The Shattered Helmet Page 8

  He parked the camper in front of the house and led the way inside. The interior of the bungalow had a musty smell and the boys helped Buster open all the windows.

  Evan said, “Mr. Buckles, what does a can of old film look like?”

  The old man said the tin was about fifteen inches in diameter and an inch and a half deep. “It holds a thousand feet of thirty-five millimeter film,” he explained. “Now look, I have only one bed. So bring your sleeping bags in. I’ll make a snack, then we’ll all hit the sack.”

  “Okay,” Frank said. “But I’d like to call home and let my folks know where we are. Is there a phone nearby?”

  “I’ve got one,” Buster said.

  “Yours is disconnected.”

  Buster grinned. “I had that done before I left, but it’s on again since the first of the month. That was yesterday.”

  Frank called his father and told him of their adventures so far. When he came to the dynamite episode, Mr. Hardy interrupted. “I know about that.”

  “What?”

  “The mob’s harassing you to get me off the investigation. I received a note after they dynamited your bikes, saying that the next time it wouldn’t just be the bikes but you too.”

  Frank whistled. “I wish I’d called sooner.”

  “So do I. I wanted to warn you but couldn’t get in touch. From now on, be extra careful.”

  “Okay, Dad. Don’t worry.”

  In the morning, after Buster had made pancakes for everyone, he took a key from a shelf and beckoned to the boys.

  “Now we’ll go look for the film.” He led them to the garage and unlocked the door.

  Inside sat a dusty compact car. Around it on three sides was an assortment of junk—old tires, empty oil cans, a ladder, garden tools, and an ancient bicycle.

  “I’d better take the car out first,” Buster said, “or we’ll never get to the stuff.” He drove the automobile into the street and parked it there. Then he walked to the front of the garage.

  “I think the film is in this corner somewhere,” he said, pointing to a dirty tarpaulin. Under it was a piece of black oilcloth, sticky with age.

  Frank and Joe lifted it to reveal a dozen film cans covered with cobwebs. Frank brushed away a layer of dust with the back of his hand. Then he, Joe, and Evan each picked up a can.

  “Be careful,” Buster warned. “Those things can explode!”

  CHAPTER XIII

  Los Angeles Rendezvous

  HEEDING Buster’s warning, Frank, Joe, and Evan gingerly carried the tins into the house and placed them gently on the dining-room table.

  “Let’s examine these reels right away,” Joe said.

  Frank agreed. If The Persian Glory was in one of the cans, they might not have to bother with the others still in the garage.

  Lids were removed with great caution. Inside lay the old nitrate celluloid, its pungent smell rising from the tins.

  Buster unreeled and examined them one at a time as the boys peered over his shoulder.

  “Look at that,” Frank said. “Part of an old Tom Mix movie.”

  Evan read a caption and asked, “Who was Eddy Polo?”

  Buster explained that he was the hero of an adventure series in the days of the silent films.

  The first two cans contained several dozen outtakes. But none of them was from The Persian Glory.

  Buster had just started to examine the third reel when the house was shaken by a muffled roar. He put down the film and they all raced outside.

  Black smoke billowed from the garage. An instant later the frame structure was engulfed in red flames.

  “Good heavens, the film’s blown up!” Buckles cried out. “Run for your lives!”

  His warning was hardly necessary, because the heat forced all of them back to a respectful distance.

  Buster rushed into the house and phoned the fire department. Five minutes later three fire engines screamed to the scene.

  While the young detectives looked on, crestfallen and silent, the firemen quickly attached their hoses. Two streams of water gushed into the inferno, whipping up sparks and blackened ash.

  Joe was glum as he watched the garage fall with a shower of sparks. “Frank, now we may never solve this mystery!” he muttered.

  Buster seemed to be in a trance. His eyes were fixed on the flaming boards which gradually disintegrated.

  “Are you insured?” Frank asked him.

  He nodded, coming back to reality. “But I’m glad the car wasn’t parked inside,” he said.

