Mystery of the Desert Giant (9 page)

Then Frank and Joe noticed that one of the policemen had been watching the strange man through binoculars. “It's that stolen motorboat, all right!” he announced to his fellow officer.

“He beat it when he saw us coming,” the second policeman answered.

“Did you say that boat was stolen, Officer?” Frank called out.

“Right. We've been looking for it all day.”

“We have reason to believe the thief is probably a member of a gang wanted by the police,” Frank said.

Briefly and clearly Frank and Joe related their discoveries in the Grafton case to the two startled officers. “And we're sure this motorboat was going to pick up the fake bellman!” Joe finished.

The officer in charge sized up the situation quickly. “This looks like serious business. You boys had better proceed downriver according to your plan. We'll start a search here for this boat thief and your phony bellman. They couldn't have gone far. When you get to Yuma, check in at police headquarters for news.”

In another moment the police launch was roaring toward the Arizona shore, while Frank and Joe steered for the boat docks on the California side.

Again Frank questioned the group of fishermen, loungers, and truckers on shore about Grafton and Wetherby and the three known members of the gang, but without success. Then Joe added a description of the surly boat thief, but nobody recognized him, either.

“Well, if they've been heic, they sure kept out of sight,” observed Joe, after the boys had launched their boat again below the dam.

“Don't be too sure,” his brother cautioned. “They may have been here. These people could even have seen them. The trouble is, they don't remember. Most people don't fully develop their powers of observation. After all, they're not detectives!”

“That's true,” agreed Joe, who had taken over the tiller once more. “Say,” he added suddenly, “have you noticed how dark it's getting? I can hardly make out the ripples that mark the snags and sand bars.”

The blurred forms of birds dipped and swooped over the water in search of insects. Only when they were silhouetted against the pale, luminous sky could the boys see them clearly. Bats flew about, veering sharply with their awkward, fluttering wings.

“Time to pitch camp,” said Frank. “We were up early, and we've had a long day sleuthing.”

Gently, Joe ran the nose of the boat up to a sand bar that made a pleasant beach. Frank leaped out carrying an anchor, and Joe followed with the rucksack containing food and cooking utensils.

The boys kindled a cheerful fire with bits of white, dry driftwood. Soon the pleasant sound of sizzling pork chops and their sharp, appetizing aroma filled the air. Joe, the cook, squatted on his haunches before the fire, turning the chops in the fry pan, toasting and buttering bread, and putting on water for their coffee. Meanwhile, Frank opened a can of applesauce and another of vegetables.

Tired from their long day, the young detectives leaned comfortably against a driftwood log and ate their supper from tin plates. Firelight flickered on their faces and threw shadows over the surrounding rocks.

“Now for dessert,” said Joe happily, skewering a marshmallow to toast over the dying fire.

Later, as Frank spread out their sleeping bags, he remarked, “We'll be glad to be inside these bags toward morning. It'll be damp right next to the water.”

Before turning in, Joe Hardy baited a strong line, attached it to a stout stick, and cast it into the river. “Night is a good time for catfish!” he said. “Let's see what we have in the morning!”

The boys crawled into their bags and slept soundly on the soft sand. Early the next morning they breakfasted upon the big catfish that Joe had hauled in on his night line.

“Tastes pretty good, for such an ugly customer!” Frank marveled.

Two hours later the boys docked their motorboat at Yuma, Arizona. A short walk from the river brought them to police headquarters.

“So you're the Hardy brothers!” the desk sergeant greeted them. “No news on your boat thief and his accomplice up at Laguna Dam, I'm sorry to say. Looks as if they've slipped through our fingers.”

Disappointed, Frank and Joe returned to their boat and headed down the river once more.

“Anyhow, we know they've been using the river,” Joe figured. “The only thing to do is stick to our plan. Maybe we'll run into Grafton or Wetherby or some others involved in this mystery.”

“I hope they let us through!” Joe said as they neared San Luis on the Mexican side.

“Why shouldn't they?” returned his brother. “We aren't smugglers!”

A uniformed customs official came to meet them.
“Buenos dias,”
the
aduana
inspector said. “You would like to visit our country? Have you some proof of identity with you? Visitors' permits, perhaps?”

“We sure do.” Frank and Joe handed over their permits.

When the
aduanero
saw the names on the cards, he frowned, bobbed his head up and down, and said stiffly, “Sorry, but you will not be allowed to come into Mexicol”

“BUT why not?” Joe cried in amazement. “You have our visitors' permits!”

“That will not be enough,” the inspector snapped coldly. “How do I know who you are? Two young men in a large hurry to get over the border. It must be for some secret purpose—perhaps illegal—or you would wait for
mañana.
You may be using the names Frank and Joe Hardy. It fits perfectly. We have been warned to expect you.”

“There must be some mistake,” Joe insisted.

In a flash Frank caught on. For the second time their enemies were trying to delay the young detectives by deliberately misleading the authorities!

