his aunt said, “Will you also tell him a man phoned about five o’clock? He didn’t leave any name.”

  Joe placed the call to Philadelphia, but hung up with a shake of his head a few minutes later. “No luck. Dad and Sam Radley are both out of their rooms. I left a message for them to call back.”

  The Hardy boys looked at each other and took deep breaths.

  Trying to sound casual, Frank said, “Er—we’ve brought a visitor, Aunt Gertrude.”

  “A visitor?”

  “Uh—yes. He’s coming to stay for a couple of weeks. We’re sure you’re going to like him.”

  Detecting something odd in Frank’s tone, Miss Hardy swept her nephews with a suspicious glance. “Well, speak up. Who is he and where is he?”

  “He’s out in the car,” Joe said. “Aunty, he’s a Great Dane.”

  “A Great Dane?” Miss Hardy echoed unbelievingly. “You mean one of those—those huge dogs?”

  Frank tried to be reassuring. “Actually, he’s not full grown. Only nine months old.”

  Gertrude Hardy launched into a vigorous tirade against the problem of tending large, untrained animals. Frank finally managed to explain why they had brought Tivoli, stressing that he would serve as a watchdog while he and Joe were away.

  “And just where do you expect me to keep the creature?” Miss Hardy demanded. “Certainly not in the house.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that, Aunty,” Joe said, chuckling. “Tivoli can stay out in the yard or down in the cellar.”