The Melted Coins (11 page)

“Nobody home,” he reported.

As he went back to the car a neighbor hailed him. “If you're looking for Lendo, he's in the woods!”

“Thanks,” Paul said, and turned to Frank and Joe. “I think I know just where he might be. Follow me.”

The boys got out of the car and Paul led the way into the woods behind Wallace's lot. “He works here quite often,” Paul explained. “There are some nice smooth trees for mask-making.”

He shouted Lendo's name a couple of times, but there was no reply. Finally they came to a gloomy area of scarred trees, evidence of Wallace's previous mask-making.

“See here?” Paul said, pointing to fresh cuts in a basswood. “He's making a life mask.”

All three walked up close and studied it.

“Holy Toledo!” Joe exclaimed. “This resembles you, Frank!”

Paul scanned Frank's face, then the mask. “He's right,” he said, a troubled look coming over his face. “I don't like to tell you this, but Lendo regards you as an evil spirit. He's trying to get rid of you, Frank!”

“Do you take this seriously, Paul?” Joe inquired.

Instead of replying, the Indian frowned, turned, and started to walk out of the woods. The Hardys followed. Finally Paul spoke.

“I do consider this serious, fellows. Why don't you take Lendo's advice and go home?”

Frank and Joe did not reply. When they emerged from the woods, Frank asked, “Are you still going to take us to Niagara Falls?”

“You can back out of it if you want,” Joe added.

Paul Jimerson stopped and turned to the boys. His carefree look was back and he grinned. “Of course I'll take you. An Indian doesn't quit, either.”

“Good,” Joe said. “Now we'll relieve our kidnapping friends of a hungry mouth.”

Suddenly Frank bent over and rubbed his leg. “I've been stung by a bee!” he declared. He continued walking for a few minutes, then keeled over, flat on his face!

AFTER hitting the ground Frank lay still. Joe and Paul quickly rushed to his aid and rolled him over on his back. He looked pale and his breathing was labored.

Joe had read about allergic reaction to bee stings. For some people, it could be fatal. He bared his brother's leg to examine the spot.

“Good night!” he cried out. “Paul, look at this!”

A miniature dart had punctured the skin. Joe pulled it out. “Frank's in great danger!” he said anxiously. “He's been shot like Dr. Rideau's dogs. We must get him to a doctor immediately!”

Paul swung the injured boy on his back and hurried to the car. Joe glanced around for a suspect. There was no one in sight.

“I'll bet it was Lendo Wallace,” he said through clenched teeth as they laid Frank on the back seat.

“I think you're wrong. Lendo wouldn't do a thing like that!” Paul replied. “Anyway, I know a doctor who has his office not far from here. I'll take you there.”

They sped to the address, five miles distant. The physician was just leaving when Joe intercepted him at the door.

“My brother's been shot by a poison dart!” he said. “You must help him!”

“Where is he? Bring him right in here,” the doctor ordered.

Paul carried Frank inside, put him on an examining table, and after a quick analysis of the poison missile, the doctor administered an antidote.

“Good thing you brought him here fast,” he said, after observing Frank's reaction for a while. “He's out of danger now. He should stay at the hospital overnight, though.”

Frank had regained consciousness. When he heard the doctor's words, he said feebly, “I can't do that. We have urgent business in Niagara Falls.”

The physician turned to Joe. “Now look. Your brother is not well and can't do anything strenuous. He needs rest!”

“I'll see to it that he gets it,” Joe assured him. “We'll take him with us and as soon as we get there he'll go to bed.”

Paul and Joe helped Frank into the car.

“All set for the honeymoon center?” Paul asked Joe.

“Right. Do you know a place there where we can stay?”

“I've got a cousin. His kids are in college. Maybe we can sleep there.”

“Great. One more thing. We'd better report this incident to the police.”

They stopped at headquarters and Joe related the details of the dart assault. He told the chief where they were going, saying they expected to be back at the Sunset Motel in a day or two.

The chief promised to have the wooded area searched for clues, and the boys left.

The trip to Niagara Falls was uneventful. Paul drove directly to the home of his cousin. The man, who was considerably older, made wrought-iron furniture and had his own shop.

His wife, a plump, cordial woman, invited them to stay as long as they wished. She led Frank and Joe to one room and Paul to another. “Now that the children are gone, we have plenty of extra space,” she said with a smile.

After supper Frank went directly to bed, while Joe phoned the Rideaus. The doctor answered and told him that Tay and Boots were still at the vet's, but recovering nicely. Joe did not mention the poison dart, because he saw no reason to alarm the man. He did, however, caution him once more and urged the tightest security on his coin vault.

Later in the evening Joe and Paul pored over the Niagara Falls telephone book and directories, looking for the name Keystone.

The yellow pages of the classified directory revealed no hotel or motel by that name. “But look here,” Joe said. “There's a delicatessen and an auto supply store. Let's check them out in the morning.”

He and Paul had a hearty breakfast after a good night's rest, but Frank did not feel like eating. Their hostess gave him some milk and he went back to bed.

The auto supply store was the first stop for Paul and Joe. They parked in front, went inside, and looked around at the usual myriad of accessories.

A clerk approached them. “Can I help you?”

“Maybe. I'm looking for a fellow named Chet Morton. He might have come in here yesterday.”

“What did he look like?”

Joe described Chet in detail.

“Fat guys walk into the store all the time,” the clerk said. “But I don't remember that one.”

Joe strolled about with Paul, speaking in a loud voice and mentioning the name Bayport. If Chet was near, he certainly would hear them.

The clerk became annoyed. “You guys don't have to shout. And what's all this bit about Bayport?”

Joe pointed to Paul. “He can't hear too well.”

“All right. But what do you want? Window-shopping is for the women.”

