The Shattered Helmet (10 page)

“I tell you,” he said, “those trout are that long!” He indicated the size with his hands.

“Please,” Frank pleaded, “can you drop us off at the police so we can make the report while you go fishing?”

Arms akimbo, Buster gave them a look of annoyance. “The fish are in a little lake at the top of this mountain. It's nowhere near town. We'll fish first, then find the cops!”

The boys stepped to one side and discussed the plan. Traveling on foot in these wilds, they reasoned, was almost impossible. They would have to go along with the old man's wishes.

Buster climbed behind the wheel. Frank sat beside him, while Joe and Evan rode in the back.

It was a bumpy ride over the trackless ground to the summit of the nearby ridge.

“Only a few Apaches and cowboys know about this lake,” Buster said. “And those little rascals are waiting for their cheese!”

“Who? The Apaches or the cowboys?” Frank asked.

“The trout, of course. They love cheese. That's what I use for bait.”

“Fish also like bread. Maybe we can give them a whole cheese sandwich,” Frank quipped.

“Okay, wise guy. You'll see!”

Soon a small blue lake came into view. It lay in a crater, reflecting the cloudless sky overhead.

Buster parked the camper beside a boulder and they got out. “I've only got three rods,” he said. “You can use two of ‘em.”

“Go ahead, fellows,” Evan said. “I'll walk around the lake.” He wandered off along the rocky shoreline.

Buster sliced off a piece of American cheese and cut it into small cubes. “Put these on your hooks,” he said to Frank and Joe, “and watch the fun.”

The Hardys did. They flicked out their lines and the cheese dropped into the lake. Joe's bait had sunk no more than six inches when he felt a swift strike.

“Wow! I've got one!” he yelled.

Buckles was already reeling in a fat, flopping trout. “What did I tell you?” he asked with a happy grin.

In a short time the three fishermen had caught all they could possibly eat in one meal. Frank had just unhooked a shimmering beauty when the mountain silence was broken by a sharp cry.

“That's Evan!” Frank said, alarmed.

The cry came again.

“He must be in trouble! Come on, Joe, Let's go!”

The Hardys dropped their rods and set off among the boulders until they caught sight of Evan. He stood with his back against a slab of brown rock, tense and motionless, staring at something.

“Good grief!” Joe whispered. “Look at that rattler!”

The sidewinder slithered toward the Greek
boy, its tongue flicking. Quietly Frank and Joe picked up stones. Joe hurled his. It missed.

Frank dashed in close and the snake turned its head, weaving from side to side.

“Watch it!” Joe cried.

Crash!
Frank's rock hit the reptile directly on the head. As the creature writhed, Joe finished it off with another blow.

“Thanks,” Evan said weakly. He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “It really
is
dangerous in America. Say, how's the fishing?”

“Tremendous,” Joe said. “We'll have some for lunch.”

The three walked back to the camper cautiously, watching for sidewinders. But they had no more trouble.

Buster had already set up his stove. The boys cleaned the fish, and soon a delicious aroma filled the air. After the meal, Buster caught some more trout which he stored in the small freezer of his camper. Finally he pulled in his gear.

“Have you had enough fishing now?” Frank asked.

The man tilted his straw hat and grinned. “Yep. Let's go find the sheriff.”

He turned the camper around and started back. Suddenly another car appeared, bouncing over the rough terrain.

“It's the State Police,” Frank exclaimed.

The vehicle stopped nose to nose against the
camper and two officers stepped out. Buster and the boys did the same.

The policemen identified themselves as troopers Jones and Olivio and studied the four travelers.

Frank said, “We were just going to look—”

Olivio interrupted and pointed a finger at Joe. “We want you to come with us for questioning!”

“M
E
? For questioning?” Joe stepped forward. “What seems to be the trouble?”

Olivio advised Joe of his legal rights. “You don't have to tell us anything,” he said. “And we can get you a lawyer in town.”

