Footprints Under the Window (12 page)

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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

BOOK: Footprints Under the Window
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Frank snapped his fingers. “If he wanted the names of persons flying to Cayenne, maybe Martin was to be a victim of the luggage thieves—only they planned to take his coat instead of his suitcase.”
Chet whistled. “Then the suitcases stolen down here may carry spy messages?”
“That's right—brought in by innocent people.”
‘A sudden wind came up and the bright blue skies turned to a smoky leaden hue. The paddlers increased speed and reached the dock at Cayenne just as the clouds opened in a blinding downpour.
The boys and their guide leaped ashore and dashed to a nearby shop for shelter. Torrents of rain drummed on the roof like thunder, and the tall coconut palms swayed and bent in the gale.
“Chet, you didn't forecast this cloudburst,” Joe needled.
“How could I? Tropical storms come up out of nowhere!” Chet defended himself.
In several minutes the squall ceased as suddenly as it had begun. Frank paid their guide, who grinned widely and ambled off. The boys walked back through the town to their hotel, where they dried off and once more changed clothes.
Refreshed, the boys joined Jack at supper in the hotel restaurant. He listened with interest as they recounted their adventure in low tones. When Frank presented his theory on the luggage thefts, the pilot was intrigued.
“It's possible,” he admitted, frowning, “that travelers from Bayport and nearby towns unwittingly transmit Micro-Eye secrets. But how are the films or devices put into the suitcases?”
“We're not sure yet,” Joe confessed. “Somebody probably sneaks into the person's home and conceals the information in the baggage.”
“Could be,” said Frank.
“My conferences today didn't bring me any clues,” Jack told the boys. “But if you're right, fellows, this is a job for United States Intelligence. I'll case Cayenne tomorrow, myself, and try to follow out this new angle. We'll have to fly back the day after.”
The Hardys reviewed what they must learn: the real identity of Gomez, the meaning of the names in the sea shell, some clue to North's tie-in with the Huellas, and the whereabouts of Martin.
“It'll be a tight schedule,” Frank said. “We'll catch the earliest launch for Baredo tomorrow morning.”
Jack said, “Let's report to Mr. Dykeman.”
He cabled the intelligence officer, using guarded language. Later, as they again discussed the mystery, Jack expressed concern over the boys' proposed trip to Baredo.
“Be extremely cautious,” he warned. “Dictator Posada has lookouts all over the place.”
At his suggestion the boys signed a statement that they were entering Baredo the following day. “At least this will be evidence if we're—er—detained,” said Frank, handing the paper to Jack.
“What a cheerful thought!” Chet muttered.
The young sleuths soon went to bed, and despite the sultry heat, slept soundly. Chet had a nightmare. He was trying to step into the river for a swim, but hungry fish nipped his toes.
Suddenly he awakened with a violent start. Something was on his right foot! He reached down and touched a furry object.
“YYYYoooowwwww!”
At Chet's howl the others leaped out of bed, and Joe switched on the light. Chet was hopping up and down, shaking his foot. A dark winged creature flew out the window.
Jack examined Chet's foot and smiled with relief. “No blood. Fortunately, you shook him off in time. I think it was a vampire bat.”
“A v-vampire b-bat?” Chet clapped a hand to his brow. “Oh man! That's all I need!” With a groan he got back into bed and wrapped himself tightly in the sheet.
The boys rose at six and breakfasted quickly downstairs. Then they walked to the coastal docks. Frank said he had promised Jack they would be back by ten that evening.
Chet, apprehensive, followed the Hardys to the dock where the tourist launch was berthed. The boys were met by a fat, thick-lipped man in uniform, evidently a Huellan official.