Joe was embarrassed. He walked over to a stack of automobile mats, picked up one, and said, “We'll take this.”

The clerk wrapped it, Joe paid, and they left.

“That was a dud,” Paul said. “Where to now?”

“The delicatessen. Chet would be hard to get out of that—if he was ever in there. He loves to eat.”

The Keystone Delicatessen was downtown. The boys entered and Joe made the same inquiries. The fellow behind the counter, a stout, bald-headed man in a white apron, had not heard of Chet Morton. And he had not made a cream cheese and salami sandwich for any customer.

Just then a clerk at the other end of the counter spoke up. “I made one for somebody yesterday!”

“Was he a boy about my age?” asked Joe.

“No. He was at least fifty.”

Joe thanked him and they walked out. “Another lead blown,” he grumbled. “The Keystone-whatever-it-is can't be very big, because it's not advertised.”

“Maybe Chet said something else and you got it wrong,” Paul suggested.

Joe shook his head. “No. It was Keystone. And we'll just have to work on that clue until we find Chet.”

‘I think we'll do better on foot,” said Paul. ”That way I don't have to watch traffic—we can both look.”

Joe agreed and they parked the car. They wandered in and out of the downtown streets, pausing only briefly for lunch. The afternoon grew hot and the sun sent its glaring rays over the busy sidewalks.

Finally they rounded a corner, not far from their parking spot. Joe stopped in his tracks. A small sign over the sidewalk bore the legend KEYSTONE MUSEUM.

Paul looked at the dilapidated storefront. “Oh, man,” he said, wriggling his sore toes, “could this really be the fruit of our toil?”

“There's one way to find out,” Joe replied. “Let's have a look inside.”

He went through the open doorway into the dimly lighted curio museum. Half blinded by the sudden change of light, he nearly ran into the ticket seller, a tall gangly man standing beside a pedestal.

“Sorry,” Joe said. “I couldn't see. How much is the admission?”

“One dollar a piece.”

“Boy, that's steep!” said Joe. “What have you got in here? The crown jewels?”

Stony-faced, the attendant rattled off a list of the exhibits: photographs of daring deeds at the Falls; barrels which had survived the trip over the brink; wax figures of the men who risked their lives in various stunts, notably the famous Blondin crossing over the cataract on a wire. “We also have a few old whale ribs,” he concluded, smoothing his gray hair.

“From the Falls?” Joe asked innocently.

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“Sorry, Mr.—”

“Janzig. Not that it would mean anything to you.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Janzig. We'll take two tickets.”

The man grabbed the two dollars. “Look all you want,” he said with a supercilious smile.

Up to now, Paul had been silent. Once they were out of earshot, he said, “I don't like that character. He rubbed me the wrong way.”

“Same here,” Joe replied, glancing around the room. “What a lot of junk.”

Faded pictures in ornate frames showed people of bygone years standing above the famous cataract. Joe doubted the authenticity of the broken barrels which were supposed to have carried adventurers over the brink.

Looking around, he moved toward a door at the back of the museum. He turned the knob and peered inside. The musty-smelling room was piled high with things that had obviously been discarded from the museum.

Joe closed the door quietly and turned to Paul. “I'd like to sneak in there. Can you—?”

As he spoke, Janzig appeared out of nowhere. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Just looking around,” Joe replied.

“That back room is not part of the museum.”

“You got something to hide?”

“Oh, a fresh kid!” Janzig gave Joe a hard look.

Just then a deep voice barked, “Hey!”

The boys turned to see a burly man with dark hair standing in the open doorway to the museum.

“How about some service?” he rumbled.

Looking startled, Janzig swallowed nervously. “Right away, sir,” he said, and hastened to the front.

“Now, quick!” Joe whispered. He opened the door and slipped into the back room with Paul behind him. The Indian closed the door softly.

“Chet!” he called. “Chet, where are you?”

“Chet, are you in here?” Joe ran to the far side of the room.

“CHET, answer me!” Joe called out.

The sound of a scuffle seemed to come from a pile of boxes which stood one atop the other, nearly reaching the ceiling. Joe shouldered them aside, and as they came crashing to the floor, he saw a door behind them. He tried it. “Locked,” he said.

He and Paul crashed against it, forcing the lock. With a bang the door flung open, revealing another storage room much like the first. On the far side a door was ajar. As Joe raced for it, he saw through a dirty window that somebody was being hustled into a small, black, unmarked truck.

“Stop!” Joe shouted. As he reached for the doorknob, someone on the other side gave a hard kick, knocking Joe backward into Paul. The two fell to the floor, and by the time they scrambled to their feet, the truck was roaring away.

The boys raced into the alley, but the vehicle had vanished.

“Do you think they have your friend Chet?' asked Paul when they turned back inside.

“I'm sure they do,” Joe replied. “But I'll have to find proof.”

Janzig, by now, had hurried into the back room. “What's going on here?” he demanded.

“Where's Chet Morton?” Joe glared at him angrily.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Janzig put a cigarette to his lips and lighted it. Joe noticed that his hand shook.

“Didn't you know someone was in that back room?” Paul spoke up.

Janzig dragged hard on the cigarette, coughed, and shook his head. “I don't know anything about anybody in the back. It's a storage place, that's all. Now look. I want no trouble. Why don't you go away?”

“We're going to search the place first!”

“Go ahead. Be my guest!”

Joe turned to Paul. “You stay here and keep an eye on him. I'll check the back.”

Empty boxes and assorted junk and piles of magazines cluttered the dusty room. A telephone was mounted on the wall near the door. Joe rummaged around, looking for clues. If only he could find some evidence that it was really Chet who had been there!

He turned boxes over and studied every scrap of paper on the floor, but found nothing of importance. Suddenly a thought occurred to him. Maybe something had been dropped in the struggle outside!