Mystery of the Desert Giant (2 page)

“I see what you're getting at, Frank,” Fenton Hardy said excitedly. “You mean the various giant figures were visible to Willard Grafton and Clifford Wetherby as they flew over the desert?”

“And they landed their plane to have a closer look!” Joe finished eagerly.

“Maybe that's the answer to your first question, Mr. Dodge.”

The lawyer, however, was not satisfied. “These scratch marks don't mean anything, Fenton. I wouldn't have mentioned them myself, if Frank hadn't reminded me. Why, once you're on the ground, you can't see them at all!”

“That makes them all the more valuable as possible clues to the lost men,” the experienced investigator answered. “In detective work, sometimes it's the crazy clues that bring results. This case is really beginning to interest me.”

“Then you'll help me find Grafton?” the visitor asked eagerly.

Fenton Hardy hesitated. The international reputation he had won since leaving the New York City Police Department to become a private investigator in Bayport had brought more cases to him than he could accept.

“Phil, I'm afraid I can't possibly leave the case I'm engaged on now.” When their visitor expressed his disappointment, the detective added, “However, if you agree, I can start my two chief assistants on the case.”

“Wonderful!” Philip Dodge brightened. “When may I talk with them?”

“Immediately. They happen to be seated right here in this room.”

Puzzled, the lawyer looked around. Then he understood. “Really, Fenton. I have heard about some of Frank's and Joe's adventures. But do you think this case can be entrusted to amateurs?”

“Frank and Joe are amateurs, but very experienced,” said their father proudly. “Recently they broke up a gang of international air-freight thieves, with practically no assistance from me. What do you say they fly out to Blythe and look things over, at least until I can get on the case myself?”

Much to the elation of the brothers, Philip Dodge agreed.

“Hurray! Let's tell Chet!” Joe urged. “Where is he, anyway? It doesn't take this long to develop pictures.”

“Developing pictures—ha-ha! Probably he came in the back way and stopped first for a piece of cake in the kitchen,” Frank answered.

But good-natured Chet Morton, who loved to eat, was not in the kitchen. In the Hardys' garage laboratory, a short while before, he had developed and printed the two pictures taken with his infrared camera. What he discovered when he examined the second print made him give an excited yelp. Chet grabbed both prints, dashed down the stairs, out of the garage, and across the yard.

Heavy darkness enveloped the whole yard and back of the house. Chet yanked at the back door, but it was locked. Running, stumbling a little in the dark, he sped around to the front entrance.

Before he reached it, something seemed to explode all at once at the back of his head. Chet felt the cool grass come up and hit his face. Then he lapsed into unconsciousness.

“Boy, it's dark tonight!” exclaimed Joe, after the brothers had walked with Mr. Dodge to the front porch and made arrangements to come to his office the next day.

“Won't make any difference to Chet's infrared camera,” Frank replied. “Let's see what's on his films.”

From where they stood the boys could see the light in the laboratory window. Knowing every inch of the ground, they started for the garage on the double.

Joe, who was in the lead, tripped over something and sprawled headlong. Recovering his balance with a near somersault, he called back, “Wow! What was that?”

“Chet!” cried the amazed Frank, stooping down. “He's been slugged.”

Supporting the heavy, limp form of Chet Morton between them, Frank and Joe re-entered the living room. Exclamations of alarm and concern filled the house as the other members of the Hardy family came on the run.

Laura Hardy, the boys' slim and attractive mother, quickly brought cold towels and spirits of ammonia, while her husband loosened the unfortunate Chet's clothing and chafed his wrists.

Aunt Gertrude, Fenton Hardy's unmarried sister, clucked in concern. “I knew it! I knew it! This is what comes of meddling with mysteries!”

Nevertheless, Aunt Gertrude herself, a tall, angular woman of great vigor, took charge. She soaked a gauze pad in the spirits of ammonia and passed it expertly, not too close, under Chet's nose. As the pungent fumes reached his nostrils, the boy gave a sudden start and moaned.