“American tourists?” he said, sneering. “You go just for day to Baredo?”
“Yes.”
The official scrutinized the travelers, then their passports. “Very well,” he said finally. “See you mind your own business and no pictures.”
“Friendly guy,” Chet whispered as the boys climbed aboard.
The whistle blew and a few minutes later the launch moved away toward the mist-covered Huellas. There were no other passengers.
The thickset helmsman and his assistant were taciturn. After a sharp glance at the boys they paid them no further attention.
The Hardys and Chet stood at the rail as they approached the palm-lined shore of Baredo. A hill of green jungle rose above the roofs of the capital town. Was their destination the stronghold of the Footprints spy ring?
The boat's whistle tooted three times, and chugged into the harbor. This consisted of several weather-beaten piers and a few small docks. The launch pulled alongside one of them.
When the boys clambered onto the dock, the helmsman grunted, “Up there.” He pointed to a small guardhouse at the foot of the dock. Here a surly port officer studied their passports at length. “Tourists only allowed on Baredo one day!” he snapped. “You must leave tonight!”
“Gracias,”
Frank murmured, and the trio headed up the bleak main street.
“With that kind of welcome, they must do a crashing resort business here,” Joe remarked.
The boys had noticed numerous motorboats marked
Policia
cruising about the island, apparently to control passage out of the Huellas.
“No wonder the people here want to leave,” Chet whispered.
Impressive public buildings fronted the harbor. But in the town itself the boys saw rows of tottering, unpainted shacks along unpaved roads. Shabbily dressed people wandered past dingy stores, many of which appeared to be closed. The atmosphere was both tense and depressing.
“Boy, this place gives me the willies,” Chet murmured as he noticed a gray-uniformed man watching them from one of the few cars.
“Never mind. Let's just try to look like happy tourists,” Joe advised.
They climbed to the top of a hill outside town and surveyed the harbor. Only their launch and a battered fishing vessel were tied up.
Frank's eyes narrowed. “It would be impossible for a big freighter to dock here.”
“You mean like the
Dorado,
” Joe said.
His brother nodded, then suggested they try to track down the names Colombo and Santilla, and also ask about Gomez.
Back in town, the boys located a rickety public telephone booth. Casually Frank entered it and opened a thin directory. None of the names he sought was listed. “There can't be more than a hundred or so names in here,” he reported. “I guess most of the citizens can't afford phones, or else Posada's tight on giving them out.”
“Doesn't leave us much of a starting point,” Joe said. “Let's try asking around.”
They stopped an elderly man and mentioned the three names, but he shrugged, stared blankly, and walked away. The boys continued their quest. But they always met the same response.
“Let's try a different part of town,” Joe recommended. They headed into a small market place and made more inquiries without success.
“Colombo—Santilla—Gomez?” Frank repeated to a poorly dressed boy.
The youth's expression stiffened. He shook his head and quickly hurried off.
“I don't get it,” Joe fumed. “Are the people so afraid of something that they won't talk at all? Or is there something special about Colombo, Santilla, and Gomez that scares them?”
“It's the secret police!” Chet declared uneasily. “Why else would everybody clam up?”
The boys noticed another man in a gray uniform striding past. He eyed the boys suspiciously. The trio immediately pretended to be sightseeing. Chet whistled shakily as they nonchalantly left the market place.
“We'd better call it quits for a while,” Frank whispered. “And—” He broke off. “Look!”
Crossing the main street, not far from the boys, were two men carrying blue suitcases.
“The luggage thieves!” Joe gasped.
“Come on! We're going to find out where they're headed!” Frank urged.
CHAPTER XVI
The Gate of Doom
 
