Mystery of the Desert Giant Read online

  “And we thought we had fooled them into thinking we’d gone back East!” said Chet, dismayed.

  Frank nodded. “They outsmarted us this time. There’s no question about it, we’re up against a bunch of dangerous and well-organized criminals! Let’s talk to the police.”

  At headquarters the young sleuths reported their progress. They learned that Grafton’s secretary had reported the threats against her.

  “You Hardys have turned up more on this case in one afternoon than we have in three months,” the detective in charge asserted with admiration. He took down Joe’s description of the bellman and the two strong-arm henchmen. “How do you plan to proceed from here?”

  Frank analyzed the situation briefly. “We have two working hunches. First, there’s the rock we found. Grafton and Wetherby might have been after minerals or semiprecious stones when this gang caught them. The other possibility is that they slipped away in a boat, probably to Mexico, since Wetherby was keen about life below the border.”

  “Then our first job is to hunt for more clues in the desert around the giant,” Joe reasoned. “After that, we’d better hire a boat and make the trip down the river ourselves, right from where Grafton and Wetherby would have started.”

  “Logical reasoning,” the detective said. “I wish you luck.”

  As the youths left headquarters, Chet exclaimed eagerly, “Well, if we go down the river, we’ll have a chance to fish. I’ve heard the Colorado bass are really something.”

  “Good idea, Chet,” Joe agreed. “If we look like fishermen, we may be able to shake this gang off our trail.”

  “We’ll need permits to enter Mexico,” Frank observed. “Best place to get them is here in Los Angeles.”

  They headed for the Mexican consulate, where they presented their birth certificates and were given entrance cards, then all three boys obtained fishing licenses in a sporting-goods store. Soon they were air-borne again and on their way back to Riverside County Airport. They would stop at Blythe to see about renting a boat in a couple of days.

  When they landed in Blythe, a brief taxi ride brought them to the town’s water front. As they strolled along the river, Chet began to dawdle.

  “Aren’t we forgetting something awfully important? What about meals on this trip down the river? We’ll need food for a month, at least.”

  The stocky lad had come to a full stop in front of a large market. With evident satisfaction, he contemplated the wonderful variety of foods through the broad glass window.

  “Some detectives travel on their stomachs!” Joe laughed. “All right, Chet, you buy provisions while Frank and I hire a boat.”

  The excellent climate made Blythe a year-round fisherman’s paradise, and the Hardy brothers found numerous docks along the river. They stepped onto one, looking for a suitable boat.

  A graceful red-and-white craft, with two powerful outboard motors mounted on her stern, caught Joe’s eye. “Plenty of power in an emergency,” he commented. “Never know when we might need it!”

  “Is this boat for rent?” Frank asked the proprietor, a long-legged old-timer wearing tight-fitting dungarees.

  “Reckon she is.” The man, whittling a stick, hardly glanced at the boys or the boat.

  “Could we keep her for as long as a month?”

  “Reckon so.”

  “Could you let us have her in a day or two?”

  “Reckon I could.”

  “All right,” Frank concluded. “We’ll get in touch with you when we’re ready. Is it a deal?”

  “Reckon it is.”

  Joe laughed. “Talkative old buzzard. Not like our friend Mrs. Watson!”

  As the Hardys returned to the market, Frank and Joe were amazed to see a great heap of brown food bundles seemingly walking toward them on legs of its own! Perched on top of the pile was a familiar bright sombrero, and out of the heap of packages came a familiar voice.

  “Hi!”

  Then, without warning, the mountain of parcels exploded. Packages flew in every direction, and rained down upon the shoulders of Frank and Joe and other passers-by. Chet Morton, who had been invisible behind the heap except for his legs and sombrero, raced down the street crying:

  “Stop, thief!”

  Frank and Joe hastily rescued some of the food from the street, as their friend, some distance away, brought down his man in a flying tackle.

  “Give me back my money!” they heard Chet bellow as he dragged the man to his feet.

  The brothers hurried over with the parcels of food.