“We don't need any lawyer,” Frank said hotly. “We've done nothing wrong. Now will you please tell us what this is all about?”

Trooper Jones searched the camper, while Olivio explained why Joe Hardy was under suspicion.

“There was a theft of dynamite at a construction job near here,” he said. “A blond boy was seen slipping away with three sticks. The watchman got a good look at him.”

“But what makes you think it was me?” Joe asked.

The officer said the police had been on the lookout
for a blond youth, and a rancher had reported seeing such a person in the area.

As his partner spoke, Jones stepped out of the camper holding something in the palm of his hand.

“Where did you get this blasting cap?” he asked sternly. “What was it doing in one of your sleeping bags?”

“Listen,” Frank said, “if you'll give us a chance to explain, we can clear the whole thing up.”

“Go ahead.”

Frank told about the bombing episode, which had destroyed their motorcycles. “Come with us,” he concluded, “and we'll show you the place.”

“All right,” Olivio said. The police car followed the camper to the site of the explosion.

After the lawmen had looked around, Jones said, “Dynamite all right. But how do we know that you didn't steal it and the stuff went off by accident?”

“We wouldn't be here if it had,” Evan said. “We'd have been blown up.”

“Well, you'll have to come to headquarters,” Olivio said. “Stay right behind us and don't try to get away.”

The town, twenty-eight miles distant, was the county seat. It comprised a courthouse, a movie theater, garage and a dozen shops, surrounded by a scattering of frame houses.

The troopers entered their office, where a
bronzed man in his thirties was seated behind a desk. He had jet-black hair and eyes to match. A plaque on his desk read
Captain Popovi.

Jones said, “Captain, we found a blond boy who answers the description Callahan gave us.”

The captain, whom the Hardys figured to be an Indian, rose from his desk, sat on the edge of it, and looked keenly at the impatient quartet.

“Have a seat.” He pointed to a long bench, and turned to Olivio and Jones. “Go get Callahan.”

Then he listened quietly while the boys related what had happened on the mountain.

Captain Popovi said that he had read about Buster Buckles touring the area. He was glad to meet him, and also a visitor from Greece.

“But what brought you three boys out here?” he asked.

Frank smiled. “It's a long story, Captain.”

“Go ahead, tell it. It'll be some time before Callahan gets here.”

“Who's he?” Buster asked.

“A witness. Now go on with your story.”

Frank told about their search for
The Persian Glory
and how they had come to find Buster Buckles.

“We've been harassed all along,” Frank said. “But this bombing is the worst yet.”

The captain said he was well-acquainted with the machinations of the Gerrold gang. He also
knew of Mr. Hardy's reputation and concluded, “If you're innocent, we'll know soon enough.”

After nearly half an hour Olivio appeared with a man even older than Buster Buckles. The fellow had a flowing white mustache, gnarled brown hands, and walked with a decided stoop.

“We have a suspect, Callahan,” the captain said.

“Where?” The old man looked into the faces of the four seated on the bench.

“Stand up, Joe Hardy,” the captain said.

Callahan took a long look at Joe. “He's young, and he has blond hair. But he's not the kid that ran off with the dynamite.”

“Are you sure?” Popovi asked.

“Positive. The thief was sort of fat in the middle, even though he was about the same height.”

“All right, that does it,” the captain said. He stepped forward and shook hands with each of the four. “Sorry to detain you like this. But you understand.”

While Callahan was driven back to his job, the Hardys chatted briefly with Captain Popovi. He promised to be on the lookout for Cole and the Greek suspect, as well as the dynamite thief.

“Good-by and take care!”

Outside headquarters, the Hardys urged Buster to head for California immediately.

“The way you boys eat,” he protested, “we have to get more supplies.”

They chipped in some money and bought groceries to stock the larder. “That ought to hold us for a while,” Buster said.

After an overnight stop, they continued on the straight highway, with Frank and Joe spelling Buster at the wheel.