“Whew!” The entire Hardy family breathed in relief, and Joe, to test Chet's mental state, said, “Chet! Aunt Gertrude has just baked a fresh chocolate cake!”

The stout boy roused himself still further. “D-did you say chocolate cake?” he asked weakly.

Completely aroused by this time, Chet was bombarded with questions, but could only say, “Don't ask me who did it. There I was, rushing to find you two—when
biff,
I saw stars.”

“But why would anyone hit poor Chet?” asked Mrs. Hardy.

“Because he was helping the Hardy boys on a mystery again, that's all,” answered Chet with great sympathy for himself. “I had just made an important discovery.”

“The pictures!” Frank and Joe exclaimed.

Chet nodded. “The first one—the fellow who went away—was just some man. I don't know who. The other one I snapped fast, and my aim wasn't too good. I didn't get much of Mr. Dodge.
But I got the full face of somebody crouching in the bushes under your living-room window!”

“Great mackerel!” cried Joe, rummaging in his friend's pockets. “Let's see those pictures!”

To the Hardys' dismay, both prints were missing. Chet smiled. “You can always take a look at the copies I left in the lab.”

“Better get them now, boys,” Fenton Hardy suggested. “We must find out if the person who slugged Chet is someone interested in the case I'm working on, or the Grafton case. The picture may help to identify the prowler.”

The brothers hurried to the laboratory. To their surprise and dismay the place was a shambles—it was evident that someone had made a hurried search. As the boys quickly straightened the equipment, they found no sign of the other set of prints which Chet had mentioned.

“That settles it,” said Joe. “The thief doubled back after striking Chet to get any other prints and the negatives.”

“Now we can't possibly identify him,” Frank moaned. A moment later he whistled. “Look!”

Tacked to the wall at the end of the laboratory was a small hastily printed note:

Beneath the note was a crude stick drawing of a man with an arrow aimed toward his heart.

“Not much of an artist, is he?” Joe mused. “Say, Frank, what does this remind you of?”

“By stretching the imagination I'd say that the figure
could
be the outline of a desert giant with an Indian arrow pointing to his heart.”

“If only we hadn't lost the pictures!” Joe sighed.

“You can always print another set.” Chet grinned. “I hid the negatives in that secret compartment of your workbench. What kind of a detective do you think I am, anyway?”

Frank and Joe applauded Chet's action and hurried to make prints from the negatives. Then, returning to the house, the Hardys and Chet held a brief council. None of them knew the dark-haired, muscular eavesdropper or the slender, gray-haired man who had started to turn into the Hardys' walk.

“The unknown eavesdropper,” Frank said, “probably heard everything that was said to Mr. Dodge. Why did he come, unless he's connected with Willard Grafton's disappearance?”

“And with the mysterious telephone call,” Joe added. Briefly, he told his father of the warning.

“What I say is this,” broke in peppery Aunt Gertrude. “That terrible man outside heard you boys discussing some new mystery, and he hit poor Chet on the head to warn you to keep out of it!”

“Why, Aunt Gertrude,” Joe teased with a straight face, “we're only going to take a quiet vacation in sunny California.”

“I know how quiet it will be,” snapped their aunt. “Just one danger after another.”

Calm, sensible Mrs. Hardy worried a little too, but she had implicit faith in her sons' ability to take care of themselves. “Just be careful,” she cautioned.

The next morning Fenton Hardy and the boys drove to police headquarters, in downtown Bayport, with the pictures. The detective had always worked closely with the police, and this had earned him the respect and friendship of Chief Ezra Collig.

“Humph. No trouble about this one,” grunted the husky chief as he examined the picture of the visitor who had changed his mind and walked away from the Hardys' house. “He's Charles Blakely, trustee of the Bayport Savings Bank, and one of our fine citizens. Probably he didn't know your neighborhood and mistook your house for another one. But this fellow in the bushes looks like a mean customer. We'll have to check the rogues' gallery on him.”

The picture was compared to those in the police files, but without results.

“Tough luck, boys,” their father said. “And now I must hurry back to my own case.”

