The Shattered Helmet (11 page)

Buster seemed to be in a trance. His eyes were fixed on the flaming boards which gradually disintegrated.

“Are you insured?” Frank asked him.

He nodded, coming back to reality. “But I'm glad the car wasn't parked inside,” he said.

A policeman, who had joined the scene, approached the actor. With him was a man carrying a camera in his hands.

“What happened? How did it start?” the officer inquired.

“I guess something shifted and fell and the old film just blew up,” Buster replied.

“Old film? You mean nitrate? That stuff's dangerous. You shouldn't have it around.”

“Well, it ain't around any more,” Buster said.

“It must have started by spontaneous combustion,” the policeman deduced.

Joe thought it could have been set off deliberately and said so.

“Set off by whom?” the policeman asked.

“The people who have been tailing us,” Joe replied. “Either someone else wanted to get that film, or wanted to prevent us from having it.”

“What film? And who are these people you're talking about?”

The boys told their story briefly, and Frank noticed that the man with the camera took notes.

“What are you doing that for?” the boy asked.

“I'm a reporter for the
Afternoon Gazette
,” the man replied.

When Frank heard this, he got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Publicity was the last thing Evan and the Hardys wanted.

“Does all this have to go in your newspaper?” he asked.

The man smiled pleasantly. “You bet it does. Can't you see the headline?
‘Old-time actor involved in modern drama. What secret lies in
The Persian Glory?' Wow!”

He turned and hurried off, stepped into a car, and disappeared.

The usually smiling Evan was a picture of dejection. His mouth dropped at the corners. “Now everyone will know about the helmet!” he said gloomily.

The firemen, meanwhile, continued to douse the smoldering remains of the garage long after the flames had subsided. Finally they left the blackened mess.

Buster led the boys back into his house. “Let's look at the last few outtakes,” he said, picking up the film and unreeling it slowly.

“No—no. That's not it.” He rolled off a couple of more feet and his eyes focused sharply. “Wait a minute!” he said, and held the film up against the light. His hands began to shake.

“Boys, if I'm not mistaken, this is it! Yes, here's Cornelius Doornheim, who played the lead, and he's wearing the helmet.”

The surge of excitement was electrifying. Frank, Joe, and Evan pressed closer for a better look.

“Boys, this is it!” Buster said.

“Be careful!” the actor cried. “You'll knock me over and we'll all explode!”

He rolled up the film again and placed it back in the can. “I don't want to put this in my projector,” he said. “It would be better to have it copied on safety film first.”

“Do you know a lab who would do it?” Frank asked.

“Yep!”

“Great! Can we go right now?”

“Why not? Follow me in the car. I'll take the camper and return it to the rental agency.”

On the way Joe remarked, “We might as well get two copies. Jeff Riker would love to have one, I'm sure.”

The technician at the laboratory promised to make two copies by late afternoon.

Buoyed by enthusiasm, they drove back to Buster's bungalow. A few blocks away they stopped for gas at a service station. While they were waiting, Frank's eyes lighted upon a maroon Buick up on the rack.

“Joe! See that car with the New Mexico license number?”

“The one Cole and the Greek were using!” Joe exclaimed.

“Right. They must have followed us here and are spying on us.”

“Now we know for sure they set the fire,” Joe
said. “Let's talk to the mechanic.” He and Frank approached the man who was working on the car, while Buster and Evan stayed behind.

“We've been trying to get in touch with a Greek friend of ours,” Frank said. “But he's moved. I believe this is his car. Do you have his address?”

“The car belongs to a Greek, all right,” the mechanic replied. “George Dimitri.”

“That's our friend,” said Frank

“I don't have his address. He said he'd pick up the car tomorrow or the day after.”

“What's he driving in the meantime?” asked Joe.

“A blue Chevy. He rented it from the place down the street. You want me to give him a message?”

“No. We're leaving town tonight. Thanks all the same.”

At Buster's house, the young detectives went into a huddle to map out their strategy.

“We'll have to stake out that garage, then follow Dimitri when he picks up the Buick,” Frank said.

“Do you think Buster will give us his car for the whole day?” Joe asked.

“I wouldn't even ask him. We can't impose on him like that. Let's rent one. But first I want to call Dad. It just occurred to me that he might know something about George Dimitri.”

Mr. Hardy did indeed. “He's a shady character
who came from Greece not long ago and joined the Gerrold mob. What his racket is I don't know yet. I'll try to find out.”

Frank then told his father about their planned stakeout.

“No need to rent a car,” Mr. Hardy said. “Sam Radley is in Los Angeles right now. Call him at the Ambassador Hotel. He might be able to do the surveillance job for you.”

Frank called his father's operative, who had assisted them on many cases, and reported what had happened. Sam promised to watch the garage the following two days.

Later Buster went out to get the afternoon paper. At the bottom of the front page was a three-column picture of his burning garage. He handed the paper to the boys. “Take a look at that story!” he said.

They read the report and groaned in dismay. All details of their quest for the old movie had been given to millions of readers in the Los Angeles area!

Frank shrugged. “Well, our enemies knew all about it, anyway. What difference does it make at this point whether the whole world knows?”

At five o'clock Buster received a call from the film lab. The copies were ready and could be shown in the lab's viewing room.

“Fine,” Buster said. “We'll be over after dinner.”

“All right,” came the reply. “Mr. Simmons is going to stay late today anyhow. He'll wait for you.”

