Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
The Melted Coins (3 page)
The receptionist smiled even more sweetly and flicked a wisp of raven hair back in place. “Yes, I'm afraid you do,” she said.
“Well, is there a Dr. Snedecker here?” Frank asked, still gawking about.
“Look, young man, this is not a doctor's office. I must ask you to leave.”
“No offense,” Frank said. “Thank you, miss.” He backed out of the office, returned to the elevator, and joined the others in the lobby.
“Hi, wasn't that brunette a doll?” Chet asked.
“I thought you weren't susceptible to female charms,” Frank replied.
“She's Snedecker's secretary,” Chet went on, ignoring the gibe. “Took me right into his office. Brand-new place, you know. They just moved in. Didn't have time to put the name on the door yet.”
“That's strange. Your doll didn't even know Snedecker when I asked for him,” Frank replied.
Chet's eyebrows went up. “Oh? Well, perhaps you're talking about a different girl.”
Frank did not pursue the matter. “How about chauffeuring us back, Chet?”
“Sure thing.” Chet walked on ahead while Frank quickly briefed his brother.
“Wow, what a hoax!” Joe said. “How can poor Chet be so naive?”
Frank shrugged. “Maybe that brunette blinded him to the harsh facts of life!”
Chet drove carefully, threading his way through the heavy traffic in the downtown streets. He pulled up in front of their motel room, jumped out of the car, and opened the door for Frank and Joe with a smart salute.
Frank went along with the game. “Thank you, James,” he said with a grin.
Joe inserted the key in the lock. When he opened the door, all three gasped at what they saw. The place had been ransacked! Their suitcases lay open, and their clothes were strewn about. Frank reached over to pull a T-shirt from the top of a mirror.
“Somebody's trying to give us the old one-two,” Joe said in disgust. He held up a pair of slacks with the legs cut to shreds.
“And my new jacket!” Chet moaned. It had been slashed beyond repair.
“Okay, fellows. Let's report this,” Frank said, his voice shaking with anger. They hastened to the motel office and told the manager, who called the police.
An officer arrived within a few minutes and looked over the situation.
“Nothing is missing,” Joe said. “But a lot of things are damaged.”
The policeman shook his head. “There has been a lot of vandalism in the area,” he said. “This is terrible!”
“But why would anyone do this to us?” Chet asked.
The officer shrugged. “We'll keep a watch on this place. If we find out anything, we'll let you know.”
The boys began to straighten up the room after he had left. “I don't think this is just an ordinary case of vandalism,” Frank said thoughtfully. “I have a hunch somebody around here doesn't care for us and did this to get rid of us.”
“Maybe Dr. Snedecker didn't like your poking your nose into his office, Frank,” Joe suggested.
“But that's ridiculous!” Chet protested.
“Calm down, Chet,” Frank said. “You know we can't overlook any possibility.”
“How about something to eat?” Joe asked. “I'm getting hungry.”
“That's for me!” Chet perked up, and the three went out to dinner.
When they returned to the motel they discussed the strange events again. Presently they heard someone walking up to their door. Before they had a chance to see who it was, there was a gasp and a thud.
Frank jumped up and opened the door. A man lay on the welcome mat, unconscious.
Rod Jimerson!
CHAPTER III
The False Face Society
FRANK and Joe leaned down to pick up the fallen man. Putting his arms over their shoulders, they carried him into their room and placed him on a bed.
Chet dashed into the bathroom to soak a wash-cloth with cold water. When he put it against Jimerson's face, the Indian shook his head, blinked, and slowly sat up.
“Somebody bushwhacked you,” Frank told him.
Jimerson winced and put a hand to the back of his head. “You're not kidding!” He got up and made his way to a chair. Chet and Frank sat on the beds, while Joe pulled over a hassock.
“Rod, do you have any enemies?” Frank asked. “Somebody who'd want to bop you on the head like that?”
“None at all,” Jimerson replied. He squinted as if searching his memory. “I can't think of anybody. How about you fellows? Maybe someone was after you!”
