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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

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BOOK: Footprints Under the Window
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“Probably the old prison barracks,” Frank whispered. “That man may be hiding out in one.”
They advanced cautiously, catching occasional glimpses through the foliage of the encircling wall. Lonely bird caws echoed around the deserted compound. The air hung hot and still. Pickaxes and broken machetes littered the ground. Looking up, the boys saw several ugly vultures hunched in the trees.
Chet gulped. “Ugh!”
The trio paused behind a bamboo tree, then slipped between two shacks facing a large clearing. In the center of this stood a platform and atop it was a guillotine.
Chet stood rooted to the spot, quaking with fright. Frank pointed to a shack across the clearing. At his signal the boys darted over to it and crouched low. A trail of footprints ended beneath the single small window.
“They're fresh!” Joe whispered.
The boys crept to the window and Joe slowly arose to peer inside. His eyes had just reached the window level when gasps from the others made him spin around.
A dozen armed, grim-faced men in khaki stood spread out in the clearing.
“Don't try to run,” Frank said in an undertone. “Act calm.”
“Oh, s-sure,” Chet stammered, white as a sheet.
The men advanced threateningly. Some wore bandoliers and battered straw hats, and several carried gleaming machetes. Among them the boys recognized the man they had pursued. The Hardys felt a cold chill of terror, but stood outwardly calm.
Were these men soldiers of Dictator Posada? An older, bearded man with a military bearing stepped forward and uttered a brisk command in Spanish.
The boys were marched off toward the guillotine!
Chet's knees almost buckled, but he relaxed as the Bayporters were led past the gruesome platform and into an isolated shack. The first objects they saw were cots and old leg irons which were attached to a center bar the length of the hot, dusty room.
The Hardys and Chet were prodded to a wooden table. Lighting a kerosene lantern, the bearded man sat down and addressed the prisoners brusquely in English.
“Who are you? What is your business here?”
Frank hesitated. He must choose his words carefully!
“We're Americans, just visiting here for the day. I'm Frank Hardy, this is my—”
“Americans—” The man's steely eyes relaxed for a moment, then tightened. “You ask in town for Colombo, Santilla, Gomez. Why?”
“We don't really know,” Frank said. “We came across the names in our town of Bayport and thought—”
“Names—in Bayport!”
The leader's astonished exclamation was accompanied by a rapid stream of excited Spanish conversation among his followers.
“Do you know the three men?” Joe spoke up.
“My friend who led you here is Carlos Santilla,” the bearded man replied. “I am Miguel Colombo.”
Despite their dangerous position, Frank pressed further. “Are you under orders from Dictator Posada?”
Suddenly the table rocked under Colombo's fist. “Posada—that mercenary spy—that tyrant robber of our people?
No!
We of the underground will unseat him one day!”
The men roared approval.
Frank shot a look of relief at Joe and Chet. An underground movement! They were among friends! Colombo and Santilla then shook the boys' hands cordially.
“I am sorry for your unpleasant reception,” said Colombo, “but we have always to be careful.”
“Then you thought
we
might be working for Posada?” Frank asked.
Santilla nodded. “One is always afraid these days in the Huellas. That is why the lips are closed in town. If Posada knew we meet here, he would send his army to crush us!”
Colombo then directed one of his men to go outside and stand guard. “We do not wish to be caught by surprise,” the leader said. “Posada's soldiers often search the jungle.”
Joe asked the Huellans whether or not the dictator was the power behind the Footprints ring.
“Indeed he is.” The leader leaned forward. “But I am troubled. My name, Santilla's—how do you young men learn these? And what do you know of Gomez?”
Omitting confidential details, the Hardys related the events which had led them to Baredo.
“And in that sea shell, you found my name and Santilla's?” he murmured.
“Yes,” Frank answered. “Later, a beachcomber led us to the house of a rich American in Bayport. We suspect this man to be involved in the Footprints plot. His name is North.”
“North! Orrin North?”
“Yes, the shipowner. You've heard of him?”
