Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
The Melted Coins (6 page)
“Yes and no,” Mrs. Jimerson continued. “The coins were melted, but strangely they were fused in the form of Spoon Mouth.”
Frank and Joe exchanged excited glances. “You mean the melted coins and Spoon Mouth are one and the same?” Frank asked.
“Yes. I assumed you knew.”
“What an odd coincidence,” Chet said.
“Maybe not,” Mrs. Jimerson continued. “The Indians felt that this had been done by their creator as a sign. The gold Spoon Mouth was carried into battle as their mascot and brought them exceptional luck. He was handed down from generation to generation.”
“Hey, look!” Chet interrupted. He had been staring out of the window, idly watching their car. The trunk lid was opening slowly!
The boys crowded to the window. As the lid opened wider and wider, a slender figure emerged from the trunk and ran off. A nylon stocking had been pulled over his face to hide his features.
Frank, Joe, and Chet nearly fell over themselves, dashing for the door. Mrs. Jimerson looked on in surprise.
“Where'd he go?” Frank cried out.
“I think he ran over this way,” Joe said, and dashed toward a neighboring yard.
Chet did not know which direction to take. He stood still and looked all about. The intruder was built very much like Creepy, he thought, but why would he follow them to Yellow Springs?
Frank and Joe came back, panting. “He got away,” Frank declared, “that's for sure. He must know this territory pretty well.”
“Which would suggest that he was an Indian,” said Joe.
“He looked like Creepy to me,” Chet muttered.
They went back to their car and looked inside the trunk. Everything seemed to be in its place, the spare tire, the tool kit wrapped and secure next to the jack.
“So he didn't get a ride at the highway near Zoar College after all and came with us all the way to Yellow Springs,” Frank said.
“What a nut!” Joe shook his head.
The boys apologized to Mrs. Jimerson for running off and explained what had happened. They seated themselves at the table again, waiting for her to relate more of the legend about Spoon Mouth.
She said that the golden relic had been kept at the new Seneca longhouse, a modern frame building nearby.
“Then he was stolen,” she said sadly. “We don't know who did it. But many of our people feel now that the tribe is in disfavor with the spirits.”
“Mrs. Jimerson,” Frank said, “do you have any suspicion at all as to who took the relic?” The woman did not answer right away. Finally she shrugged and said, “No. No suspicions.”
“Can you tell us some more about Lendo Wallace, the head of the False Face Society?” Frank went on. “Rod mentioned him briefly andâ”
Just then a fierce explosion ripped the air and rattled the windows!
CHAPTER VII
No Admittance, Please!
THE boys and Mrs. Jimerson were momentarily stunned by the blast. They looked out the window and saw that the trunk lid of the Hardys' car had blown open.
“Come on!” Frank cried out.
The three boys hastened outside.
“Oh, no!” Joe exclaimed. “What a mess!”
The back seat was blown out, their luggage ripped open, the trunk cover a total loss and a tire punctured.
The Indian woman came out of the house, shaking her head. “What in the world happened?” she asked.
“Somebody's plenty mad at us,” Frank said grimly.
“You've been asking too many embarrassing questions,” Chet said. “Especially in Cleveland. Could be the Zoar College people are worried that you'll expose their racket.”
“No doubt we were supposed to be in the car when the charge went off,” Frank mused.
“And in the hospital now,” Joe added.
Frank turned to Mrs. Jimerson. “Do you think the Senecas have something against us?”
“No, of course not. Why should they?”
Frank inspected the car again. “The bomb was probably hidden in the tool kit,” he said. “Well, let's see if she's still running.”
He turned the key and found out that the mechanical workings, fortunately, were not damaged.
The boys thanked Mrs. Jimerson for her hospitality. Chet assured her that the corn soup was the best he had ever tasted. Then they climbed into the front seat and drove off.
“We'll have to find a motel,” Frank said. “And then I suggest that one of us drive this car back to Cleveland and pick up our own.”
