The Mysterious Caravan Read online

  While all the preparations were underway, Mrs. Hardy and her sister-in-law looked on quietly. It was obvious that they were apprehensive, thinking of the safety of the four boys in a strange continent.

  “Please don’t worry about us,” Frank said. “We’ve got William to help us, and Chet, who’s proven his reliability many times. As a matter of fact—”

  Mrs. Hardy, who was looking out the window, suddenly shrieked, her shoulders shaking.

  “Mother!” Frank exclaimed. “Are you laughing or crying?”

  “L-look!”

  Somebody clomped onto the porch and Joe opened the door. There stood Chet Morton! He wore tan shorts, a military blouse with epaulets, and a pith helmet. A canteen was slung over his shoulder.

  “Hey, let me in quick!” he cried out. “I’m freezing!”

  CHAPTER XIII

  The Spooky Villa

  “CHET, you’ll catch pneumonia and won’t be able to go to Africa with us!” Joe said.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll warm up in no time.” Chet danced a jig, which looked even more comical because of his red legs and short pants.

  The fun over, the boys settled down to the serious business of making plans. William called his parents, who gave him their permission to take the trip. Then a travel agent booked them from Bayport to Kennedy International Airport in New York and on to Casablanca, where they got reservations at the Hotel Marhaba.

  “When you get there, telephone the United States Consul, John Klem, and make an appointment to see him,” Mr. Hardy suggested. “He’ll brief you on Morocco, and you’ll be oriented in no time at all. Also, read up on the country in the encyclopedia.”

  The boys spent the entire evening doing that. Morocco, they learned, was once under French control, and the French language was still widely spoken along with Arabic. One-hundred-thousand Frenchmen were scattered about the country. Arab women wore caftans and the men, djellabahs. But the ordinary street dress was the burnoose, a long, hooded cloak.

  Early the next morning the Hardys dispatched Chet to pick up their tickets at the travel office, and after lunch they started out for the airport. After Phil, Tony, and Biff had given their friends a surprise send-off, the four boys caught the plane to New York and did not have to wait long for the connecting flight. The ride over the Atlantic was pleasant, and when they touched down in Casablanca, the companions took a taxi directly to their hotel. They were assigned two adjoining rooms on the sixth floor.

  Frank phoned Mr. Klem immediately. The consul’s secretary said he was out for the day and set up an appointment for the following morning.

  “Thank you,” Frank said. “By the way, can you recommend a good restaurant? We’d like to try the native food.”

  “There’s no finer dining place than Al Mounia,” she replied. “It’s really beautiful, and the cous-cous is out of this world.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Order and you’ll see,” she answered, laughing. “But easy with the sauce. It’s very hot.”

  The friends spent the day driving around the city. The hotel concierge suggested that they rent a carrossa, a horse-drawn carriage, so as to take in the sights leisurely.

  All the main streets radiated from a hub in the center. Like spokes on a giant wheel, the thoroughfares went in every direction of the compass and were lined with gleaming white buildings.

  The boys stopped their driver and browsed through curio shops, where William was particularly interested in art objects made by the black tribes south of the Sahara desert.

  “Look at this!” he said. “The kind of dog I always wanted.” In his hands he held a carving of a small, lightly built animal with a short back, which seemed to be set high on the legs compared to its length. It had a wrinkled forehead and carried its head proudly. The dog’s demeanor was poised but alert.

  “What breed is it?” Chet asked.

  “It’s a Basenji,” William replied, “an African dog. Look at that sleek head!”

  “I’ve heard about them,” Frank said. “But I’ve never seen one.”

  William had, in Jamaica, and vowed that some day he would have one. “As far back as three thousand B.C.,” he said, “these dogs were favorites of the pharaohs in Egypt. They disappeared from sight for centuries, and finally were rediscovered as companions of the pygmies in the African Rain Forest.”

  “Basenji sounds like a Swahili word,” Joe said.