“Heard of him!” The bearded leader of the underground held up his hands with pride. “Senor North is our greatest ally!”
CHAPTER XVII
Homestretch
 
 
 
THE Hardys and Chet could scarcely believe Colombo's words. Orrin North—an ally!
“Then North is not in league with Posada—but is in your underground movement?” Frank asked.
“Certainly. For months he has helped our people to escape on his ship
Dorado
to America.”
Joe looked at Frank. “So Gomez isn't a spy!”
“No,” Colombo said. “He is one of our best men, sent to rally American support. Days back, he by himself escaped to North's ship. But from what you say, he is in bad trouble.”
Carlos Santilla's face showed alarm. “Something is wrong! These people Gomez asked about at your immigration office are Huellan refugees who escaped earlier on Senor North's
Dorado!”
“They never reached the immigration officel” Joe exclaimed.
Colombo walked to the window, stunned. “It cannot be!”
“Have you heard from any of the refugees since they escaped?” Frank asked.
“No. For a while we thought it is because of Posada's mail censorship. But now,” Colombo added gloomily, “I am not so sure.”
The Hardys and Chet exchanged looks. Their suspicions of Orrin North were confirmed!
“North is double-crossing you!” Joe burst out.
Colombo and Santilla stared in shocked disbelief. “He deceives us?” Santilla said hoarsely.
“Señor Colombo,” countered Frank, “have any of your men been arrested lately by Posada's police?”
“
Si
, two last week,” Colombo said grimly. “We do not know how Posada found them out.”
It was the answer Frank had dreaded. “I think I do—from the Footprints spies! North got the names for Posada from the refugees.”
“And Gomez must have found out about it on the
Dorado
—that's why he jumped ship,” Joe added.
“But,” Colombo protested, “our compatriots would never betray us!”
“They may have been tricked into revealing the names!” Frank said.
The leader's face was pale. “Posada may have ordered them—killed!”
The Hardys did not agree. “I think it's more likely they're prisoners, and that North will ship them back for Posada to deal with!” Frank turned to Chet and Joe. “We've got to find those refugees before it's too late!”
Joe said, “That explains why Gomez wanted to keep out of sight—to find the refugees North has sold out.”
Santilla relayed the boys' words in Spanish to the other men, who had been looking on intently. Angry mutters ran through the group.
The boys learned that Colombo and his lieutenant did not know about Raymond Martin or the luggage thefts. But at Joe's description of the mysterious Mr. Ricardo, they both gasped.
“Manuel Bedoya is his real name!” Colombo almost shouted. “He is the feared mastermind of Posada's spies.”
“You're sure?”
“Positive! We know Bedoya left the Huellas a week past.” The underground chief added somberly, “He is a dangerous and cruel man. It is not good for your government's secret project,
amigos!”
“But why would the small Huellas be after the Micro-Eye secret?” Chet wondered. “Doesn't figure.” to
Joe had a theory. “Maybe to sell the information to a larger power—as part of a deal.”
Colombo agreed, adding that Posada was known to be friendly with certain anti-American regimes.
Suddenly the lookout came bursting into the cabin and spoke rapidly to his leader. Colombo scowled and extinguished the lantern.
“Everyone be silent!” he commanded.
The Bayporters and the Huellans obeyed. Voices could be heard faintly in the distance, then they died away. The chief relighted the lantern.
“Who was that?” Joe asked.
“Posada's men,” Santilla replied.
A few more minutes elapsed in tense waiting, but there was no further disturbance. Colombo then bade the visitors relax, and had simple rations of bread and dried beef served for supper. The boys ate hungrily. When they finished, it was growing dark.
“We have to get back,” said Frank, remembering their promise to Jack.
Colombo, Santilla, and two other Huellans led the boys through a jungle route toward the docks. The hot tropical night was silent, speckled by fireflies. Miguel Colombo and his aide stopped at the jungle's edge. They thanked the boys fervently for their support.