  A policeman, who had joined the scene, approached the actor. With him was a man carrying a camera in his hands.

  “What happened? How did it start?” the officer inquired.

  “I guess something shifted and fell and the old film just blew up,” Buster replied.

  “Old film? You mean nitrate? That stuff’s dangerous. You shouldn’t have it around.”

  “Well, it ain’t around any more,” Buster said.

  “It must have started by spontaneous combustion,” the policeman deduced.

  Joe thought it could have been set off deliberately and said so.

  “Set off by whom?” the policeman asked.

  “The people who have been tailing us,” Joe replied. “Either someone else wanted to get that film, or wanted to prevent us from having it.”

  “What film? And who are these people you’re talking about?”

  The boys told their story briefly, and Frank noticed that the man with the camera took notes.

  “What are you doing that for?” the boy asked.

  “I’m a reporter for the Afternoon Gazette,” the man replied.

  When Frank heard this, he got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Publicity was the last thing Evan and the Hardys wanted.

  “Does all this have to go in your newspaper?” he asked.

  The man smiled pleasantly. “You bet it does. Can’t you see the headline? ‘Old-time actor involved in modern drama. What secret lies in The Persian Glory?’ Wow!”

  He turned and hurried off, stepped into a car, and disappeared.

  The usually smiling Evan was a picture of dejection. His mouth dropped at the corners. “Now everyone will know about the helmet!” he said gloomily.

  The firemen, meanwhile, continued to douse the smoldering remains of the garage long after the flames had subsided. Finally they left the blackened mess.

  Buster led the boys back into his house. “Let’s look at the last few outtakes,” he said, picking up the film and unreeling it slowly.

  “No—no. That’s not it.” He rolled off a couple of more feet and his eyes focused sharply. “Wait a minute!” he said, and held the film up against the light. His hands began to shake.

  “Boys, if I’m not mistaken, this is it! Yes, here’s Cornelius Doornheim, who played the lead, and he’s wearing the helmet.”

  The surge of excitement was electrifying. Frank, Joe, and Evan pressed closer for a better look.

  “Boys, this is it!” Buster said.

  “Be careful!” the actor cried. “You’ll knock me over and we’ll all explode!”

  He rolled up the film again and placed it back in the can. “I don’t want to put this in my projector,” he said. “It would be better to have it copied on safety film first.”

  “Do you know a lab who would do it?” Frank asked.

  “Yep!”

  “Great! Can we go right now?”

  “Why not? Follow me in the car. I’ll take the camper and return it to the rental agency.”

  On the way Joe remarked, “We might as well get two copies. Jeff Riker would love to have one, I’m sure.”

  The technician at the laboratory promised to make two copies by late afternoon.

  Buoyed by enthusiasm, they drove back to Buster’s bungalow. A few blocks away they stopped for gas at a service station. While they were waiting, Frank’s eyes lighted upon a maroon Buick up on the rack.

  “Joe! See that car with the New Mexico license
number?”

  “The one Cole and the Greek were using!” Joe exclaimed.

  “Right. They must have followed us here and are spying on us.”

  “Now we know for sure they set the fire,” Joe said. “Let’s talk to the mechanic.” He and Frank approached the man who was working on the car, while Buster and Evan stayed behind.

  “We’ve been trying to get in touch with a Greek friend of ours,” Frank said. “But he’s moved. I believe this is his car. Do you have his address?”

  “The car belongs to a Greek, all right,” the mechanic replied. “George Dimitri.”

  “That’s our friend,” said Frank

  “I don’t have his address. He said he’d pick up the car tomorrow or the day after.”

  “What’s he driving in the meantime?” asked Joe.

  “A blue Chevy. He rented it from the place down the street. You want me to give him a message?”

  “No. We’re leaving town tonight. Thanks all the same.”

  At Buster’s house, the young detectives went into a huddle to map out their strategy.

  “We’ll have to stake out that garage, then follow Dimitri when he picks up the Buick,” Frank said.

