Mystery of the Desert Giant (5 page)
Read Mystery of the Desert Giant Online
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
With a flourish he produced three passes to a motion-picture lot. “I called up an uncle who lives here in town,” he explained. “What about it, fellows?”
“You go ahead, Chet,” Frank suggested. “Joe and I will see what we can find out about Grafton and Wetherby at police headquarters, and show the warning note. Meet you back here later.”
At headquarters the Hardys spoke to the detective sergeant who had been assigned to the case. “We're really stumped on this Grafton disappearance,” the man admitted ruefully. “Nothing to go on. And we don't know much about Wetherby except what the Blythe police could give us.”
“Do you think Mrs. Grafton would see us?” Frank inquired.
“Oh, yes. Poor woman, she'll be grateful for your interest. You might stop at Grafton's electronics plant, too. A manager operates it now.”
When the detective had finished, Frank revealed what the boys had learned so far, and produced the threatening note.
“You're on to something, all right,” agreed the sergeant. “Keep me posted. And call on us any time, day or night, if you're in danger!”
The brothers thanked the sergeant and went back to their hotel. Chet Morton had not returned, but the two movie-lot passes were still on the table. Joe slipped them into his pocket.
“Why not go and meet him?” he suggested. “I wouldn't mind seeing a movie in the making myself!”
“Okay,” Frank agreed. “We can call on Mrs. Grafton this afternoon.”
The movie studio was fairly easy to find. Inside, an attendant checked the brothers' passes and directed them to the proper set, where a picture about Mexico was being filmed. However, they couldn't see the bulky figure of Chet Morton among the other spectators.
In the middle of the set itself a great many people were milling around. Most of the men wore tall, wide Mexican hats. Some were in faded blue jeans with blue denim jackets, while others had on gaily embroidered outfits with silver buckles and beautifully tooled leather belts and boots. All the women wore bright-colored costumes.
“Getting ready for a mob scene,” Frank remarked.
Suddenly Joe, whose eyes had been roving over the set, noticed two actors talking earnestly together in a corner. As the two parted, Joe was astonished to see that one was Chet, who was wearing his brand-new sombrero.
“Hi!” the stout boy called out as he spotted the Hardys. He hurried over.
“Who's your friend, Chet?” Joe inquired. By now the man had disappeared in the crowd of actors.
“Ohâjust one of the âextras,”' Chet explained. “He has a walk-on part in all of the mob scenes. When he saw my sombrero he said maybe I could get a job as an âextra' too. But I can't,” the disappointed Chet admitted sadly. “I asked the director. What a thrill it would have been, too!”
“Let's go, then.”
After the three left the lot they passed a bank on the street near the studio. Chet called a halt. “I want to go in here a minute, fellows. That poor actor you saw with me can't leave work before the banks close, so I cashed a check for him.”
“Say, you want to be careful whose personal checks you accept,” Joe observed.
“Oh, this one's okay. It's a United States government check for fifty dollars. It had been made over to Al Van Buskirkâthat actor I was talking toâand he endorsed it to me,” Chet reassured him, and went into the bank.
A few minutes later the door opened again, but instead of Chet, a uniformed bank guard confronted Frank and Joe!
“Friends of Chester Morton inside?” he asked them gruffly.
When they said yes, the guard asked them to come into the bank. He said Chet was in trouble.
“You're my witnesses, fellows,” Chet burst out in a worried voice. “Tell the cashier you know me and I'm honest.”
Briefly, Joe corroborated this statement. The cashier and guard appeared satisfied.
“But what about my money?” Chet wailed. “That check cleaned me out of cash.”
“I'm afraid you're out of luck,” the cashier said. “We'll turn the counterfeit check over to the Treasury Department, of course.”
“Counterfeit!” Frank exclaimed.
“That's right,” the cashier said. “A mighty good one, too.”
Frank and Joe looked at each other and instantly thought of their father's case. By any chance could Chet's counterfeit check have anything to do with it?