  “It is, and it means a ‘wild thing,’” William explained. He added with a grin, “This dog’s bite is worse than his bark, because the Basenji does not bark at all. He makes a noise almost like a chortle or a yodel.”

  Joe took the carving and handed it to the clerk. “William, you now own your favorite breed. It’s a gift from us to you.”

  The dog was wrapped, paid for, and presented to the Jamaican boy, who thanked the Hardys warmly.

  Then Chet said, “Listen, fellows. It’s getting near that time.”

  “Okay, Chet,” Frank said. “Are you all set to try the cous-cous?”

  “I would try cous-cous, goose-goose, or moose-moose,” Chet said, patting his belt. “Sightseeing makes me hungry.”

  Their driver dropped them off at Al Mounia and Frank told him not to wait. Then they entered a walkway leading to the restaurant, with its Moorish arched facade.

  “Those mosaics are beautiful,” William said. “It looks more like a museum than an eating place.”

  The inside was even more impressive. The walls and ceilings were also covered with colorful mosaics. Instead of sitting at tables, diners sat on divans around the walls.

  The maitre d’hotel, in formal clothes, ushered the boys to one of them, and they sat down on the low cushioned seats. A colorfully dressed black man presented them with large menus. He wore a white jacket, red fez, white stockings, and black pantaloons.

  “Hey, this is really cool!” Chet said. “Nothing like Bayport.”

  The boys ordered and waited expectantly. It did not take long for the waiter to bring a large silver tray laden with food. First, he spooned out a pile of semolina on each plate.

  “Looks like rice,” Joe commented.

  Around it, the man carefully arranged raisins, onions, carrots, chick peas, and turnips. Over this he ladled chunks of lamb and yellow broth, which was quickly absorbed by the semolina.

  Beside each plate he placed a small dish of condiment. The sauce, he indicated, was to be put on the meat.

  “Well, here we go,” said Chet. He had been gazing around at other diners, paying no attention to what the waiter said. “I think I’ll try a little of the soup first.”

  Eagerly he put a spoon into the sauce and before the Hardys could stop him, swallowed a mouthful. Immediately he had spasms of choking. His face grew red, and he reached for a glass of water. Chet drank it down, his eyes rolling and sweat pouring from his forehead. His voice was a hoarse whisper as he slid off the divan. “I-I’ve been poisoned.”

  “No you haven’t,” Joe said as the waiter rushed up with another glass of water.

  “That’s not soup,” Frank said. “It’s a condiment. A little bit goes a long way!”

  He helped Chet to his seat, and the boys began to eat their meal eagerly.

  About halfway through, the waiter moved unobtrusively to Frank’s side and pressed a note into his hand.

  The boy read the message. “It’s from Mr. Klem,” he told the others. “He wants to see us immediately.” The note gave the consul’s home address.

  “We’re not going to fall for that one, are we, Frank?” Joe asked.

  “You mean it might be a trap?” William said.

  “It’s probably phony,” Joe said, and Frank was inclined to agree. He signaled the manager, who hastened over to them.

  “Oui, Monsieur,” he said. “Is everything satisfactory?”

  “The food is wonderful,” Frank replied. “By the way, do you know Mr. Klem, the United States Consul?”

  “Oui. Very well. Is he a friend of yours?”


  “We’ve never met him,” Frank said. “But I just received a message asking us to his home.”

  “I-I’ve been poisoned!” Chet rasped.

  “Who gave it to you?”

  Frank pointed to the pantalooned waiter, who had overheard the conversation and quickly explained that the note had been given to him by a taxi driver.

  “The address is authentic,” the maitre d’hotel said, glancing at the note. “If there is any doubt, why don’t you telephone Monsieur Klem?”

  “That’s a good idea,” Frank said. He was directed to a phone near the entrance. He dialed the number and received a busy signal.

  He returned to the table and told his friends about the call. “At least someone’s home,” he said. “Shall we go?”