“I'll go,” Chet volunteered.
“Okay,” said Frank. He drove to a long, low building bearing the name Sunset Motel. It advertised fourteen rooms and two suites.
As they applied at the desk for accommodations, the affable manager smiled. “You're kind of early, aren't you?” he said.
Frank looked blank. “What do you mean?”
“Aren't you college boys? Several students from Zoar College stayed here last summer,” the man replied. He jerked his thumb toward the back of the motel. “One of them left his motorcycle behind.”
Joe snapped his fingers. “That may answer a question for us,” he said. “We're going to need transportation. Our friend is taking the car back to Cleveland where we rented it.”
“Is the motorcycle in working order?” Frank asked.
“I think so. It was kept under a tarpaulin all winter.”
“May we use it?”
“Help yourselves, fellows.”
The boys took their broken baggage to their room, then said good-by to Chet, who set off for Ohio.
“The car is undoubtedly covered by insurance,” Frank told him. “If there is any trouble about it, have the rental company contact Sam Radley.”
Chet waved as he drove away and Joe turned to his brother. “What now, fearless leader?”
“I'd say Lendo Wallace is next on our list. We'll beard the lion in his den.”
“Okay, let's see if we can get this motorcycle started.”
They walked around to the back of the motel, pulled the tarpaulin off the machine, then checked the spark plugs and the gas tank.
“No reason why she shouldn't turn over,” Joe declared as he wheeled the cycle toward the driveway in front of the motel.
He got on and kicked it a couple of times. The machine backfired, sending out a puff of white smoke. On the next try Joe was successful. At first the noisy engine sounded like a helicopter, then settled down to a throaty roar.
Frank, meanwhile, had gone inside to get directions for Lendo Wallace's place. He returned, hopped on the back, and they shot off down the road. Soon they reached the lane leading to Wallace's house. It was more of a shack than Mrs. Jimerson's and the Hardys felt sorry for the way some Indians had to live.
The two dismounted, set the machine on the kickstand, and approached the shanty.
“This job may be ticklish,” Joe said.
Frank nodded as they strode on. “All the same, let's not beat around the bush.”
They knocked on the screen door. A man pushed it open and stepped outside. He was short with a tanned face and square shoulders. His general appearance was one of lean agility.
“Mr. Wallace?” Frank asked.
The man nodded.
Frank introduced himself and Joe, then said, “We'd like to talk with you. May we come in?”
Lendo Wallace eyed them coolly. “If you have something to discuss, we can do it out here.”
The hostility in his voice indicated that getting information from the Indian was going to be more difficult than they had anticipated.
“All right,” Frank said. “We'll talk out here.”
Seeing a chopping block with a hatchet bedded in its surface, he walked over to it and sat down casually.
Wallace glared at him for a moment, but when Joe hunkered down beside his brother, the Indian relaxed a bit and said, “All right. Talk. What do you want?”
Frank decided to aim the first question right on target. “Mr. Wallace,” he said, “what do you know about Spoon Mouth?”
The Indian stiffened. His eyes darted from one boy to the other. The only reply was a shrug. Before the Hardys had a chance to ask another question, a chauffeured Cadillac drove slowly past Wallace's shack. It stopped two hundred yards down the road, turned about, and came back again.
A youth in the back seat was leaning out the window. He cupped his hands and shouted something unintelligible.
“What does he want?” asked Joe.
The youth tapped the chauffeur on the shoulder, said something, and the limousine drove on.
“What was that all about?” said Frank, scratching his head.
“Maybe that guy thought he knew us,” Joe suggested.
The young detectives turned their attention to Wallace once more. He was scowling. “I don't intend to talk about Spoon Mouth or anything else,” he declared.
“It's very important to your tribe that the golden relic be found, isn't it?” Joe asked.
“It is,” the Indian had to admit. His eyes were deeply troubled.
“Do you know how it was stolen?” Frank asked.
“No.”