“Say, Joe,” his brother whispered, “I think we ought to go back at once and check on that actor.”
“Right.”
Chet was more than willing. “That guy can't do this to me! Just let me get my hands on him!”
The three boys raced up the street. They dashed past the astounded attendant, who tried to demand their passes. They pounded along the studio pathways, straight into the set and the crowd of extras dressed like Mexicans.
“I want my money back!” Chet bellowed.
Women in the crowd shrieked. Two men were sent sprawling by the sudden charge. Cries of surprise and anger arose from all directions. Someone began to fire blank cartridges. The shrieks redoubled. Whistles blew. Orders were barked.
On one side an excited little man wearing a blue beret jumped up and down and shouted “Cut! Cut! Cut!” at the top of his lungs.
Meanwhile, Chet was rolling on the ground, wrestling with a big actor who had objected to being run into so hard. When the two had been disentangled, and order had been restored, the small wiry man in the blue beret approached the boys with eyes blazing.
“My goshâthe director!” Chet moaned. “Now we're in for it!”
The little man stepped up briskly and looked Chet up and down. “Magânificent!” he exclaimed unexpectedly, clapping the astounded Chet on both shoulders. “Remarkable! The very thing we wanted! Mob violence! Disorder! Wild confusion!”
“You mean ... you're not mad at me?” Chet faltered.
“Mad at you? No!” The director snapped his fingers enthusiastically. “I'll use that scene.”
“You mean you're really going to put all that in a movie? But I still want to find that actor who gave me a phony checkâhis name is Van Buskirk.”
The director looked around the set. “He's gone. We finished the scene he was in just before you stormed the place!”
“That means I'm broke,” Chet said mournfully. “I'll have to sell my infrared camera equipment.”
“What are you talking about?” Joe demanded. “We need that in our work.”
Frank slapped his woebegone friend on the back. “We'll stake you to the rest of the trip.”
Chet grinned. “That's swell of you. But I still want my money back.”
“Where does this Al Van Buskirk live?” Frank asked the director.
“I don't know. Ask at the office.”
But the office did not know. The man was a wanderer, merely dropped in once in a while, and was paid cash for each job. Disappointed, the young sleuths went out and headed for a restaurant. After a hearty meal, Chet set off to visit his aunt and uncle, while Frank and Joe took a taxi to Willard Grafton's home.
Mrs. Grafton received them graciously. She was an attractive woman, somewhat younger than their own mother, but her husband's disappearance had added lines of sorrow and anxiety to her face.
A brown-haired, freckle-faced boy of about nine came in and eyed the Hardys uneasily. A younger brother, about seven, trailed him a moment later.
“Steve and Mark miss their father very much,” Mrs. Grafton explained as she introduced them to the Hardys. “I'm bewildered myself,” she confided to Frank and Joe when her sons had left the room. “If you only knew how grateful the three of us would be, if you could find my husbandâor even discover what happened to him!”
“We'll do our best,” the brothers promised.
They learned nothing new from her, except that Willard Grafton had taken no extra clothes with him, which seemed to prove he had no intention of being gone long.
Frank and Joe left the house and proceeded to the new, modern industrial building where Grafton's company still manufactured electronic self-starting devices. The boys climbed to the second floor, where they located a door bearing Grafton's name. They knocked.
A blond secretary opened it about three inches and asked suspiciously through the crack, “Who is it? What do you want?”
“Excuse me,” Frank began, “we want to ask some questions about Mr. Grafton.”
Before Frank could finish, the heavy door slammed in the boys' faces.
CHAPTER VI
New Evidence
“Missâoh, miss!” Frank called through the door. He had caught a glimpse of the secretary's face. It was tense and frightened. Frank sensed that something was wrong. “You must let us in. We've come from Mrs. Grafton!”
Behind the door, the secretary seemed to hesitate. “How can I be sure of that?”
“Call her on the phone. Mention Frank and Joe Hardy!”