  “Do you think Buster will give us his car for the whole day?” Joe asked.

  “I wouldn’t even ask him. We can’t impose on him like that. Let’s rent one. But first I want to call Dad. It just occurred to me that he might know something about George Dimitri.”

  Mr. Hardy did indeed. “He’s a shady character who came from Greece not long ago and joined the Gerrold mob. What his racket is I don’t know yet. I’ll try to find out.”

  Frank then told his father about their planned stakeout.

  “No need to rent a car,” Mr. Hardy said. “Sam Radley is in Los Angeles right now. Call him at the Ambassador Hotel. He might be able to do the surveillance job for you.”

  Frank called his father’s operative, who had assisted them on many cases, and reported what had happened. Sam promised to watch the garage the following two days.

  Later Buster went out to get the afternoon paper. At the bottom of the front page was a three-column picture of his burning garage. He handed the paper to the boys. “Take a look at that story!” he said.

  They read the report and groaned in dismay. All details of their quest for the old movie had been given to millions of readers in the Los Angeles area!

  Frank shrugged. “Well, our enemies knew all about it, anyway. What difference does it make at this point whether the whole world knows?”

  At five o’clock Buster received a call from the film lab. The copies were ready and could be shown in the lab’s viewing room.

  “Fine,” Buster said. “We’ll be over after dinner.”

  “All right,” came the reply. “Mr. Simmons is going to stay late today anyhow. He’ll wait for you.”

  When Buster and the boys left an hour later, they looked cautiously about to see if anyone were spying on them. Only a motorcycle sped past. Nothing else. Still, Frank had the uncomfortable feeling that they were being watched. He kept looking out the car’s rear window all the way to their destination, but saw nothing suspicious.

  When they arrived at the lab, it was closed, but Mr. Simmons let them in. He locked the door after them and ushered them to a room on the second floor that looked like a miniature movie theater.

  On a small table in the back of the room were the two copies of The Persian Glory outtake. Mr. Simmons put one of them in a projector.

  “Make yourselves at home,” he said while adjusting the film.

  They sat in the front row on comfortable cushioned seats, and in a few minutes the old silent movie flashed on the screen. The Hardys realized that The Persian Glory must have been a high-budget enterprise. A scene showed hundreds of people attacking an ancient castle, then came a close-up of a young man.

  “Evan, that’s you!” Joe exclaimed.

  Evan laughed. “It’s Uncle Nick. We sure look alike!”

  Nick Pandropolos walked to the lead man who wore the ancient Greek helmet.

  “Can you rerun that shot?” Joe asked Mr. Simmons. “We’re interested in the helmet.”

  “Sure.” Simmons ran the film backward.

  “There! Hold it.”

  The boys studied the headgear. The top was rounded and a long piece of metal extended down to cover the nose.

  “Could you make us a couple of enlargements of that frame?” Frank asked Mr. Simmons.

  “Be glad to.” Simmons turned the light on, rewound the reel, and said, “Did you take the other copy of the film I left on the table over there?”

  “No,” Frank said. They stared at the table. The reel was gone.

  “It’s been stolen!” Joe exclaimed.

  CHAPTER XIV

  Surprise Phone Call

  NONE of them had seen anyone enter the screening room. The theft must have been accomplished when the lights were out!

  The boys ran downstairs to the main floor. The door stood open, but by the time they reached the street there was no sign of anyone who looked suspicious.

  Joe and Evan went in one direction, Frank and Mr. Simmons in the other. They questioned passersby. No one had seen a man running away from the lab building. Half a dozen queries produced no results, but finally Joe talked to a man who was standing on the opposite side of the street waiting for a taxi.

  “Yes, some guy came out of that building—a short, wiry fellow. He took off fast and kept looking back over his shoulder,” the man said.

  Joe and Evan thanked him and hastened back to the others.

  “Obviously it was Kitten Cole,” Joe said. “He must have followed us somehow, picked the lock, and come in while we were viewing the outtake.”

