The Mysterious Caravan (10 page)

“You must be jesting,” the Jamaican said. “Aren't they, Mr. Hardy?”

“Stranger things have happened,” the detective replied. “We'll talk more about it later.”

Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude were still up when they arrived, and the women were delighted
to see that William had been released unhurt.

“You must be starving,” Mrs. Hardy said. “I'll make you a sandwich. Would you like it toasted?”

“Yes, ma'am, please.”

All the while Gertrude Hardy studied their midnight guest. As he ate, she adjusted her spectacles, peered over them, then concentrated her gaze through the lenses.

Joe nudged her and whispered, “Don't stare at him like that, Aunty.”

“He's a handsome boy,” his aunt replied, “and so polite.”

“Then you won't mind if he goes to Africa with us?”

Aunt Gertrude smiled benignly. “That's out of the question. School is going to be in session.”

“But it's closed. Haven't you heard? The boiler broke down.”

“Good heavens! That would be the end of all of you, traipsing around in Africa!”

When William had finished eating, Mr. Hardy said, “We'd better turn in now. William can talk to the police in the morning and pick up his bag.”

“Oh, you have it?” the boy asked.

“It's at headquarters.”

“Good. There is something very special in it.”

“What?” Joe pried.

“You will see tomorrow.”

William was shown to the guest room, and soon
the Hardy home was quiet. Later that morning everyone was jarred awake by the ring of the telephone. Chet and Iola were on the line, asking about William.

“He arrived safely,” Frank said. “But the crooks got away.” He briefly sketched what had happened, then said, “We've got a lot to do this morning, Chet. See you later.”

After breakfast the boys took their guest to headquarters. Chief Collig was there to meet them. He apologized for the fiasco, then took a long statement from William about his experience with the kidnappers.

“And now may I have my suitcase?” the boy asked.

“We took the liberty of looking through it for clues,” Frank said. “I hope you don't mind.”

“Not at all. Did you happen to read my note on Dingo?”

“Sure did,” Joe said, and he told William how Dingo had driven the phony Jamaican envoy in his escape from the Hardy home.

“And the preserves?” William went on. “You did not open them, did you?”

“No. Of course not.”

They drove off with the luggage and as soon as they entered the Hardy home, William gave the jar to Mrs. Hardy. “It is from my mother,” he said, “but there is something in it for Frank and Joe.”

While the others looked on, Mrs. Hardy unscrewed the cap. Inside were delicious stewed mangoes. She poured them into a serving tureen, and as she did so, an aluminum tube, about three inches long, fell out with the fruit.

“What's this?” Mrs. Hardy said, removing it with a spoon.

William wiped the tube and took off the metal cap. An unusual piece of ivory on a chain fell out.

“A lion's tooth,” the Jamaican explained, holding it up for the others to see. “Inlaid with copper. It is the sign, or signature, of a
ju-ju
man. I hid it in the mangoes for safekeeping.”

William said that the ancient relic had come from Ghana and was the gift of Ali El Ansari. “He took quite a liking to Frank and Joe.”

“What's a
ju-ju
man?” Joe asked.

“He is like a medicine man to the American Indians,” William said. “According to the natives, the
ju-ju
man has magical powers. If one puts a curse on you, it will take another, more powerful,
ju-ju
man to remove it.”

“I'd like to put a curse on those crooks!” Joe said with a wry smile.

Frank took the lion's tooth from William and examined it closely. “This is beautiful inlay work,” he said.

“You wear it, Frank,” William said and he placed the relic around the boy's neck.

The rest of the morning Frank and Joe drove
William around Bayport, but not before he was warmly dressed in one of Joe's sweaters and Frank's ski jacket, which fit him snugly. A pair of Mr. Hardy's gloves completed the outfit.

Halfway through the sightseeing tour, the boy said, “Man, I am cold. You know, I have never seen winter before!”

“What about snow?” Joe asked.

“First time, too.”

“You wouldn't object to a little snowball fight to warm up, would you?” Frank asked. He stopped along the side of the road, where a snow plow had formed a mound.