Frank shrugged. “Our room was vandalized while we were out. It's quite possible that you were mistaken for one of us.”
The ironworker snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute. There is one man I don't likeâor rather, I think, he doesn't like me!”
“Who is it?” Joe inquired.
“Lendo Wallace. He's an Indian from the reservation. We're both members of the False Face Society.”
The boys looked confused, so Rod explained that some of the Senecas still believed in their old religion. “The society is part of it,” he said. “The false faces represent spirits. In the spring and the fall we go through the homes in our community wearing them to drive out evil spirits.”
“Sounds eerie,” Chet remarked.
Rod grinned and went on, “Some of the false faces are medicine masks and have powers to cure diseases. They're blocked out on a living tree, then the chunk is cut away and the carving finished elsewhere.”
“Must be hard on the tree,” Joe said.
“The carver takes care of that all right,” Jimerson went on. “First, the tree is placated by burning tobacco leaves beneath it. We wave the smoke high up in the branches and the tree understands that the carving is for a good purpose.” He smiled. “Most of them heal.”
“But what about Lendo Wallace?” Frank pressed. “What has he got against you?”
Rod said that in the past year, rare and valuable medicine masks, some of them very old, had been disappearing from the homes of various members of the tribe.
“Our longhouse was even raided once and some of the ancient false faces taken,” he remarked.
“What's the longhouse?” Chet asked.
“Our community building, where we meet for ceremonies and dances.” Rod frowned. “Without the medicine faces, we can't hold our ceremonies.”
“How does Wallace fit into all this?” asked Joe.
“He's the leader of the False Face Society. Some of us think he ought to be more concerned about these thefts, and I've told him so. I'm afraid he didn't like that.”
Jimerson rubbed his chin thoughtfully and added, “He doesn't seem to worry about the thefts. Maybe he's possessed by an evil spirit himself, because all this happened after Spoon Mouth was stolen.”
“This case seems to be even more complicated than we at first thought,” Frank said. “Spoon Mouth was stolen, you said?”
“I know it's confusing to an outsider,” Rod said. “Just be patient; I'll explain.”
As the three listened intently, he told them that Spoon Mouth was a flat golden replica of a Spoon Mouth false face. Taking a pencil and a pad which lay beside the telephone, he drew a queer-looking face, with a mouth like a figure eight lying on its side.
Joe chuckled. “That boy is well-named. Each end of his mouth is round as a spoon!”
“Right. With his protruding lips he's quite a scary sight,” Rod said. “He was found by my tribe during the French and Indian Wars.”
“When was that?” Chet remarked, scratching his head.
“They went on for seventy-four years until 1763. The relic was found near the end. Some of the tribe believed it to be a protector of the Five Nations.”
“You lost me again,” Chet said.
Rod smiled. “There used to be Five Nations in the Iroquois federation. The Senecas were one of them. Later there were six. My ancestors thought the relic had been blessed by Orinda, the Life Spirit, because after its discovery the Indians were extremely successful in battle.”
“I don't know much about the Iroquois,” Joe said.
“That's right,” Frank agreed. “Mostly we hear about the Western Indians.”
“There are still plenty of us in the East,” Rod said. He added that many of his tribe were employed as ironworkers, both in Cleveland and New York City.
“That's probably because you're so fearless,” Chet said.
Jimerson smiled. “Oh, I wouldn't say we're fearless. But some of us don't mind heights.”
“Did you want my father to find out who stole the false faces?” Frank spoke up.
“Yes. They are tremendously important to our tribe.”
“Well, he's on another case, but he sent us to look into this matter. And I think we should start out by learning more about this fellow Lendo Wallace and the False Face Society.”
Rod referred the boys to his mother, who lived on the Yellow Springs Reservation. “She knows all about everybody,” he said. “Perhaps my kid brother is there, too. He's been working in Buffalo lately.”
“Okay, Rod. We'll go there tomorrow,” Frank promised.
“Good. Once we get Spoon Mouth back, I think things will go much better with the tribe,” Rod said. Looking directly at Chet, he added, “If you see my mother, ask for her specialty, corn soup.”
