The Shattered Helmet (8 page)

Frank, Joe, and Evan drove down the hill, onto the bumpy road and finally reached the highway.

They sped toward Taos, looking back over their shoulders occasionally. But the Monsters were nowhere to be seen. Finally they slowed down and took a short break.

“I'm sure glad our buddies aren't playing tag,” Joe said, stretching out in the tall grass to the side of the road.

“They slightly outnumber us,” Frank agreed. “A real fight with that gang would be all we need.”

Evan said, “I have heard of motorcycle gangs in your country, but I never expected to encounter one!”

Frank laughed. “Just stick with us and you'll get into all kinds of tight spots.”

Ten minutes later they mounted their cycles again and continued toward their destination.

On the outskirts of town, the boys made inquiries at several gas stations, but nobody had heard of Buster Buckles.

“I guess only the old-timers know about him,” Joe said. “Before we go any farther, how about some chow? There's a diner over there and I'm starved.”

Frank and Evan were, too, and they pulled into the diner's parking lot. Several trucks were standing in front.

“Maybe we can find out some scuttlebutt about Buster here,” Joe suggested as they went inside.

Over steaming plates of stew and crusty bread, the young adventurers relaxed. They asked the waitress about Buckles, but she knew nothing. However, a rancher in a sombrero who had overheard the question said that he had seen Buckles camping near his spread.

“Where is that, sir?” Joe asked.

The man smiled and shook his head. “It wouldn't do you any good if I told you. Buster's not there now. He just up and disappeared. I was hoping he'd stay a little longer. He's quite a character.”

The boys thanked the rancher and started on their apple pie a la mode when suddenly a patron sitting next to the window pointed and cried out, “Stop! You'll run right over them!”

P
ATRONS
craned at the window to see what was happening. A husky man in a red plaid shirt exclaimed, “That's my truck! What's going on?” He made a dash for the door.

By this time the boys had caught a glimpse of what was happening. A huge trailer truck was backing up to where their cycles were parked.

“Oh, no!” Joe cried out. “Stop it!”

The three motorcycles were knocked down and the wheels of the huge truck passed over them with a metallic crunch!

Customers jumped up and rushed to the door, all trying to get out at the same time for a look at the destruction.

“Get that guy!” someone called.

“Where'd he go?”

When the Hardys reached the truck, nobody
was in it. The man in the red shirt looked at the damage to the motorcycles and shook his head. “Now who'd do a thing like that?”

“I'd like to know, too,” Frank muttered. “These are our bikes!”

Introductions were made. The trucker's name was Tim. “It was done on purpose!” he said. “But I still have the keys.” He hefted them in his big hand. “The guy must have been a clever lock-picker.”

“Oh, oh,” Evan said. “That sounds like Mr. Cole.”

The boys questioned witnesses, but none of them had had a good look at the culprit, although all agreed that he was a small man.

Joe pressed through the crowd to a phone booth and called the police. Shortly afterward, a patrol car pulled up with an officer wearing a wide-brimmed hat. He asked questions and took notes.

“Do you have any enemies?” he said to the Hardys.

“A few,” Frank replied.

“Who are they?”

The boys looked at each other. Enemies indeed. They seemed to have more than a few.

Frank continued as spokesman. “We had trouble with a motorcycle gang, the Monsters, after we beat them in a hill-climbing race.”

“I know them,” the patrolman replied. “They haven't been around here today. Who else?”

Frank briefly told about their harassment by Kitten Cole. “My guess is he flew out here after us.”

“And there seems to be a mysterious Greek who's in the act, too,” added Joe.

After Frank gave descriptions of the men, the patrolman said he would be on the lookout for them. But he doubted whether he could press charges.

“It's only your guess that they did it,” he said. “We don't have any witnesses to the act. All we know is that a man jumped out of the truck and disappeared before anyone got a good look at him.”

“We realize that,” Joe said, adding, “Is there a place in town where we can get these bikes repaired?”

The officer recommended a cycle shop operated by two young proprietors. “Their place is open late,” he said.

Tim offered his sympathy. “I feel real bad about this,” he said, “since it was my truck that caused the damage.”

“It wasn't any fault of yours,” Frank said.

“Well, anyway, I'll help you pick up the pieces and haul ‘em to the repair shop. Here, give me a hand with this bike.”

Together they lifted the wrecked motorcycles onto the truck. Then Tim climbed up behind the wheel. Evan joined him in the cab, while Frank and Joe rode in the back.

Tim said, “Some guys want to stop you from going wherever you're going.”

“Well, they won't!” Evan said emphatically and the Hardys smiled at his determination.

The mechanics at the repair shop assessed the damage. The front wheels of the three cycles had been badly crushed. Fortunately, the shop had spare parts on hand. It would take two days, however, to finish the job. Luckily the rental agency's insurance would cover the damage.

“We'll just have to stay in Taos until the bikes are ready,” Frank said.

Tim dropped them off at a motel, and they thanked him for his help. “It's my pleasure,” he said. “I'll be delivering around town and picking up more cargo. Hope to see you again.”

“Under better circumstances,” Joe said, laughing, and they shook hands.

The next morning was spent sightseeing around Taos. The historic old town, once a frontier settlement, was now the center of a burgeoning art colony, with shops displaying the works of young artists. Evan browsed around while Frank and Joe went to police headquarters in the afternoon.

There was still no clue as to who had sabotaged their cycles. When the Hardys asked about Buster Buckles, however, the police knew all about him. A local newspaper reporter had written a feature story several days ago.