When the boys got out, the Hardys showed William how to make snowballs. After preparing an arsenal of six apiece, they fired.

“Hey, he's got quite an arm,” Frank said, as he ducked a flying snowball. William's next shot knocked Joe's hat off, and he laughed gleefully.

“Look who's coming!” Frank said suddenly.

With a triple bang, Chet parked his jalopy behind the Hardys' car. The stout boy jumped out, tilting his yellow cap down over his eyes. After greeting William, he said, “Listen, this is no time for a snowball fight. I just came from your house. Good thing I found you.”

“What happened?” Joe asked.

“Plenty,” Chet said with an air of authority. “Cablegrams, suspects, plans for Africa.” He beamed. “And I think I'm going with you!”

“Oh yes? Don't be too sure,” Joe said. “They have enough elephants there already.”

Chet looked insulted. They got into their cars and he followed the trio back to Elm Street. Mr. and Mrs. Hardy were eating lunch, but Frank knew something exceptional must have happened. His father's cool demeanor was seldom ruffled by either good news or bad, but now he seemed excited.

“Tell us what's going on, Dad!” Frank urged, as the boys joined their parents at the table.

“Your case and mine seem to be breaking fast,” the detective stated. “I just got a cable from the company in Paris. That leather coat Kenleigh Scott left behind him was custom made at an Arabian shop in the
souq
of Marrakesh.”

“In the what?” asked Chet, wrinkling his freckled nose. “What's a
souq?
”

“A marketplace,” William told him. “All kinds of things are sold there.”

“Then Scott must be an Arab,” Joe said.

“Not necessarily,” Mr. Hardy said. “Custom-made leather goods are produced in Morocco for customers all over the world. But listen to this. I've just been informed that an airline-ticket-theft suspect named Jason Hickson was nearly caught by police in New York. He eluded them, and later it was learned that he had taken a plane to Casablanca.”

“And was caught there?” Frank asked.

“No. He got away again,” Mr. Hardy replied. He pulled a picture from his pocket. “See, that's the fellow.” Hickson was a short man with a broad, pudgy face and a thin mustache on his upper lip.

“Two good clues. And I know what you're going to say,” Frank said.

“Right,” Joe added. “There's a Morocco connection!”

“Exactly. Your idea of going to Africa might not be a bad one,” Mr. Hardy said. “In fact, you have the assignment if you'd like it.”

“You mean it?” Frank asked. He grinned broadly.

“Yes. Three different airlines have agreed to defray expenses. They'll pay for two detectives and two assistants.”

Chet let out a startling yell. “That means I can go! Boy, I'll be the greatest assistant!”

Mr. Hardy turned to William. “How would you like to join my sons?”

“That would be my distinct pleasure,” William replied, excitement shining in his dark eyes.

Before Frank and Joe had a chance to discuss anything with Chet, they heard the door close, Chet's engine start, and his jalopy pull away.

“Wow!” Joe laughed. “He's off like Paul Revere!”

For the rest of the day the Hardy home was busy with phone calls, one of them to Marrakesh,
where the detective had a friend, Dr. Henri Cellier. Mr. Hardy explained that he had met the doctor, who was now head of the Avenzoar Hospital, in New York years before.

“Henri was a medical student when I was a rookie in the New York Police Department,” Mr. Hardy said. “He's a grand fellow, and we became good friends.”

When the call to Marrakesh went through, Fenton Hardy renewed his old acquaintance and told Dr. Cellier that his sons, with their two friends, would arrive in a day or two. Would he give them a hand in their work? Dr. Cellier said he would do everything in his power to assist the boys and that he would get in touch with them on their arrival in Casablanca.

While all the preparations were underway, Mrs. Hardy and her sister-in-law looked on quietly. It was obvious that they were apprehensive, thinking of the safety of the four boys in a strange continent.

“Please don't worry about us,” Frank said. “We've got William to help us, and Chet, who's proven his reliability many times. As a matter of fact—”

Mrs. Hardy, who was looking out the window, suddenly shrieked, her shoulders shaking.