“I can prove to you, Inspector,” he said, “that we're on the level—that our names really are Frank and Joe Hardy.”

Frank took out his birth certificate and suggested that Joe get his.

“Here's proof,” Frank said.

Startled, the inspector took the photostats that the boys held out. Doubtful, he frowned, read them, turned them over and over, and peered at their official seals.

“I cannot find anything wrong with these,” he admitted reluctantly.

“Of course not,” Frank said. “We're not the ones trying to hide anything. We're hunting for a missing man. We think he may be the victim of a gang of vicious criminals—probably the same ones who warned you about us. Who were they?”

The inspector gazed at the young sleuths for several seconds. Then apparently satisfied that they were honest, he said, “Two big, rough-looking fellows. Talked pretty tough. They told me they were private detectives. Showed me their credentials, too. Do you know them?”

“Ringer and Caesar!” Joe exclaimed to his brother. He turned back to the inspector. “Those men probably are members of the gang we're trying to find. They may have buddies in your country. If you don't believe our story, call the police at Yuma. They'll back us up.”

“I will,” the man agreed. “The chief of police there is a friend of mine.”

He placed the call and a few moments later said, “Carl? ... This is your friend Sanchos. Something funny is happening here....” Looking at Frank and Joe, he described them and gave their story.

Even from where they stood, the boys could hear the crackling voice on the other end of the wire. When the chief stopped talking, the inspector turned to them with a relieved look on his face.

“He says you are okay,” Sanchos told them. “The chief asked me to tell you the bellman has not been caught. Who is this bellman?”

Frank told him what little he knew.

“So sorry for all this trouble,” the inspector said. “Please to continue your journey.”

Frank and Joe grinned. “No hard feelings. But what about those two men? Which way were they crossing the border?” Joe asked.

“They were going to the United States.”

“Hm.” Frank considered, then said, “We'd better go on into Mexico, Joe.” His brother nodded, knowing that Frank meant they should continue their hunt for Grafton.

Under the fierce afternoon sun, the boys sent their boat on into the state of Sonora.

“I have a hunch,” said Joe, “that we're getting hotter on the trail of this mystery.”

“One thing is certain—that gang didn't want us in Mexico,” his brother returned. “There must be something down here they're trying to hide!”

“Do you suppose it's Grafton?”

“Could be. But there must be something else, too. I think Grafton is only part of it. Why does this gang want him in their game? And does their racket have something to do with those counterfeit United States government checks?”

“I'm convinced that if we can find Grafton, we'll find that out, too,” Joe declared.

In this area the river was shallow and difficult to navigate. Frank did the steering while Joe kept a sharp lookout on the river and along the shore. for any suspicious persons.

Suddenly, as they rounded a bend in the twisting river, the motors suddenly quit.

“Oh, no!” Joe moaned. “This
can't
happen!”

“Just did, though,” his brother muttered, bending over the engines. “Let's see. Fuel okay.”

Joe scrambled to the stern to help. The boys tried everything they could think of to start the motors, but the big, new outboards remained silent. Meanwhile, the boat was drifting downstream.

“Too complicated for me,” Joe had to admit.

“Let's get out of this current, anyway,” Frank advised. Skillfully he steered the powerless craft toward a sandy area on the right bank. They beached the boat and the boys bent industriously over the engines again.

“We have company,” Joe announced after a few minutes.

Jerking his head up, Frank caught sight of a child's face with sparkling eyes and gleaming white teeth, peeping at him mischievously from behind a clump of bushes along the bank. Then it ducked down, and the boys heard a loud giggle.

Instantly a whole chorus of giggles arose. Another face popped up for a peek, and then another. But when the Hardys looked, all disappeared again.

“Scared of us.” Frank laughed, rummaging in the rucksack. “Here's something to bring them out.”

Standing in the open so that he could be seen clearly, Frank began to peel the wrapper from a big bar of chocolate. The curious faces started to reappear, flashing shy smiles. Frank offered a piece to one bold, black-haired little fellow, his face bronzed by the sun. When the boy accepted, the others came out of hiding.

“They're Mexican Indian children,” Frank stated.

He and Joe, using their high school Spanish and pointing, explained their trouble. The little black-haired boy nodded knowingly and signaled for everyone to follow him.

Off in a line they started, the six little children and then the Hardy brothers. Half a mile's walk brought them to a small adobe farmhouse almost hidden by a field of high, green corn.

Like a swarm of bees, all buzzing excitedly, the children plunged into the corn. A moment later they were back, bringing with them a grave-looking Indian with a hoe in his hand.

As Joe excused himself to look around, Frank explained their trouble as simply as he could. “Our boat will not run. Is there a mechanic somewhere near here?”

The Indian had nodded after the first sentence to show that he understood. In answer to the question, he shook his head and made a sweeping gesture with his arm, as if inviting the boys to look. On one side was rough, somewhat hilly country; on the other, desert, completely wild except for the little farmhouse and the small field near it.