  “It’s that counterfeit-check man, Van Buskirk!” Chet told them excitedly. He held the short young man by the collar and every now and then gave him a shake.

  “Say, what is this, anyway?” the man protested, recovering himself. All at once he recognized Chet. “It’s you again. What do you want with me?”

  “I want the money you swindled from me with that phony check!”

  The man looked surprised. “What do you mean? That check was all right. It was a government check.”

  “Yes? You tell that to the police, Mr. Innocence,” answered Chet sarcastically. “You’ve probably got a whole bushel of them. What are you doing here in Blythe, anyhow?”

  “I have a perfect right to be here. I live in Blythe!”

  “Tell that to the police, too!” retorted the angry Chet.

  At Blythe police headquarters AI Van Buskirk continued to maintain his innocence.

  “Yes—he lives in Blythe all right,” the desk sergeant spoke up. “I’ve seen him around town.”

  “Then what was he doing in Los Angeles?” Chet wanted to know.

  “Listen, it must all be a mistake.” Van Buskirk answered the question himself in a worried voice. “I’ve been ill for a while and out of regular work. All I could find was a walk-on part in that movie. When it was finished I came back here.”

  The man turned to Chet. “I’m sorry if I caused you to lose your money. I was taken in myself. I sold a valuable gold watch for that check!”

  “Here in Blythe?” asked the officer quickly.

  “No, in Los Angeles.”

  “Can you remember what the check passer looked like?”

  “A little taller than I am, and a few years older. A spry, wiry fellow. I remember thinking he might work in some hotel, because his pants had a stripe down the side like a uniform.”

  Joe, on a hunch, pulled the photograph of the phony bellman from his pocket. “Al, by any chance, was this man the bad-check passer?”

  Van Buskirk gazed at the picture. “It sure looks like him. Yes, that’s the man! Say, where in Pete’s name did you get this?”

  Joe smiled. “We’ve been doing a little sleuthing, that’s all,” he answered noncommittally.

  The sergeant was amazed and asked to keep the photograph. Joe handed it over. The officer now took something from his desk drawer. “Did the check you received look anything like this one?”

  Both Chet and Al Van Buskirk declared, “Same thing exactly!”

  The officer nodded. “This was turned in last week by the Blythe bank. Seems to be a brand-new racket.”

  “Officer, may my brother and I look at that check, too?” Frank inquired abruptly, again recalling the government fraud case on which their father was working. The boys examined the check and nodded to each other, but did not mention Mr. Hardy’s investigation.

  “Van Buskirk’s story seems to check out all right, Morton,” the sergeant said.

  Al turned to Chet. “I’m sorry, I’ve already spent your money to pay bills, but I’ll give you a note for the amount and pay you as soon as I can,” he offered.

  “That’s fair enough,” Chet agreed. “After all, you were fooled, too.”

  As the four left the police station, the Hardys and Chet said good-by to the actor and at Frank’s suggestion headed for a hardware store to purchase digging tools to use in the desert.

  “I don’t feel satisfied with our examination of the desert giants,” he explained.
“I’d like to do a little digging out there before we start down the river. I have a hunch we may find a buried clue,” he said.

  “Not a body!” Chet quavered.

  “I hope not,” said Joe. “You mean, Frank, a cache of valuable rocks or something Grafton may have managed to hide out there before he left?”

  “Right.”

  After the purchase, the three friends took a taxi to the airport, told Gene Smith their plan, and stowed the equipment and food in the plane.

  As the monoplane soared toward the desert giant, the boys discussed the exciting new developments in the case.

  Presently Frank said worriedly, “I just thought of a new angle. Suppose Grafton was attacked or kidnaped?”

  “Good night!” Chet exclaimed.

  “Or suppose he’s mixed up in some kind of racket?” Frank went on.

  “How terrible for Mrs. Grafton and her boys, and Mr. Brownlee, too!” Chet remarked.

  Suddenly Joe asserted, “Grafton that kind of person? I don’t believe it!”