When Buster and the boys left an hour later, they looked cautiously about to see if anyone were spying on them. Only a motorcycle sped past. Nothing else. Still, Frank had the uncomfortable feeling that they were being watched. He kept looking out the car's rear window all the way to their destination, but saw nothing suspicious.

When they arrived at the lab, it was closed, but Mr. Simmons let them in. He locked the door after them and ushered them to a room on the second floor that looked like a miniature movie theater.

On a small table in the back of the room were the two copies of
The Persian Glory
outtake. Mr. Simmons put one of them in a projector.

“Make yourselves at home,” he said while adjusting the film.

They sat in the front row on comfortable cushioned seats, and in a few minutes the old silent movie flashed on the screen. The Hardys realized that
The Persian Glory
must have been a high-budget enterprise. A scene showed hundreds of people attacking an ancient castle, then came a close-up of a young man.

“Evan, that's you!” Joe exclaimed.

Evan laughed. “It's Uncle Nick. We sure look alike!”

Nick Pandropolos walked to the lead man who wore the ancient Greek helmet.

“Can you rerun that shot?” Joe asked Mr. Simmons. “We're interested in the helmet.”

“Sure.” Simmons ran the film backward.

“There! Hold it.”

The boys studied the headgear. The top was rounded and a long piece of metal extended down to cover the nose.

“Could you make us a couple of enlargements of that frame?” Frank asked Mr. Simmons.

“Be glad to.” Simmons turned the light on, rewound the reel, and said, “Did you take the other copy of the film I left on the table over there?”

“No,” Frank said. They stared at the table. The reel was gone.

“It's been stolen!” Joe exclaimed.

N
ONE
of them had seen anyone enter the screening room. The theft must have been accomplished when the lights were out!

The boys ran downstairs to the main floor. The door stood open, but by the time they reached the street there was no sign of anyone who looked suspicious.

Joe and Evan went in one direction, Frank and Mr. Simmons in the other. They questioned passersby. No one had seen a man running away from the lab building. Half a dozen queries produced no results, but finally Joe talked to a man who was standing on the opposite side of the street waiting for a taxi.

“Yes, some guy came out of that building—a short, wiry fellow. He took off fast and kept looking back over his shoulder,” the man said.

Joe and Evan thanked him and hastened back to the others.

“Obviously it was Kitten Cole,” Joe said. “He must have followed us somehow, picked the lock, and come in while we were viewing the outtake.”

“May I use your phone?” Frank asked Mr. Simmons. “I'd like to report this to the police.”

“Go ahead.”

Frank made the call, then asked when they could pick up the enlargements.

“Tomorrow. Do you want me to make you another copy of the outtake?”

“Yes, please. And thanks very much for your trouble.”

Back at Buster's house, over cups of tea, they pondered the new events.

“I don't think Dimitri and Cole set the fire,” Frank said. “They not only wanted to prevent us from having the film, but they wanted it themselves.”

Joe nodded. “Let's give Chet a call and see if there's anything new at his end,” he suggested.

It took a few minutes to get in touch with Chet. When he finally came to the phone he was out of breath.

“Hi, fellows. I ran all the way. What's up?”

Frank told him what had happened.

“Wow! You sure had a lot of adverse action out there,” Chet said.

“True. How about you?”

“Nothing happened here. Red Car never showed up again.”

“That figures. By the way, how's the romance?”

“Great, just great. And boy! I'm learning a lot about film-making. I'm going to be a director someday.”

“Okay, Chet, keep your eyes open.” Frank hung up.

The boys retired for the night after watching a show on Buster's television. Next morning they were awakened by the persistent ringing of the telephone.

Buster Buckles reached it first. “Who?…Who do you want?…Yes, they're here. Hold on, please.”

Joe Hardy had wriggled out of his sleeping bag and Buster handed him the phone. “It's for you. A woman.”

“Hello, this is Joe Hardy.”

“Joe, this is Betty Love. I'm here in California.”

“Oh—Miss Love, how did you find us?”

The woman chuckled. “I read the papers.” She added, “I'd like you to come and see me. I have some information for you.”

“What kind of information?”

“I don't want to discuss it over the phone. Do you have a pencil? Then write down this address in Hollywood and come over right away.”

Joe fumbled for a piece of paper in his jacket pocket and wrote down the address. When he finished he thanked Betty Love and hung up.

“What was that all about?” Buster asked.

“Betty Love wants to see us.”

“Betty Love, the actress? I remember her. She played in
The Persian Glory.
”

“She was the one who told us about you. Now she says she has some more information. Obviously about
The Persian Glory.
”

Buster scratched his head. “You've got an awful lot of enemies. Suppose that wasn't Betty, but a trap?”

Frank nodded. “I was just thinking that myself. On the other hand, we have to pursue all possibilities. Buster, would you go with us? You and Evan can wait outside, and if we don't come out in ten or fifteen minutes, call the police.”

“You bet!” Buster said. “But let's eat first, eh? Who wants to get trapped on an empty stomach?”

After breakfast they left. Again, there was no sign of any tail, but to be on the safe side, Buster drove in and out of side streets and made a quick U-turn at a gas station to throw off any possible pursuer.

The address which Betty had given them proved to be a lovely home on a tree-lined street. Buster and Evan stayed in the car, while Frank and Joe walked up the front steps and rang the doorbell.

A strange woman opened the door, smiled, and beckoned them inside. Their footsteps were muted by a thick oriental rug which led to a gracious living
room. Seated in a high-backed chair beside the marble fireplace was Betty Love.