Mystery of the Desert Giant (6 page)

The clerk shook his head again. “Oh, Sam!” he called to a porter who was standing nearby. “Ever see this fellow before?” He showed the photograph. “These boys just saw him upstairs in a bellman's uniform.”

“Not one of ours.” The porter was even more definite.

“Then he must have borrowed the uniform,” Joe declared.

“Must be, sir,” agreed the porter. “All our bellmen are young. This man's a good forty years old. I'll call the house detective.”

Together, the detective and the boys searched the room where the bellmen changed their clothes, then checked the stairways and other possible hiding places. The mysterious suspect was not around.

Disappointed and puzzled, Joe and Frank returned to their room with the detective. “What did this man look like?” the detective asked.

Joe handed him the photograph and said, “He was not heavy, but looked strong. About five-feet-nine in height.”

“Well, we'll watch for him!” the detective promised as he left.

“Joe, that bellman was here to spy on you and me,” Frank said grimly as he locked the window leading to the fire escape and double-checked the lock on the hall door.

“You're right. Well, let's go to Mr. Wetherby's address and see what we can find out.”

The place was a boardinghouse, run by a bright-eyed, talkative Mrs. Watson. The rather stout lady, whose hair was just turning gray, met the boys at the door. White flour showed on her hands and her apron, and the pleasant aroma of baking came from the kitchen.

“Mr. Wetherby? I should say I do know something about him! A very good boarder he was, too, and knew good cooking when he tasted it! But come in, come in. We can't talk on the street. I'll have a pot of tea in a jiffy!”

Frank and Joe winked at each other. The price they would have to pay for information on Wetherby would be an hour at tea with the company-loving landlady. They followed her into a neat parlor.

“Tsk-tsk! That Mr. Wetherby,” the bustling woman clucked. “Twelve months I tried to fatten that man—he was such a skinny fellow. I never could understand it. He ate everything I gave him, too.”

Talking all the time, Mrs. Watson brought in teapot, cups, butter, fruit preserves, paper napkins, and finally a plate of fresh hot biscuits.

“He certainly should have gained weight here.” Frank laughed.

“Yes—you'd think so. But then he was a peculiar man. He used up so much energy just coming and going at all hours. His hair was thinning, too, and he wasn't what you would call an old man.”

“Coming and going?” Frank pricked up his ears. “Didn't he have any regular position?”

“Goodness me, he paid his rent, if that's what you mean. Do try another one of these biscuits, both of you! And when my boarders settle promptly, you know, I don't inquire further.”

“They sure are wonderful biscuits, Mrs. Watson,” Joe spoke up enthusiastically. “So Mr. Wetherby was a good roomer?”

“You must have been sorry to lose him,” Frank added sympathetically. “But then, he didn't leave owing you any money—except perhaps a week's room and board.”

“Why, dear me, no,” the woman protested. “Mr. Wetherby doesn't owe me a penny. Six months' room and board he paid me in advance, that last week, and he hasn't been here to get a bit of value for his money!”

“These are the best biscuits I ever tasted!” Joe remarked. The hospitable lady beamed. “So Mr. Wetherby had planned a little trip?”

“I suppose so,” Mrs. Watson assented. “He was often away for long stays.”

Suddenly, to Frank's and Joe's complete surprise, their hostess leaned forward in her chair and gave them a sly wink! “He was always mixed up in those things, you know!”

Lowering her voice, although there was nobody to eavesdrop, the talkative lady went on confidentially, “Those Latin-American countries. You know, there is always some kind of fighting going on down there. I don't pay much attention to it.”

“Yes, they often have revolutions,” Frank agreed.

“Well, I used to wonder, when I cleaned Mr. Wetherby's room. He had pictures of himself in an airplane—a war airplane, it was. Then there was a picture of a lot of them wearing those big ten-gallon hats, and do you know, all the men wore pistols and belts full of bullets, including Mr. Wetherby!”

“No wonder Mr. Grafton thought Wetherby did exciting things!” Frank exclaimed.

