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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

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BOOK: A Figure in Hiding
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He and Frank caught their pal's attention and he quickly struggled to his feet. “That's f-f-fine, gentlemen,” he panted. “You're doing great. I hate to interrupt these exercises, but I have to see what these two fellows want. Just keep going, please, or take a short rest period.”
Chet trotted gratefully over to join the Hardys.
“Looks as if we came just in time,” Frank said.
“Boy, you're not kidding!” Chet mopped his forehead. “Whew! I'm not sure I like this job as well as I thought I would! Handball, water polo, body-building, and now this! And the lunch they feed you wouldn't keep a flea alive. Boy, am I ever sick of cottage cheese and lettuce!”
“You'll be down to a mere two-hundred-pound shadow by the time summer's over,” Joe said.
Joe chuckled, “We'd better rescue Chet before he folds up.”
“Lay off, Joe,” Frank said with a smile. “Assistant Morton is really earning his salary.” He lowered his voice and added, “Listen, Chet, did you see a red-haired man check in here yesterday?”
The stout boy shook his head. “I wasn't here Sunday. Why?”
Joe hastily told their chum about Ace Pampton and their suspicion that the health farm might secretly be a hideout for wanted criminals. Chet's face was a picture of consternation.
“Good grief!” he gulped. “Don't tell me I've got myself mixed up with a nest of crooks! I'm going to quit right now!”
When he learned, however, of the role Mr. Hardy was to play, Chet promised to stick it out and keep his eyes open for the fugitive swindler, as well as to be on the lookout for the detective.
As the two young sleuths drove back to town, Joe remarked, “Do you remember Mrs. Lunberry saying she had seen something like that chalked eye before?”
Frank nodded as he steered the car. “She thought it might have been somewhere in connection with her husband's work. Why?”
“Well, I've been thinking about what Tony told us, and the ‘horned hand' picture Zatta put up. Do you suppose that drawing of an eye could represent the evil eye?”
“Maybe. Let's check with Mrs. Lunberry.”
The boys drove to their boathouse, took out the
Sleuth,
and headed up the Willow River to Brockton. Mrs. Lunberry was happy to see them and listened eagerly to Frank's report of their visit to Fontana's art shop.
“That really isn't why we came, though,” Frank said. “We'd like to know if you've ever heard of a superstition about the evil eye.”
“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Lunberry replied. “That's a very old—” Suddenly she broke off in surprise. “Of course! That's what that eye chalked under my window reminded me of!”
She explained that when on digging expeditions with her husband she had often seen similar eyes. “They were carved in mud-brick walls or inlaid in mosaic on ancient ruins.”
“You mean people would carve evil eyes on their own houses?” Joe asked, puzzled.
The elderly woman smiled. “It's hard to explain, but Clarence told me once that it's a very common kind of superstitious thinking. The idea is that a harmless form of the thing you're afraid of can help to ward off the real thing.”
The boys instantly thought of Zatta and the drawing on the hospital door. Aloud Joe asked, “Is there any chance the evil eye could be connected with the curse on the Jeweled Siva?”
“I'm sure it must be,” she said. “Superstitions about the evil eye have existed in many parts of the world, probably including India.”
Mention of the curse seemed to upset Mrs. Lunberry, so Frank changed the subject and asked the woman how she had happened to make arrangements with Fontana to sell the precious idol.
“I wrote to several dealers before making up my mind,” Mrs. Lunberry replied. “In the meantime, I was keeping the Siva in a safe-deposit box at the bank. Then one day Mr. Fontana came all the way to Brockton to see me, and I decided to let him handle the sale.”
“Did he bring references?” Frank asked. “Or persuade you that he could sell it for the highest price?”
“Nothing like that, I'm afraid.” The boys asked for a description, which fit the man they had seen in New York. Mrs. Lunberry smiled. “He seemed like such a nice man. Why, he even took me for a ride in his brand-new car. He'd bought it that very day in Ocean City.”
“Not a new Torpedo?” Joe asked sharply.
“Why, yes—I believe that was the make.”
The boys were startled but said nothing, about this new development until they were aboard the
Sleuth,
heading downriver.
“This proves to me that Malcolm Izmir, or someone at Izmir Motors, is mixed up in the theft of the Jeweled Siva,” Joe declared.
“And maybe Fontana himself,” Frank speculated.
That evening Chet Morton stopped at the Hardys' house in his jalopy and honked his horn urgently. Frank and Joe rushed outside.
“What's up?” Frank asked.
“Plenty!” The stout youth's eyes were wide with fear. “I j-just saw a walking mummy!”
CHAPTER XVII
Secret Signals
 
 
 