“Mother!” Frank exclaimed. “Are you laughing or crying?”

“L-look!”

Somebody clomped onto the porch and Joe opened the door. There stood Chet Morton! He wore tan shorts, a military blouse with epaulets, and a pith helmet. A canteen was slung over his shoulder.

“Hey, let me in quick!” he cried out. “I'm freezing!”

“C
HET
, you'll catch pneumonia and won't be able to go to Africa with us!” Joe said.

“Don't worry, I'll warm up in no time.” Chet danced a jig, which looked even more comical because of his red legs and short pants.

The fun over, the boys settled down to the serious business of making plans. William called his parents, who gave him their permission to take the trip. Then a travel agent booked them from Bayport to Kennedy International Airport in New York and on to Casablanca, where they got reservations at the Hotel Marhaba.

“When you get there, telephone the United States Consul, John Klem, and make an appointment to see him,” Mr. Hardy suggested. “He'll brief you on Morocco, and you'll be oriented in no time at all. Also, read up on the country in the encyclopedia.”

The boys spent the entire evening doing that. Morocco, they learned, was once under French control, and the French language was still widely spoken along with Arabic. One-hundred-thousand Frenchmen were scattered about the country. Arab women wore caftans and the men, djellabahs. But the ordinary street dress was the burnoose, a long, hooded cloak.

Early the next morning the Hardys dispatched Chet to pick up their tickets at the travel office, and after lunch they started out for the airport. After Phil, Tony, and Biff had given their friends a surprise send-off, the four boys caught the plane to New York and did not have to wait long for the connecting flight. The ride over the Atlantic was pleasant, and when they touched down in Casablanca, the companions took a taxi directly to their hotel. They were assigned two adjoining rooms on the sixth floor.

Frank phoned Mr. Klem immediately. The consul's secretary said he was out for the day and set up an appointment for the following morning.

“Thank you,” Frank said. “By the way, can you recommend a good restaurant? We'd like to try the native food.”

“There's no finer dining place than Al Mounia,” she replied. “It's really beautiful, and the
cous-cous
is out of this world.”

“What's that?”

“Order and you'll see,” she answered, laughing. “But easy with the sauce. It's very hot.”

The friends spent the day driving around the city. The hotel concierge suggested that they rent a
carrossa
, a horse-drawn carriage, so as to take in the sights leisurely.

All the main streets radiated from a hub in the center. Like spokes on a giant wheel, the thoroughfares went in every direction of the compass and were lined with gleaming white buildings.

The boys stopped their driver and browsed through curio shops, where William was particularly interested in art objects made by the black tribes south of the Sahara desert.

“Look at this!” he said. “The kind of dog I always wanted.” In his hands he held a carving of a small, lightly built animal with a short back, which seemed to be set high on the legs compared to its length. It had a wrinkled forehead and carried its head proudly. The dog's demeanor was poised but alert.

“What breed is it?” Chet asked.

“It's a Basenji,” William replied, “an African dog. Look at that sleek head!”

“I've heard about them,” Frank said. “But I've never seen one.”

William had, in Jamaica, and vowed that some day he would have one. “As far back as three thousand
B.C
.,” he said, “these dogs were favorites
of the pharaohs in Egypt. They disappeared from sight for centuries, and finally were rediscovered as companions of the pygmies in the African Rain Forest.”

“Basenji sounds like a Swahili word,” Joe said.

“It is, and it means a ‘wild thing,'” William explained. He added with a grin, “This dog's bite is worse than his bark, because the Basenji does not bark at all. He makes a noise almost like a chortle or a yodel.”

Joe took the carving and handed it to the clerk. “William, you now own your favorite breed. It's a gift from us to you.”

The dog was wrapped, paid for, and presented to the Jamaican boy, who thanked the Hardys warmly.

Then Chet said, “Listen, fellows. It's getting near that time.”

“Okay, Chet,” Frank said. “Are you all set to try the
cous-cous?
”

“I would try
cous-cous
, goose-goose, or moose-moose,” Chet said, patting his belt. “Sightseeing makes me hungry.”