The landlady caught the name. “Yes, and he brought that gentleman here, too,” she added. Evidently she was pleased to have such surprising news to tell.

“This Mr. Grafton, he told me how Mr. Wetherby used to fight in those foreign wars. He said Mr. Wetherby did it just for the adventure. He certainly admired Mr. Wetherby.”

“You don't know what country he fought in, do you, Mrs. Watson?” Frank inquired.

“Dear me, I wouldn't know one of those places from another. Let me see—you boys finish those biscuits while I look around.” She bustled upstairs.

“I'm stuffed!” Joe whispered. “You eat the last biscuits, Frank, so we can keep in her good graces!”

“I can't.” Frank grinned, slipped the biscuits into his paper napkin, and put them into his pocket. “For Chet!”

In a moment Mrs. Watson returned. Seeing the empty plate, she exclaimed, “Dear me, you boys have been such good company, I'm going to give you this!”

She placed a copper coin in Frank's palm. “It was on Mr. Wetherby's bureau when he first came here. I wanted it for a souvenir because it looks just like a penny, you know, and he gave it to me.”

“República de Mexico!”
Frank read eagerly.

They whirled to see two brawny men climb into the room

“Thanks very much to—the best cook in California!”

When the Hardys returned to the hotel, they found Chet waiting for them and told their story.

“You mean Wetherby used to be a pilot for a bunch of rebels in Mexico?” he asked in disbelief.

“Right. And Mexico isn't far from Ripley. Let's have a look at the map.” Joe took one of the California-Arizona-northern Mexico area from his rucksack and spread it on the floor.

“Those missing men might have taken a boat right down the Colorado River into Mexico,” Frank pointed out.

“Maybe Wetherby was involved in a new revolution!” Joe added. “Or some other illegal business.”

A sudden rap at the door brought the boys hastily to their feet. Before they could answer, however, it opened and a man came in. He closed the door and stood facing the boys.

“The bellman!” Joe exclaimed. The man was not in uniform.

At the same time the boys heard a window open. They whirled to see two brawny men climb into the room from the fire escape!

“Yes, I unlocked the window,” the bellman told the boys in a harsh, unpleasant voice. “And now you kids start talking—or else me and Ringer and Caesar over there are going to make you!”

INSTINCTIVELY the three boys backed up until they felt a wall behind them.

“What do you expect us to talk about?” Frank demanded, to gain time.

“About Grafton,” snarled the fake bellman. “How much do you know? Come on—talk!”

The two brawny henchmen, Ringer and Caesar, advanced menacingly from the window, while the bellman moved in from the door.

“Quarterback sneak left!” Frank called, dropping to a football player's crouch.

Catching the signal, Chet, who played center for Bayport High, lowered one shoulder and plunged forward into the advancing Ringer. At the same instant Joe unleashed a body block that sent Caesar crashing backward into a desk. Frank, meanwhile, rushed the surprised bellman and threw him to the floor.

Caught off guard, the intruders fought back viciously for a few moments. But the agility and speed of the boys more than made up for the size and strength of their attackers. Caesar was groggy from his fall, and Ringer gasped for breath.

The bellman was the first to struggle to his feet. “Clear out!” he cried to his companions, knocking Chet off Ringer. Caesar was able to free himself, and the three men fled out the door. The boys went after them, but the men rushed into a service elevator. Apparently the bellman had left the door open for a quick getaway. The door slammed and the car shot downward.

“We'd never catch 'em by racing down the stairs,” Joe panted.

“No,” Frank agreed. “And they'll lose themselves in the street before we can overtake them.”

“They didn't get away scot free, though,” Chet announced after the boys reached their room. “The man I blocked out dropped this. It may be a valuable clue.”

Frank took the carefully folded paper from Chet and spread it out. “Why, this is a copy of our flight plan from Blythe to Los Angeles! One of their gang must have sneaked into the airport office and copied the original. That's how they trailed us here.”

“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.