Chet grinned. “How did you know I like to eat?”
“Just guessed.” Rod then mentioned a fee for the boys' sleuthing services, but Frank waved him off. “Don't worry about that now,” he said.
“Okav, fellows, I'll be seeing you.” Rod gave each a finger-crushing handshake and departed.
In mock horror, Chet pried one finger from the other. “That guy thinks he's holding a wrench,” he complained. “Well, when are we leaving?”
Joe suggested the next morning and added, “It's not far from Hawk Head. Perhaps we can stop and say hello to the Rideaus.”
“Good thought. They invited us for dinner!”
The next day when the boys were checking out of the motel, the manager said, “I have a letter for Chet Morton.”
Looking pleased, the stout boy took the envelope and opened it. As he studied the letter, his chin fell. “From Zoar College,” he said and read it to the Hardys:
“âDear Mr. Morton: On checking your credentials we find that you are ineligible for the Zoar College summer course.' ”
Enclosed with the note was Chet's money. “What a rotten trick!” he grumbled. “What do you make of this?”
“I told you before I thought the whole thing was fishy,” Frank replied. “Anyway, you got your money back.”
“It's strange that they sent it in cash,” Joe remarked. “Let's go see this Zoar College when we get upstate New York.”
“Okay. Before we leave, I think we ought to call home,” Frank said.
While Joe paid the bill, he put in a call to his father, giving him a quick rundown on what had happened. When Mr. Hardy heard the name Magnitude Merchandising Mart he let out a low whistle.
“What's the matter, Dad? Do you know that outfit?” Frank asked.
“I've heard about it and it bears some investigating.”
“Connected with your mail fraud case?”
“Yes, Frank. But keep it under your hat for the time being at least. You fellows may have handed me a good lead.”
The detective wished his sons luck in the Spoon Mouth case, but warned them to be careful. “I suggest you leave Cleveland immediately,” he concluded.
“We intend to, Dad. In fact we're on our way now,” Frank told him and hung up.
Ten minutes later they were rolling along the highway out of Cleveland, enjoying the morning sunshine. Chet luxuriated in the back seat, taking in the beauty of the countryside. He happened to glance behind him.
“Oh, no!” he moaned. “There's Creepy again!”
“The office boy? Are you sure?” Frank asked, looking into the rear-view mirror.
He slowed down and the trailing car did likewise. The cat-and-mouse game lasted for miles. Then, slowed nearly to a stop by two passing trucks, Creepy tailgated, touching his front bumper to the rear of the convertible.
“Hope he doesn't play any hot-rod tricks,” Joe said.
Chet turned around, shook his fist, and shouted, “Get off our backs, Creepy!”
With traffic flowing again, their pursuer poured on the gas, pushing the Hardys' car ahead. Frank knew this could easily throw them out of control. He accelerated, but still Creepy's car bore hard against the convertible.
As their back end slewed around, the pillar of an overpass loomed in front of them. Frank's expert driving prevented a head-on crash, but the convertible sideswiped the concrete and came to a grinding halt.
Creepy's car flashed by and was lost in the traffic ahead. Moments later a police car, siren wailing, drove up and stopped. The officer was polite but firm. After examining Frank's license, he said, “Looks as if you fellows were hot-rodding along here.”
“We weren't,” Frank protested, and told what had happened.
“One of your buddies playing footsy with you?” the officer asked.
“He wasn't our buddy!” Joe said hotly.
The officer half smiled, indicating he did not believe their story. He proceeded to write out a summons.
“Here,” he said, handing it to Frank. “The charge is careless driving. The judge will be receiving guests tonight between eight and nine.”
“You mean our whole day's shot?” Frank exclaimed. “We'll have to wait around?”
“I didn't make the rules,” the policeman replied. While he held up traffic, Frank started the car. It groaned and scratched as it finally cleared the abutment. The officer acted as escort while the damaged car crossed the median strip and pulled into the opposite flow of traffic.
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