  “I think so,” Joe decided. “Maybe Klem’s secretary told him that we were here. And obviously he is known at Al Mounia.”

  “Hey, fellows,” Chet said, “I don’t feel so hot. Maybe that sauce did me in.”

  “Tell you what,” Frank said. “You and William go back to the hotel, while Joe and I visit Klem. Okay?”

  Chet nodded, and the boys paid their bill. On the way out Frank tried the consul’s number again. It was still busy.

  As they stepped into the street, a taxi pulled up to the curb in front of them. The driver, a smiling Arab wearing a burnoose, jumped out and opened the door.

  “You go ahead,” Chet said to the Hardys. “We’ll get another cab.”

  “Right. See you later.”

  The Hardys climbed in and showed the driver Klem’s address. After ten minutes, Frank said, “I thought he’d live in a nice residential area. Look, Joe, this seems more like a slum!”

  The road finally ran into a sparsely settled part of town, and the man stopped in front of a low, white villa that sat far back from the street. A dim light was shining inside.

  “You’re sure this is the right address?” Frank asked the driver as he paid him.

  “Oui, Monsieur.”

  “You stay here,” Joe added, “so you can take us back to our hotel.”

  But as soon as the boys walked toward the house, the driver quickly started off.

  “How do you like that?” Frank said. “You suppose he doesn’t understand English?”

  “I don’t like this at all,” Joe commented as they cautiously approached the front door. “It’s spooky here.” He noticed another car coming out of the darkness in the distance.

  Frank pressed a bell. The door flew open and a bright light flashed into their faces. Four strong hands reached out and grabbed the boys!

  Frank and Joe struggled to escape as the car stopped in front!

  CHAPTER XIV

  Foiled by a Donkey

  FRANK and Joe fought furiously to keep from being dragged into the house. Then two figures jumped from the car and raced up the walk.

  Chet and William!

  Without a word, they pitched into the fray and pulled the Hardys loose.

  “Let’s get out of here quick!” Chet panted. They ran to the waiting taxi and sped off. There was no pursuit.

  “Take us to the police,” Frank told the driver. He turned to Chet. “How come you arrived just in the nick of time?”

  “Well, we felt we were copping out on you,” Chet explained. “We didn’t know whether it was a trap or not, so we decided to follow—a backup team, so to speak.”

  “Good thing you did,” Joe said wryly. “How’s vour stomach?”

  “In all that excitement I forgot about it.”

  When they arrived at headquarters, the Hardys took turns explaining what had happened to them. But the officer at the desk shrugged, his arms outstretched. “I do not speak the English so good,” he said.

  The boys tried to use their high school French, but with no better results. The officer seemed as baffled as they were. On the way back to their hotel, Joe said, “What a way to start an investigation in Africa. Our cover’s blown already!”

  “We have probably been spied on ever since we landed,” William surmised.

  “It gives me a creepy feeling,” Chet said. “Now it’s getting real dangerous.”

  “But who are they?” Frank thought aloud. “The goons from the ticket racket or the treasure hunters?”

  “Who knows?” Joe said. “Maybe both.”

  After breakfast the next morning the young sleuths went directly to the office of the United States Consul. Mr. Klem, a short, slender, balding man, greeted them cordially and listened attentively to their story.

  Finally he said, “About your father’s case—the airline-ticket racket—we’ve had trouble here, too. The police have no leads, and I know anything you can do to help them would be appreciated.”

  Frank said, “And have you heard about an ancient mysterious caravan?”

  The official explained that many legends and rumors abounded about ancient treasure in the Atlas Mountains, but he could tell them nothing substantial. “Perhaps you can learn more when you go to Marrakesh,” he concluded.

  Just then the phone on his desk rang. He listened for a moment and looked up at his visitors. “There’s a caller for you,” he said.

  The door opened, and the boys turned to see a beautiful dark-haired girl enter. She seemed to be about eighteen years old, slim and lithe. Her slightly almond-shaped eyes flashed over the Americans and she smiled. “Frank and Joe Hardy?” she asked in a lilting French accent.