  CHAPTER VIII

  A Treasure Hunt

  “DEEP down, I agree with you, Joe,” Frank put in. “The information we have about Grafton so far is that he’s honest—even if he did become soured on things.”

  “That’s right,” Joe said. “When we crack this mystery and find him, I believe he’ll turn out to be okay!”

  “There’s our giant again,” Frank announced. “Hang on! I’m going in low to scout him a little.”

  Frank throttled down to fly as slowly as possible while they examined the effigy. What, if anything, could it prove about buried treasure, counterfeiters, and missing men?

  “I have a hunch those outstretched arms may mean something,” Frank said thoughtfully.

  “Why?” Chet asked.

  “Because we found our treasure in a straight line with the left arm of that big fellow down there, unless my sense of direction has gone hay-wire.”

  Chet looked at him. “You mean the stone we found might have been a marker? But for what?”

  “Wish I knew the answer,” Frank said.

  Joe suggested they pitch camp there for the night to see if anything happened. “Grafton and Wetherby may be in hiding around here, and show up after dark.”

  “I think I have the answer!” Chet broke in. “Maybe there was a stowaway in their plane. He forced Grafton and Wetherby to fly out here to meet some other member of the gang!”

  Frank nodded, then said, “Not much more for us to see up here. I’m going in for a landing.”

  The plane rolled to a stop near the knoll where the effigy was, and the boys climbed out into the dazzling sunshine.

  “Whew! Hot work ahead,” Chet observed.

  Meanwhile, Frank was handing supplies and tools out to his brother. “We’ll take the spade and the small mattock. I’ve put some food and water in this one rucksack.”

  “I’ll take charge of that,” Chet volunteered. “You two carry the tools.”

  The young sleuths locked the plane and climbed the knoll. Then they began to hike along the left arm of the giant effigy. With their wide-brimmed hats and their digging implements they looked like a party of old-time prospectors.

  “Just think if we discovered gold, wouldn’t that be keen?” Chet remarked.

  “There are some lost mines on the Arizona side—some that date back to the days of the early Spaniards,” Frank informed him.

  “How does a gold mine get lost?” Chet was puzzled. “I wouldn’t lose a gold mine, if I had one!”

  Joe laughed. “In the first place, the old-timers used to keep the location of their mines secret, for protection. Then sometimes mines are buried by earthquakes, or more slowly by erosion.”

  Suddenly Joe stopped short. “Something just ahead. Give me your spade, Frank!”

  He had noticed a little sunken place roughly rectangular in shape. Unlike the hard-baked ground of the desert, this dirt seemed loose, as though it had been turned over not long before.

  “Somebody’s been digging!”

  Frank and Chet hurried to his side. “It looks as if a hole had been dug here, and then filled in again,” Joe explained, starting to dig.

  Frank began tossing dirt aside with a shovel, while Chet got busy with the mattock.

  “No question about it,” Frank remarked as they worked. “Look at this loose soil and the size of the hole. I’d say at least two people had been on the job.”

  “They were wasting their time,” said Chet, ten minutes later. He was wringing wet. “We haven’t seen anything valuable hidden here.”

  The Hardys had to agree. There seemed to be nothing worth digging for.

  “What do you think?” Joe asked. “Could they have cleared the hole of all valuable rocks?”

  “I don’t think so,” his brother returned. “There would be a few traces left. We haven’t seen a single fragment of the kind of rock that contains semiprecious stones.”

  “What were they digging for, then?” Chet wanted to know. “You mentioned buried treasure.”

  “I still think one might have been hidden by Indians or even Spanish explorers. The desert giant was the direction marker to show the location.”

  “Well, whatever it was, do you suppose Grafton and Wetherby were the ones looking for it?” Chet asked.

  “Could be,” Joe returned. “They were here recently enough.” Carefully, he examined the ground.

  “Not a footprint, or even a trace of one,” he reported, discouraged. “A good solid heel print would have given us something to work with.”

  “No.” Frank nodded. “Whoever it was knew what he was doing. He brushed away the prints in Indian style, with one of these sagebrush bushes.”