The miles could not fly fast enough to suit the Hardys as they neared their destination. Finally they crossed the border and drove through the jagged mountains at the western edge of the state.

It was evening when the little camper pulled up in front of the home of Buster Buckles. It was an old-fashioned bungalow located in a run-down area. A small one-car garage stood in the rear of the weed-covered lot.

Joe was all for plunging directly into a search for the film. But Buster said, “What's your hurry? It's late. We'll look for it in the morning.”

He parked the camper in front of the house and led the way inside. The interior of the bungalow had a musty smell and the boys helped Buster open all the windows.

Evan said, “Mr. Buckles, what does a can of old film look like?”

The old man said the tin was about fifteen inches in diameter and an inch and a half deep. “It holds a thousand feet of thirty-five millimeter film,” he explained. “Now look, I have only one bed. So bring your sleeping bags in. I'll make a snack, then we'll all hit the sack.”

“Okay,” Frank said. “But I'd like to call home and let my folks know where we are. Is there a phone nearby?”

“I've got one,” Buster said.

“Yours is disconnected.”

Buster grinned. “I had that done before I left, but it's on again since the first of the month. That was yesterday.”

Frank called his father and told him of their adventures so far. When he came to the dynamite episode, Mr. Hardy interrupted. “I know about that.”

“What?”

“The mob's harassing you to get me off the investigation. I received a note after they dynamited your bikes, saying that the next time it wouldn't just be the bikes but you too.”

Frank whistled. “I wish I'd called sooner.”

“So do I. I wanted to warn you but couldn't get in touch. From now on, be extra careful.”

“Okay, Dad. Don't worry.”

In the morning, after Buster had made pancakes for everyone, he took a key from a shelf and beckoned to the boys.

“Now we'll go look for the film.” He led them to the garage and unlocked the door.

Inside sat a dusty compact car. Around it on three sides was an assortment of junk—old tires, empty oil cans, a ladder, garden tools, and an ancient bicycle.

“I'd better take the car out first,” Buster said, “or we'll never get to the stuff.” He drove the automobile into the street and parked it there. Then he walked to the front of the garage.

“I think the film is in this corner somewhere,” he said, pointing to a dirty tarpaulin. Under it was a piece of black oilcloth, sticky with age.

Frank and Joe lifted it to reveal a dozen film cans covered with cobwebs. Frank brushed away a layer of dust with the back of his hand. Then he, Joe, and Evan each picked up a can.

“Be careful,” Buster warned. “Those things can explode!”

H
EEDING
Buster's warning, Frank, Joe, and Evan gingerly carried the tins into the house and placed them gently on the dining-room table.

“Let's examine these reels right away,” Joe said.

Frank agreed. If
The Persian Glory
was in one of the cans, they might not have to bother with the others still in the garage.

Lids were removed with great caution. Inside lay the old nitrate celluloid, its pungent smell rising from the tins.

Buster unreeled and examined them one at a time as the boys peered over his shoulder.

“Look at that,” Frank said. “Part of an old Tom Mix movie.”

Evan read a caption and asked, “Who was Eddy Polo?”

Buster explained that he was the hero of an adventure series in the days of the silent films.

The first two cans contained several dozen outtakes. But none of them was from
The Persian Glory.

Buster had just started to examine the third reel when the house was shaken by a muffled roar. He put down the film and they all raced outside.

Black smoke billowed from the garage. An instant later the frame structure was engulfed in red flames.

“Good heavens, the film's blown up!” Buckles cried out. “Run for your lives!”

His warning was hardly necessary, because the heat forced all of them back to a respectful distance.

Buster rushed into the house and phoned the fire department. Five minutes later three fire engines screamed to the scene.

While the young detectives looked on, crestfallen and silent, the firemen quickly attached their hoses. Two streams of water gushed into the inferno, whipping up sparks and blackened ash.

Joe was glum as he watched the garage fall with a shower of sparks. “Frank, now we may never solve this mystery!” he muttered.