For about five minutes the boys waited in the hall. At last the door opened. The secretary, an intelligent, pretty young woman, seemed calm now. Before speaking, however, she locked the door. No one else was there and a tiny sign on her desk gave the girl's name as Miss Everett.
“I should have known by looking at you boys that you're all right,” she apologized. “But those other men who were here this morning asking about Mr. Grafton gave me such a fright I don't trust anybody. I'm afraid to leave the door unlocked!”
“What other men? Not the police!” Joe broke in.
“Oh, no. Two big, rough-looking men. They weren't dressed very well and they talkedâyou knowâlike thugs. I wouldn't have let them in, except they said they were hunting for Mr. Grafton, so I thought they might be private detectives.”
“Hunting for Mr. Grafton?” The Hardy boys exchanged looks of surprise.
“Yes. Then, as soon as they were in, they got rough and made me show them Mr. Grafton's letters and records!” The pretty girl pointed to bruises on her wrists as evidence.
“They wouldn't have acted tough if they were on the up-and-up,” Joe said indignantly. “Did you call the police?”
Miss Everett shook her head. “The men said they'd make me sorry if I breathed a word about them to anybody!”
“It must be the same gang that's been bothering us,” Joe deduced.
“Maybe,” his brother returned thoughtfully. “But why are these two looking for Grafton if, as we suspect, they may be holding him? Could
another
gang be trying to get him away from the ones who have him?”
another
gang be trying to get him away from the ones who have him?”
Miss Everett went white. “How terrible!”
“You'll have to help us,” Joe appealed to the secretary. “Just tell us about Mr. Grafton. What kind of man was he? Did you like him?”
The girl knitted her brows. “Well,” she began, “when I first came to work for Mr. Grafton, about a year ago, I thought he was a wonderful man. He was so dynamic, and he was making a great success of his business. People liked him because he was so gay and lively. He made friends with everyone he met. Then, all of a sudden, he changed.”
“How do you mean?”
“He got moody. He would sit here brooding. When people came on business he snapped at them, and treated his customers as though they were trying to swindle him. He became suspicious of everybody.”
“He must have had some reason,” Joe suggested.
“Oh, yes. You see, his spirits had been very high, because he and an old college friend had pooled their resources and were negotiating to buy a new plant and double this business. Then the friend went off to Europe with all the money! Mr. Grafton didn't want to worry his family, so he never told them.
“After the trouble with his friend the only person he seemed to like was Mr. Wetherby. He said Mr. Wetherby was a challenging companion. Then they went off together and disappeared.”
“What did he mean by calling Mr. Wetherby a challenging companion?” Frank asked curiously.
“I don't know. Mr. Grafton had grown bitter and used to say that everybody in the world was dishonest, but at least Mr. Wetherby did exciting things.”
“What business was Wetherby in?” Frank pursued.
The secretary shook her head. “I don't know. But I can tell you where he lived. You might find out there.”
The boys wrote down the address. “Thanks, Miss Everett. As soon as we leave, you'd better call the police. They'll give you protection. Is there anything else you can tell us about Mr. Grafton?”
“Wellâhis only hobby was raising Shetland ponies, if that means anything.”
“You never know.” Frank made a note of the fact.
Back at the hotel, Frank and Joe stepped from the elevator and walked toward their room. At the far end of the hall a man wearing a short red jacket with polished brass buttons regarded them intently.
“Who's that?” asked Joe, while Frank unlocked their door.
“Just the bellman.” The boys entered the room.
“Bellman, your grandmother!” Joe exclaimed as he checked a picture in his wallet. “If that isn't the guy who hid in our bushes in Bayport and slugged Chet, I'll eat this photograph!”
Excitedly the boys rushed out and searched the corridor. The bellman had vanished.
“Let”s ask at the desk,” Frank suggested.
After waiting some time for the elevator, the boys went down to the hotel lobby. “We want to speak with this bellman,” Joe told the clerk on duty, showing him the full-face photograph.
Studying the picture, the clerk shook his head. “This man isn't one of our employees.”
“But he must be. We just met him, in uniform, near our room!”
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