  Chet sat down to rest. Finally Frank gave up and flopped to the desert. “Pretty hot seat!”

  “Better than nothing,” said Chet. “I’m pooped!”

  Joe kept on for a few minutes. By this time nearly all the soft earth had been turned over. Joe was about to give up when his shovel suddenly swept a piece of cloth into the air.

  “What’s that?” Frank asked eagerly, jumping to his feet.

  Joe picked up the dirt-covered clotn and shook it. “A man’s brown handkerchief,” he said.

  Chet, interested now, dragged himself to Joe’s side. “You think one of the diggers dropped it?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “And,” Frank added, “his name begins with the letter P.”

  Frank pointed out the initial P, of a slightly lighter color, embroidered in one corner of the handkerchief.

  “Say, this is great!” Chet cried out enthusiastically. But in a moment his face fell. “This means neither Grafton nor Wetherby dropped it.”

  “Correct,” said Frank. “But it could mean that they have some pal whose name starts with P.”

  “In any case,” Joe added, “we’ll take it along as a souvenir or as evidence.”

  “Let’s give up this desert search until it gets cooler,” Chet pleaded. “Talk about hot enough to fry an egg. Lil ole Chet will be boiled Morton pretty soon!”

  The Hardys laughed. Then Frank suggested they fly to the edge of the desert where the mountains began and rest in the cool shade.

  “It’s just possible there are more mineral rocks in the mountains,” he suggested.

  “Good idea,” said Joe, and Chet nodded.

  The boys went back to the plane and cooled the cabin with its air conditioner before taking off. A little while later Frank set the craft down and the three sleuths, carrying cans of food, tomato juice, and the digging tools, sought the shade of the mountainside.

  “This is something like it!” Chet said with a sigh of relief as he pulled out his penknife can-opener attachment.

  After the meal, Chet dozed, while Frank and Joe discussed the mystery. Presently Frank, looking up the slope, said, “I see a cave opening up there. Let’s have a look at it.”

  The cave mouth yawned about forty feet above them. Scrambling up the slope
, the Hardys stood staring at the entrance.

  Frank pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and said, “Think I’ll go in.”

  As he spoke, a menacing snarl pierced the silence of the mountain. Crouched above the cave in readiness to spring down on the Hardys was a huge wildcat!

  CHAPTER IX

  The Dust Devil

  THE big cat looked at the Hardys out of yellow eyes. Its tail flicked in anger. Powerful muscles quivered along the tawny flank.

  “Run!” Frank yelled.

  Whirling, he made it back down the steep hill-side in half a dozen leaps. Joe followed. Grabbing the tools the brothers had left at the bottom, the boys spun around to defend themselves.

  The commotion had wakened Chet who jumped to his feet with a “Good—night!” and dashed off.

  But the big wildcat did not follow the boys. Apparently satisfied that its snarl had frightened her enemies away, the animal leaped down from the ledge and entered the cave.

  “That’s probably a female who has young ones inside the cave,” Frank said. “No wonder she was so angry.”

  “We found out what we wanted to know, anyhow,” said Joe. “Nobody’s been hiding in there.”

  The three boys trekked through the woods, keeping their eyes open for any kind of clue to the missing men. They came to a tumble-down shack and searched it thoroughly. They found nothing suspicious.

  By this time Chet had had enough sleuthing for the day. To convince his chums of this, he said, “We’ve been out of sight of the plane more than two hours.”

  “It’s locked,” Frank said as he tramped on ahead.

  Next, Chet tried the power of suggestion. “This may be a wooded area, but it’s sure hot in here.” He sighed. “Picture yourselves in a nice, air-conditioned drugstore right now—with a tall frosted milk shake. And then a nice, cool swim!”

  Doggedly Frank and Joe pushed on. Suddenly the resourceful Chet thought of a new tactic. “Suppose somebody breaks into our plane and steals it while we waste our time in here?”

  As if in answer to this suggestion, the drone of a single-engine airplane was heard in the sky above them. Frantic, the boys raced down to the edge of the forest and peered skyward.