They lifted the wrecked motorcycles onto the truck.

“I think we still have a copy,” said the sergeant, who was in charge. The boys eagerly read the article, which said that the comedian would be heading back to California by way of Arizona.

Joe asked the sergeant if he would contact the State Police in Arizona to find out if they had information about Buster's whereabouts. At first the officer was hesitant. “He's not a missing person, is he?”

“Not exactly,” Frank replied, “but we'd sure like to find him. He told of their search for the shattered helmet.

The sergeant agreed finally and put a query on the teletype machine. Almost immediately an answer came back from Flagstaff.

Buster Buckles' camper had broken down on the highway, and the State Police had given him assistance. He was camped not far from the Grand Canyon. Directions for reaching the site were supplied.

The Hardys thanked the sergeant and hastened off to find Evan. He was in an art gallery, buying a small painting to send back to Greece.

“You're going to see more of our beautiful West,” Frank told him. “Lots of rocks, and very few people. We're going to Arizona.”

The next day the repairs on their bikes were finished and they started out around lunchtime toward Arizona. They had not gone far before they passed Tim and his truck. He gave several blasts on his big horn and motioned them to stop.

They pulled off to the side of the road and Tim called out, “I get a little lonesome driving this big hack. How about taking a ride with me?”

“Okay,” Frank said, and Tim let down a ramp so they could stow their bikes inside. Evan sat in the rear. Frank and Joe sat up front.

They drove along, talking about everything from baseball to surfing. About a hundred miles farther on, near the Arizona border, a car passed them on the right.

Joe glanced out the window and looked down at the driver as he flashed by. The man had a pinched face. A passenger was sitting beside him but Joe could not see his face. A third man with blond hair sat in the back.

“Frank, look!” Joe exclaimed.

But before his brother could lean over to see any of the occupants, the car had sped on ahead. It was a maroon Buick sedan with New Mexico license plates. The Hardys memorized the number.

“I'm sure that the driver was Cole,” Joe said.

“Luckily we're in this truck,” Frank said. “If that car had overtaken us when we were on our bikes— Wow!”

“Where do you suppose they're going?” Tim asked.

“That's another mystery,” Joe said.

They approached the next truck stop and the Hardys scanned the area for any sign of the maroon car.

“There it is!” Frank said suddenly as he recognized the license number. “They must be in the restaurant!”

“Are you going in to see?” Tim asked.

“Yes, but not through the front door. Joe and I'll go around the back way. Evan and you had better stay here. This could be dangerous.”

“You know,” Frank said as he stepped down from the cab, “that guy in the back seat might have been Saffel.”

“That's a wild guess,” Joe said. “But we'll see.”

They entered a screen door in the back of the place, which led to the kitchen. As the chef and a waiter stared at them, they mumbled apologies and entered a hallway leading to the dining room. At the end of the hall was a beaded curtain. From behind it came the murmur of voices.

“Careful,” Frank whispered. They reached the curtain and peeked through the beads.

Cole and the mysterious Greek were seated five feet away! But there was no sign of the blond man.

Frank and Joe eavesdropped as Cole spoke. “So
far so good. The boss'll pat us on the back for bugging the Hardys and the Greek kid.”

“Don't get cocky,” the Greek answered in fluent but heavily accented English. “We have to find Buckles before they do or he'll shoot us in the back!”

The Hardys were thunderstruck!

How did these men learn of their plans? Were they after the helmet, too, or did they just want to prevent the Hardys from finding it?

The Greek, who was fingering a string of worry beads, spoke again. “The kid's gone for the big stuff. If the Hardys show up again—
teliose!
”

“You mean it's curtains for them?”

“Right.”

Suddenly Frank and Joe heard footsteps behind them. Turning, they saw the waiter approaching with a large tray of food held high in his right hand. The boys pressed flat against the wall to give him room to pass, but it was not enough.

The man stubbed his toe against Joe's foot. He lost his balance and tumbled toward the boy.

Joe and the waiter fell headlong into the dining room!

T
HE
food flew into the air, some of it spattering onto Cole and the Greek. Both men jumped to their feet, cursing.

As Joe arose from the slippery floor, they recognized him and bellowed abusive remarks.

Joe raced back along the hallway. Frank was ahead of him. The Greek and Cole ran after them, slipped on some mashed potatoes and gravy, and fell to the floor. By the time they reached the back entrance, the Hardys were not in sight.

Frank and Joe had made a dash for the truck, flung open the door and dived to the floor of the cab.

“What's going on?” Tim asked in surprise.

“Those guys are after us,” Frank said. “I think they were the ones who ran over our bikes. Tim. see what they're up to.”

The truck driver reported every movement of the disheveled pair as they searched the parking lot. “They're looking for your bikes,” Tim said with a chuckle. “And are they mad!”

Finally Cole and the Greek gave up the search and returned to the restaurant.

Tim set off down the highway. After several miles he had to turn off in another direction so he stopped to let the Hardys out. The boys unloaded their bikes and thanked him for the ride.

Tim waved and drove off. Before mounting their cycles, Frank said, “You know, the blond character was not with the two men. Maybe he's ‘the kid who's gone for the big stuff.' I'd like to call Chet and see if Saffel is still at Hunt.”

“Let's stop at the next phone booth,” Joe agreed.

A mile farther on they found a highway telephone. Frank went inside and made a person-to-person call.

In a few seconds Chet was on the line. He was delighted to hear from the Hardys and began asking questions about their case.