 
 
THE Hardys and Chet walked faster, keeping the two thieves ahead in sight. When the men turned swiftly up a hilly, sun-baked street, the boys paused briefly at the corner, then followed.
“Wherever they're going, they mean business!” Frank said.
The men hastened up the hill. At the top they made a beeline to a large white stone building, surrounded by a spiked iron fence with a huge gate in front. The pair stopped and spoke briefly to an armed guard, who let them in. The men hurried through and disappeared around the side of the building.
“There's probably a rear entrance,” Joe murmured as the guard slammed the gate shut.
The boys approached the building. Carved over the portal was: EDIFICIO ADMINISTRATION DE LAS HUELLAS
“Huellas Government Building!” Frank translated. “And I'll bet a cool shower it adds up to ‘Footprints Intelligence Bureau'!”
“The spy headquarters!” Joe added in a low voice.
A chill went up Chet's spine. “You think those men really are delivering Micro-Eye secrets hidden in the suitcases?” he asked.
“Yes,” Frank replied. “This must be the receiving end for the security leak at the plant!”
The Hardys speculated about the two thieves—were they Colombo and Santilla? Noticing the guard, who eyed them with mistrust, the boys sauntered nonchalantly toward the rear of the building.
“Where do we go from here?” Joe asked. “We can't break in.”
Chet agreed heartily. “And we sure can't hang around waiting for those spy agents.”
At his urging they stopped at a dingy restaurant to have lunch. But the trio felt too edgy to eat much. Back outside, the afternoon sun burned down on the perspiring boys. Two oxcarts rolled lazily down the dusty street.
“If only we could get some lead on these names!” Joe chafed. “Time's running out.”
The trio walked on to a section they had not visited before—consisting mostly of small shops and rickety dwellings. The three separated in order to appear less conspicuous while they continued their inquiries. After an hour they met. Each reported no luck.
Just then the boys noticed a dark, well-built man in khakis resting beneath a palm tree across the road. They went over and Frank once more repeated the three names. The Huellan's eyes focused intently on his questioner, then studied Joe and Chet.
“No, lo siento,”
he said finally, quickly moving away. He looked back once, then disappeared into a ramshackle store.
“At least we got an answer,” Joe said wryly. “He's ‘sorry.' ”
“He didn't act frightened like the others,” Frank observed. “I have a feeling he knew the names, all right, and was trying to size us up.”
They renewed their inquiries. But after another sweltering hour, the boys had reached a dead end. They had covered the town itself, and now found themselves on the western outskirts.
“I'm ready to throw in the towel,” Chet announced. “This is no man's land.”
The Hardys did not reply. They had noticed the door of a small building slowly opening. A face peered out. It was the same khaki-clad man Frank had approached earlier!
“Maybe he's tailing us!” Joe whispered.
The stranger stared at the boys for a second, then suddenly burst outside and sprinted for the nearby jungle. Joe and Frank sped after him, with Chet following reluctantly.
In minutes the boys found themselves on the bare semblance of a trail. There was no sign of the Huellan.
“He's probably waiting to jump us!” Chet declared.
Frank set his jaw. “Let's follow this trail. It may be risky, but we can't give up any possible lead.”
The three were forced to proceed single file. Progress was slow and arduous over twisting roots and through masses of hanging vine. A dense cloud of mosquitoes enveloped them, attacking Chet in particular.
“Ouch!”
Swat!
“Get away from me!” Chet flailed desperately at the buzzing pests.
“Ssssh!”
“I can't help it. They're eating me up.”
Frank, in the lead, stopped abruptly and held up his hand. There came a faint rustling ahead. Cautiously the boys crept around a bend in the trail. To their surprise, a large section of jungle was hacked away. In the middle was an abandoned quarry.
“Looks like an old bauxite deposit,” Frank whispered.
Chet pointed to several rusted pickaxes on the ground. “Wonder what happened to the workers.” He shuddered.
The boys skirted the yawning pit, treading over crumbling red rock, then re-entered the jungle. There was still a barely perceptible path. The high grass growing along it was freshly trampled.
“Bet that guy's right ahead of us,” Joe said softly. “He must be used to trekking the jungle.”
Chet was all for turning back, but the Hardys persuaded him to press on. The trail ended abruptly at a high, crudely constructed stucco wall. Farther along it was an arched gateway with a faded splintered sign: LA PUERTA DE LA MUERTE.
“‘The Gate of Doom'!”
Joe translated. “The old prison!”
Reluctantly Chet trailed the Hardys along the wall and through the gateway. Interspersed among towering bamboo trees which blotted out most of the sunlight were long, thatch-roofed shacks.

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