  “May I use your phone?” Frank asked Mr. Simmons. “I’d like to report this to the police.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Frank made the call, then asked when they could pick up the enlargements.

  “Tomorrow. Do you want me to make you another copy of the outtake?”

  “Yes, please. And thanks very much for your trouble.”

  Back at Buster’s house, over cups of tea, they pondered the new events.

  “I don’t think Dimitri and Cole set the fire,” Frank said. “They not only wanted to prevent us from having the film, but they wanted it themselves.”

  Joe nodded. “Let’s give Chet a call and see if there’s anything new at his end,” he suggested.

  It took a few minutes to get in touch with Chet. When he finally came to the phone he was out of breath.

  “Hi, fellows. I ran all the way. What’s up?”

  Frank told him what had happened.

  “Wow! You sure had a lot of adverse action out there,” Chet said.

  “True. How about you?”

  “Nothing happened here. Red Car never showed up again.”

  “That figures. By the way, how’s the romance?”

  “Great, just great. And boy! I’m learning a lot about film-making. I’m going to be a director someday.”

  “Okay, Chet, keep your eyes open.” Frank hung up.

  The boys retired for the night after watching a show on Buster’s television. Next morning they were awakened by the persistent ringing of the telephone.

  Buster Buckles reached it first. “Who?…Who do you want?…Yes, they’re here. Hold on, please.”

  Joe Hardy had wriggled out of his sleeping bag and Buster handed him the phone. “It’s for you. A woman.”

  “Hello, this is Joe Hardy.”

  “Joe, this is Betty Love. I’m here in California.”

  “Oh—Miss Love, how did you find us?”

  The woman chuckled. “I read the papers.” She added, “I’d like you to come and see me. I have some information for you.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “I don’t want to discuss it over the phone. Do you have a pencil? Then write down this address in Hollywood and come over right away.”

  J
oe fumbled for a piece of paper in his jacket pocket and wrote down the address. When he finished he thanked Betty Love and hung up.

  “What was that all about?” Buster asked.

  “Betty Love wants to see us.”

  “Betty Love, the actress? I remember her. She played in The Persian Glory.”

  “She was the one who told us about you. Now she says she has some more information. Obviously about The Persian Glory.”

  Buster scratched his head. “You’ve got an awful lot of enemies. Suppose that wasn’t Betty, but a trap?”

  Frank nodded. “I was just thinking that myself. On the other hand, we have to pursue all possibilities. Buster, would you go with us? You and Evan can wait outside, and if we don’t come out in ten or fifteen minutes, call the police.”

  “You bet!” Buster said. “But let’s eat first, eh? Who wants to get trapped on an empty stomach?”

  After breakfast they left. Again, there was no sign of any tail, but to be on the safe side, Buster drove in and out of side streets and made a quick U-turn at a gas station to throw off any possible pursuer.

  The address which Betty had given them proved to be a lovely home on a tree-lined street. Buster and Evan stayed in the car, while Frank and Joe walked up the front steps and rang the doorbell.

  A strange woman opened the door, smiled, and beckoned them inside. Their footsteps were muted by a thick oriental rug which led to a gracious living room. Seated in a high-backed chair beside the marble fireplace was Betty Love.

  She smiled. “Frank and Joe, I’d like you to meet my friend Marian Stewart. She’s another old actress like me.”

  After the boys were seated, Betty Love went on, “I was going through some things Marian kept in storage for me over the years. I found an old diary which might be of interest to you.”

  “Does it have to do with The Persian Glory?” Joe asked.

  The elderly woman nodded, reached for a leather-bound book lying on the table beside her, and opened it.

  She leafed through the yellowed pages until she found what she wanted. The entry was dated a few years after Nicholas Pandropolos had returned to Greece. It said that the old, authentic Greek helmet had been found at the studio.

  “I remember now,” Miss Love said, “the director was going to send it back to Greece, but with one thing and another he didn’t and it wound up in the storage building.”