“But what about you and Señor Santilla?” Frank asked in concern.
“We shall be all right,” Colombo assured them, smiling. “We shall soon escape to the mainland. But one day we will return triumphant.”
After hearty handshakes with their new friends, the boys hurried to board the waiting launch.
“I'd like to get my hands on that skunk North right now!” Joe muttered with fierce resolution.
“We will,” Frank declared. “But we've also got to find Gomez and stop Bedoya's plot against Micro-Eye!”
In relief the boys finally stepped off the launch in Cayenne. At the hotel Jack Wayne listened to their story in amazement. “So Posada may be behind these suitcase thefts,” he exclaimed, “and be selling the smuggled information to a major power hostile to the United States!”
Jack whistled. “You fellows have done the work of a squadron. Ready to head back tomorrow?”
“You bet!” Chet gingerly touched his mosquito-bitten face.
Jack reported that he had uncovered no leads to Raymond Martin, but that Dykeman's men would continue the search in French Guiana.
After a satisfying night's sleep, the four reached the airport early the next morning. As Jack zoomed into the sun, the boys looked back at the trail of green islands. Could they find, and save, Colombo's missing friends?
Following an overnight stop, they landed in Bayport the next afternoon. The Hardys found Aunt Gertrude back home from her visit. She sighed with relief at seeing her nephews safe.
“Thank goodness!” she gasped. “The newspapers are full of Posada's villainous threats.”
She informed the boys that Mrs. Hardy would be home in a week. There was still no clue to the whereabouts of their father.
“But that rude Mr. North!” she fumed. “Somehow he found out that I was at Mrs. Berter's. He phoned me there and demanded to know where you boys were!”
“Did you tell him?” Frank queried.
“I should say not!”
After unpacking, Frank and Joe decided to inform Mr. Dykeman at once about their trip. On their way to Micro-Eye the brothers stopped at Corporated Laundries and Joe took in a bundle of soiled clothing. As he was leaving the counter, he noticed a man with thick eyebrows in the back working room who seemed familiar.
“Funny,” he mused. “I have a feeling I've seen him recently somewhere else, yet something's different.”
At the Micro-Eye gate the Hardys were quickly admitted, and escorted to the intelligence office. Roy Dykeman welcomed them cordially.
“Glad to see you back! Mr. Wayne's report of your theory about spies smuggling secrets in luggage may break our case wide open!”
Mr. Dykeman listened attentively as the brothers related all that had happened in Cayenne and in the Huellas. At hearing the information on Orrin North and Manuel Bedoya, the intelligence officer grabbed a pencil and jotted down notes.
“Posada's master spy—on our soil!” he exclaimed. “He must have been whisked off Orrin North's
Capricorn!”
“Can North be arrested now?” Joe asked.
“No. We don't have an ounce of tangible proof—yet. He's acted clean as a whistle since we've been watching him. But more important, we want to get the whole bunch without risking the lives of these missing Huellans!”
“How about Bedoya, alias Ricardo?” Frank asked.
“I'm sending out an alert to find him at all costs—also to apprehend Captain Burne and crew immediately in South America.”
The agent reported that Gomez's whereabouts were not known, and the Micro-Eye security leak was still a mystery. His men failed to locate the United States headquarters for the Footprints conspiracy.
“Pryce may be our man,” he admitted, “though I'm not convinced of it. At any rate, we've reached the homestretch. Micro-Eye's satellite camera was completed this morning!”
The project was finished! Frank and Joe were elated. The top-secret instrument was to be moved under heavy protection to Washington late the following day.
“We don't want anybody to get wind of it,” Dykeman added, “so we're running the usual guard shifts and concession deliveries. Once that camera is on the truck, Micro-Eye's problems are over.” He gave a dry chuckle. “But not mine!”
The Hardys vowed to continue their search for Gomez, but the agent cautioned them: “Wherever Gomez is, the Footprints gang is looking for him too. Until we have Bedoya, be very careful!”
BOOK: Footprints Under the Window
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