“What about the disappearance of the false faces?” said Joe. “Can't you give us some idea what's going on around here?”
Wallace's face grew taut, and he said, “If the police cannot find out, how do you expect to?” Before the boys could reply, he added, “It is none of your business anyhow, nor Rod Jimerson's either!”
The Hardys were dumbfounded.
“How did you know Rod sent us?” Frank demanded.
Wallace shrugged. “I guessed it. He's been bugging me about this all along.” With that he turned on his heels and went inside his shack.
“Well, he wasn't very informative,” Joe said.
“He's so hostile you'd think he stole the masks himself,” Frank declared.
“I don't know,” Joe replied. “He looks as if he's in bad trouble. But somehow he doesn't strike me as a thief.”
Frank got on the motorcycle, grabbed the handle bars, and Joe vaulted on the seat behind him. With a powerful growl, the machine leaped ahead and they enjoyed the cool breeze whipping their faces as they rode toward the motel.
When they reached it they noticed a Cadillac standing in front of one of the suites.
“Hey, Frank! It looks like the one that passed us before!” Joe shouted over the roar.
Frank nodded. Smoothly he applied the brakes and the cycle rolled toward a stop. Before either of the boys could dismount, a young man stepped into view. He was older than the Hardys, perhaps nineteen or twenty, thickset, with black hair and an unsmiling face.
He took a few quick steps forward, lunged at Joe, and struck him on the shoulder. The Hardys lost their balance and were spilled to the ground. The motorcycle fell on top, pinning them to the driveway!
CHAPTER VIII
A Flattened Foe
WINCING with pain, Frank and Joe untangled themselves from the fallen bike. They limped to their feet, righted the cycle, and brushed the dust from their clothes.
Joe had suffered the most damage. His right leg and arm were skinned. His chafed elbow smarted and blood oozed through his shirt.
Angrily the boys walked toward the perpetrator of the mean trick, who stood and smirked.
“Now what was the big idea?” Frank asked sharply.
Joe was hot with indignation. He clenched his fists and pressed past him. “Why ask any questions, Frank? Let me sock the jerk!”
Frank put out an arm and held Joe back. “Easy now. I'll handle this.” He turned.
“Why did you knock us down?” he demanded, standing nose to nose with the larger boy, who wore an expression of childish amusement.
“You were riding my cycle without permission,” he said finally.
“Your
cycle?” Joe said. “Why, weâ”
cycle?” Joe said. “Why, weâ”
The motel manager, having heard the commotion, hastened up to the trio. “I can explain everything,” he said. “I gave them permission to use the bike!”
The youth looked at him coldly. “You knew it belonged to me, didn't you?”
“It's been around here a long time. I thought you wouldn't mind.”
“You were wrong!” the youth said haughtily.
The manager backed off and returned to his office.
“Come on, Joe,” Frank said. “Let's go.”
They strode to their room and closed the door.
“I don't see how you could take that,” Joe said.
“Listen, Joe. We're here to do a job,” Frank declared. “Getting into a big hassle won't help us at all.”
Joe pulled off his clothes and stepped into the shower. The hot water stung his abrasions, but the bleeding had stopped. He was toweling himself gingerly when the phone rang.
Frank picked it up. It was the manager, who was full of apologies. The youth, he said, was Elmont Chidsee. He had been going to Zoar College for three summers and was to be graduated this year.
“He had an awful nerve knocking us off the bike like that,” Frank said. “Maybe Joe should have bopped him after all.”
The man explained that Chidsee was an indolent type who spent most of his time loafing on a fat allowance from a rich uncle.
“He thinks he's great, all right,” Frank said, and added, “Why in the world would anybody come for three years to a phony place like Zoar?”
“Because no other school would have him,” the manager replied. “Well, I hope your brother is okay.” With that he hung up.
Frank relayed the information to Joe, then he stripped and stepped into the shower. When both boys were dressed again, a bold knock sounded on the door. Joe opened it to see Chidsee standing there, the same smirk on his face.
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