He left them and the boys went to Mr. Dodge's office. The lawyer introduced them to a tall, bald-headed man wearing a conservative gray suit.

“Clement Brownlee, boys. Willard Grafton's uncle.”

Mr. Brownlee's face grew serious as the brothers described the attack on Chet Morton. “Boys,” he began with feeling, “I've no right to expose you to any danger on my nephew's account. Perhaps we'd better drop the case.”

“We can't quit now, Mr. Brownlee We're making progress!” Joe protested. “Don't you see, the attack proves your nephew didn't just wander off in the desert and get lost? He is in the hands of somebody who doesn't want him found.”

“This fellow,” Frank added, producing the photograph.

Both men examined the picture eagerly, but to Frank's and Joe's disappointment, they ended by shaking their heads. “A complete stranger. But we'll let you know if anything turns up,” the lawyer promised.

Frank and Joe spent the next day making plans and packing for the trip.

“Sunglasses and wide-brimmed hats,” said Joe, checking these articles. “The sun will be broiling hot. And canteens, also.”

“Take warm clothes, too,” his brother warned. “The desert nights are plenty cool.”

The following morning Joe jumped out of bed singing “California, here we come!”

Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude gave the boys a hearty farewell breakfast of steak and hash-browned potatoes.

“Where's Dad?” Frank asked.

“Out before breakfast on his own mystery,” Aunt Gertrude replied tartly. “Such a household!”

After breakfast Joe telephoned Chet Morton at his farm a mile outside Bayport. “Ready?”

“I was just thinking,” the chubby boy said in a worried voice. “Suppose that guy who conked me is out there? I don't want to be knocked out again.”

“What's he talking about, Joe?” Frank said impatiently.

“I think he's a little scared,” Joe answered loud enough for Chet to hear, and with a wink at Frank.

“Say, I am not,” Chet protested. “I can't wait to get out West and try some of that Mexican food!”

An hour later the three friends met at the airport and walked to the trim, blue six-seater monoplane which Fenton Hardy had purchased recently. Lean, tanned Jack Wayne, who was Mr. Hardy's pilot, had given Frank and Joe flying lessons. Now Frank would pilot the plane to California.

“We'll tune her up, and she'll be ready to go,” Jack greeted them.

Meanwhile, Chet stowed the baggage in the fuselage, finding a special place for his infrared camera. When he had filed his flight plan, Frank started the engine to taxi out for take-off.

Joe's keen eyes spotted a powerful car speeding up the road to the airport. “Hold it, Frank! I think Dad's coming.”

Frank cut the engine as the detective hurried out to the plane.

“Glad I caught you, boys! I've been on the go since dawn—uncovered one of the neatest ways of defrauding the government I've ever run into. No time to explain now, but it will keep me here several days. I hope to meet you later. Good luck!”

“Any instructions, Dad?” Frank asked.

The experienced detective thought for a moment. “Play your hunch—the desert giants,” he advised. “One other thing,” he added. “I'm going to bring my birth certificate with me, in case I find it necessary to leave the country. Here are photostats of yours for you to keep in your wallets. And here is Chet's too. I picked his up on the way out here.”

The three boys took them and called their thanks. Frank started the engine and taxied the plane into position. Then, with a full-throated roar, she streaked down the runway and rose gracefully into the sunny morning sky.

Frank held course directly for Chicago. By afternoon the boys could see below them the blue rippling waters of Lake Erie. Later, the eastern shore of Lake Michigan, with Chicago at its southern tip, came in sight. The late afternoon sun gleamed upon numerous planes all circling in the vicinity of the Chicago airport.

“Oh—oh! Looks as if we're going to be stacked up here!” Frank flipped on his transmitter. “56D to tower! Request landing instructions!”

“Your position, 56D?”

“Over S.W. chimney stack.”

“Tower to 56D. Hold where you are until traffic clears.”

Resigned, the boys joined the other craft circling above the airport. Finally their landing instructions came. Expertly Frank brought the blue ship down and into line with his designated runway. As the wheels gently touched ground, the boys stared ahead of them in sudden horror.