  “That’s us,” Joe said. “Over there’s Frank.”

  “Then this must be Chet Morton and William Ellis. Am I right? Mr. Klem and I have met before.”

  The man rose from behind his desk and said, “Mademoiselle Christine Cellier.”

  “Dr. Cellier’s daughter?” Frank asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Father sent me to help and I found out from the concierge at your hotel that you would be here.”

  “That’s great,” said Chet. “We could use a guide.”

  Christine said that she would spend the day with the boys and would then accompany them to Marrakesh to meet her family the following morning. “I am staying overnight with an aunt here in Casablanca,” she explained.

  The young Americans thanked the consul and left with their new friend. They walked along the street until they came to a sidewalk cafe.

  “Let’s stop here and sit down,” Frank said.

  Over frosty glasses of coke, the young people relaxed and talked. Christine laughed when she heard about the cous-cous. This led to discussion of the frightening experience of the evening before; then Frank told the girl about their father’s case.

  “I think a travel agency might be a good cover for such a ticket-theft gang,” he concluded. “Maybe we should check out all such places in Casablanca.”

  “I will be glad to help you,” Christine said. “There is one that I know well, and others we can go to.”

  When they had finished, the five visited the three largest agencies in town. The people were very cordial and said that as far as they knew, the ticket racket had made little progress in their city.

  In the Agentur d’Este, where Christine knew the proprietor, the Hardys picked up their first clue. The owner said that a new agency had opened in a very old part of town, which was odd. It was not known to tourists, and was rarely frequented by business people. The man shook his head. “Where they get their trade, I do not know.”

  “You think it is worth investigating, Frank?” William asked.

  “Definitely. Let’s go.”

  They stopped long enough for a snack before the girl led them into a run-down part of town, located some distance from the commercial center. The narrow streets were cobblestoned, and very old houses were built against one another. The doors, flush on the sidewalk, opened into dark interiors.

  Finally Christine said, “Here is the place.”

  It was no more than a hole in the wall with a sign over the door in Arabic. “World Travel Agency,” Christine translated.

  The office was so
small that there was room only for Frank, Joe, and the girl. The other two remained outside.

  A man appeared from the back room, noticed the three, and quickly ducked out of sight again. The Hardys pretended not to see. But Joe moved Frank aside and whispered, “That fellow looked familiar!”

  “He’s the cabbie who set us up last night!” Frank said.

  The man, who now wore European dress instead of the burnoose, did not come back. Christine called out in French, then in Arabic. Finally the three stepped out again into the blazing sunlight.

  Quickly they told Chet and William about the suspect. “Let’s split up and stake this place out,” Frank suggested. “Joe, you and William see if there’s a back door. The rest of us will watch the front.”

  “Roger.”

  Joe and the Jamaican hurried down the street, turned into a side lane, and went around behind the travel agency.

  “This should be it,” Joe said. They concealed themselves in a doorway and watched. Within a few moments, the suspect poked his head out and looked around cautiously, but did not see the boys. Then he closed the door behind him, locked it, and turned left, down an alley. It grew so narrow that it was possible to leap over the rooftops from one side to the other.

  Joe and William followed him, bumping into Arabs in their haste. Then they heard the cry “Balik! Balik!” A bearded man approached, leading a donkey. The beast’s back was piled high with rugs, which nearly touched the buildings on each side of the alley.

  The boys tried to squeeze past the load, but could not. They had to press themselves tightly against a building as the cargo passed.

  “I guess we learned an Arabic word,” Joe said. “It must mean ‘out of the way!’”

  William nodded. “So is our man. I cannot see him any more.”

  “He disappeared!” Joe said grimly. “Let’s go back to the others before we lose them, too.”

  They found Frank, Chet, and Christine still staking out the front entrance of the travel agency, and explained how the suspect had slipped away.

  “Nothing happened on this end,” Frank reported, “except that the guy locked the front door.”