 
“A WALKING mummy?” Joe echoed. Then he grinned. “Seems to me I recall we were going to be kidnapped once. What's the joke this time?”
“It's no joke!” Chet retorted indignantly. “I tell you I saw a walking mummyl”
“Okay, okay. Where?” Frank asked.
“At the health farm, that's where. It was all on account of you guys, too.”
“How come?” Joe said.
Chet explained that he had had no luck in finding out if a new guest had checked in at the health resort on Sunday, nor had he seen anyone answering Ace Pampton's description. And so he had purposely hung around on the job until long after his usual quitting time.
“I figured I might be able to do some snooping while dinner was being served,” Chet went on. “There was one particular building I wanted to get a look at.”
“Which one?” Frank put in.
“I don't think you fellows have seen it. An old, two-story frame building, set back among the trees on the north side of the grounds.”
“What's special about it?” Joe asked.
“The place is always kept locked. I've seen only one other person at the farm besides Doc Grafton and Rip Sinder ever go in there—in fact, today Doc told me it was off limits.”
Frank and Joe looked at each other with rising excitement.
“Well, go on! What happened?” Joe urged as Chet paused to munch a candy bar.
“For Pete's sake, don't rush me!” Chet retorted. “I'm half starved. I haven't even had dinner yet.”
He went on, “Anyhow, I thought I'd try to peek inside, so I sneaked up through the trees. And then all a sudden this—this mummy walked past the window!” Chet's face turned paler at the recollection. “The—the head was all wound around with bandages!”
The stout boy shuddered and his voice shook with fear. Joe tried to reassure him. “Easy, Chet! You've been seeing too many horror movies, like ‘The Creature from the Tomb'!”
“This was worse than any movie!”
“Who's the other person allowed into the building?” Frank asked Chet.
“Some old man named Dr. Vardar. He's the health-farm physician.”
Joe chuckled. “Chet, I think you've been working too hard out there.”
“Okay. Don't believe me.” The stout boy gunned his engine. “Count me out of this case!” he exclaimed. “You two can investigate that creepy joint alone next time!”
“Come on, Chet,” Frank said soothingly. “We appreciate your help. You can't back out now. Dad might arrive at the farm any time.”
Somewhat mollified, Chet consented, and a moment later the yellow jalopy roared off.
Frank and Joe gazed after it. Both were mystified at Chet's story. “I'd like to have a look at that ‘mummy' myself,” said Joe.
“Me too. But we'd better wait until we hear from Dad.”
Shortly before ten o'clock that evening a loud buzz from the basement announced an incoming call over the Hardys' short-wave. Frank and Joe hurried down to receive it.
“Fenton calling Elm Street!” a low voice crackled from the speaker.
“Elm Street to Fenton,” Joe responded over the microphone. “We read you. Come in, please.”
“Hi, fellows!” said Mr. Hardy. “Just wanted to let you know that I arrived safely.”
“You're at the farm now?” Frank put in.
“Right. I flew in on the eight-forty-five plane from Cleveland, got picked up by the chauffeur, and checked in under the name I gave you. This is the first chance I've had to get in touch. I'm calling from my room.”
The boys quickly reported Chet's story.
“Good lead. I'll follow it up.” Mr. Hardy's voice dropped to a whisper. “I think someone's coming. Over for now!”
Late that night Frank awoke from a sound sleep. He lay drowsily for a few moments, wondering what had aroused him. Suddenly he became aware of a muffled clicking sound.
“Where's that coming from?” Frank wondered.
He sat bolt upright in bed. The clicking sounds seemed to fade out. Puzzled, Frank lay back on his pillow. At once the clicks became louder!
“Under my pillow!” Frank realized.
He pulled it aside and the clicks became still louder and clearer. Something on the bed glittered in the moonlight streaming in. The glass eye! Frank snatched it up with a stifled cry and held it to his ear.
The clicks were coming from the glass eye!
“Joe! Wake up!” he exclaimed, switching on his table lamp.
His brother raised up sleepily from his bed across the room. Joe blinked in the sudden glare. “Wh-what's up?” he muttered.
“Signals are coming over this glass eye!” Frank whispered. “There must be a miniature receiver inside! Sounds like Morse code!”
As Joe came dashing across the room, Frank held out the eye so his brother could hear it. In a moment the signals ceased.
“Did you get anything?” Joe asked.
“Numbers and letters—but they didn't make any sense to me, offhand,” Frank replied.
“Maybe there'll be more!” Joe hastily got pencil and paper from his desk.
The signals began again. The transmission seemed slow and amateurish, and Joe copied down the message easily. It read:
12PM 4112N 7059W 13K 080 1227
As the glass eye fell silent, the Hardys stared at the numbers and letters in puzzlement.
“Get anything out of it?” Joe asked.
“Not much,” Frank admitted. “The ‘twelve PM' must stand for a time—twelve o'clock midnight. The rest looks like some sort of secret code.”
Abruptly the glass eye resumed its ticking. Joe again copied down the Morse signals and found that the same set of numbers and letters were being repeated. While the boys were excitedly discussing the mysterious message, another transmission began with the same contents.
“Frank, that ‘N' and ‘W' could stand for ‘North' and ‘West,'” Joe mused. “Maybe a position.”
“Right! In latitude and longitude!” Frank exclaimed. “That would be forty-one degrees, twelve minutes north latitude and seventy degrees, fifty-nine minutes west longitude.”
“Let's see where that is.” Joe bounced up from his chair and strode to a map of the world which the boys had tacked to one wall. His finger traced out the nearest parallel and meridian. “Well, what do you know! It's in the Atlantic Ocean—about halfway between Montauk on Long Island and Nantucket Island, Massachusetts.”
“In that case, it must be a ship's position,” Frank reasoned. “But what about the last part?”
The Hardys stayed up for another hour, puzzling over the message, but could deduce nothing further. The radio signals being picked up by the glass-eye receiver had long since stopped when the two young sleuths finally went back to bed. It was two o'clock.
Early the next morning Chief Collig telephoned the Hardy home. “I have a follow-up on Izmir that may interest you fellows,” he said when Joe answered. “Last night two more men tried to break into Izmir's estate. His watchdogs trapped them and both were caught.”
“Who are they?” Joe asked eagerly.
“Their names are Kane and Yaddo. They're both dangerous hoods with police records.”
“What's their story?”
“They have none. Neither one will talk.”
“Does Izmir know them?” Joe inquired.
“The Ocean City police couldn't tell me that,” Collig replied. “It was some servant on the estate who turned them in. Yesterday morning Izmir left for New York to go on a European vacation cruise.”
BOOK: A Figure in Hiding
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