A Figure in Hiding (12 page)

Just then a horn tooted across the street.

“There's Tony Prito,” Joe said.

A smart-looking white panel truck made a U-turn during a break in traffic and pulled up behind the Hardys' car.

Tony stuck his head out, grinning proudly. “How do you like our new panel job?”

“A real beauty!” Frank said as the Hardys looked it over. “When did you get it?”

“Saturday. She's not even broken in yet.”

“What're you doing with that brass crescent over the grille?” Joe asked. “You had that on your old panel truck, didn't you?”

Tony chuckled. “Sure—we always mount it on one of our trucks. Dad brought it over from Italy with him as a keepsake. He used it as a hood ornament on the first car he owned.”

“What's it supposed to be?” Frank put in.

“It's a
corno.
That means—well, I guess you'd call it an amulet.”

“An amulet?” Joe echoed. “You mean, like a lucky piece?”

“That's right. It's for warding off the
malocchio—
the evil eye.”

In spite of themselves, Joe and Frank were startled by Tony's remark. Both were reminded instantly of the “blind” peddler's warning:
“Watch out for bad eye!”

Tony continued, “There are people called
jettatori,
see? That means ‘throwers'—they're the ones who have the evil eye. Sometimes they know it and sometimes they don't. But everyone else knows it, or at least the word soon gets around.”

“How come?” Frank asked.

“Because these
jettatori
put the double whammy on everyone they look at. For instance, you let a
jettatore
look crooked at you and the next thing you know, you break a leg or come down with measles or flunk your exams!”

The Hardys stared at their friend and shook their heads. Tony burst out laughing.

“Look! I'm not saying I believe it, pals. But a lot of people over in the old country still do-especially around Naples. If they meet a
jettatore,
they make a quick sign to foil the whammy—like, say, the
mano cornuta.”

Tony held out his hand with the fore and little fingers extended and middle fingers clenched over his thumb. Frank and Joe gaped.

“Hey, relax, you fellows!” Tony exclaimed. “I don't
really
believe you two have the evil eye. Of course Joe does look a bit—”

“What did you call that sign?” Frank broke in.

“The mano
cornuta,”
Tony said, making it again. “It means the ‘horned hand.' Why?”

“Jumpin' goldfish!” Joe gasped. “That's the sign Zatta made for his hospital-room door!”

As Tony gave him a baffled look, Joe hastily told him about the one-eyed peddler.

“You mean Zatta is really trying to keep off the evil eye?” Tony inquired.

“He's trying to keep off something, but it may not be the same kind of evil eye you were telling us about,” Frank said. “I'll bet this explains what happened at the airport yesterday!”

“How do you mean?” asked Joe.

“You remember that gesture Rip Sinder made, scratching his jaw?”

“You mean when Sinder spotted us he made that ‘keep away' sign to warn Nick Cordoza!”

“Could be,” Frank said, “but I was thinking of Ace Pampton. Sinder came to meet somebody on that three-ten flight and yet we saw him drive away with his station wagon empty.”

“You mean he came to meet Pampton?”

“Yes. Cordoza was inside the terminal and could see us before we saw
him
—he didn't really need a warning to make him scram. But Pampton was coming off the plane and would have to walk right past us. So Rip made the ‘keep away' sign to warn Pampton not to approach him. He didn't want us to see the two of them together.”

Joe was excited. “That adds up. Pampton walks into the airport building, and Sinder drives off, as if the person he came to meet never arrived.”

“Cut out the double-talk, you detectives,” Tony pleaded. “What's this all about?”

The Hardys told how they had gone to the airport the day before to keep a watch for the swindler their father was hunting.

“If you're right, Frank, that explains why Pampton came back to Bayport,” Joe said. “He was planning to check in at Doc Grafton's Farm—and hide out until the heat's off.”

Tony whistled. “Chet will sure have a shock when he hears this!”

“There's a way we may be able to find out quickly,” Frank said.

“How?” Joe asked.

“Pampton probably took a taxi out to the health farm.”

“So we can check the cab companies!” Joe exclaimed. “Swell idea, Frank!”

“If it works,” said Frank, “we'll have your info to thank, Tony.”

Their pal grinned. “You two ‘private Evil Eyes' go to it! I have to pick up a set of blueprints from an architect.”

He gunned the truck's motor, made a U-turn, and sped off down the street.

The Hardys hurried to a phone booth in a nearby drugstore and called each of the three taxi-cab companies which operated in Bayport. Joe suggested a soda while the dispatchers were checking their drivers' log sheets from the day before. Then Frank called each company again.

On the third call, to the Eagle Cab Service, the dispatcher said:

“Yeah, one of our drivers picked up a fare at the airport at three-fifteen Sunday and drove him out to Doc Grafton's Health Farm.”

“Who was the driver?” Frank asked. “Could I get in touch with him?”

“Sure, he's out at the airport right now, in fact. A little man named Mike Doyle. Cab twenty-two. I'll tell him to wait for you.”

“Thanks a lot!”

Frank and Joe drove quickly to the airport. They soon found the driver.

“The health farm ... yesterday afternoon ... lemme see now.” Mike Doyle shoved back his cap and scratched his head. “Oh, sure. I remember now. A red-haired gent, soft-spoken. Wore big horn-rimmed glasses.”

Frank snapped his fingers. “I remember him, Joe! I saw him get off the plane.” Turning back to the driver, he said, “Clean-shaven fellow, wasn't he?”

Mike nodded. “That's right. What's he done?”

“If it's the man we're after, he's wanted for swindling,” Frank replied.

“Wow!” Mike exclaimed. “Glad I could help.”

The two boys sped home excitedly.

“Pampton must have shaved off his beard at the New York air terminal and put on a red wig and glasses,” Joe reasoned.

Frank gave a tense nod. “And if Rip Sinder knew Pampton was dodging the law, the health farm may be a regular hideout for criminals!”

Reaching their house, the boys hurried down to the basement and tried calling their father by radio. Luckily he was in his hotel room and responded at once.

Frank informed him of what they had learned, then said, “Dad, Joe and I have a plan we think you should try!”

 

 

 

 

FENTON HARDY was eager to hear the boys' plan. “If it's as good as some of the other stunts you two have dreamed up for cracking a case,” he told Frank, “I might give it a whirl.”

“Well, here goes,” Frank began. “If Doc Grafton is running a criminals' hideout on the side, you sure can't walk right in and arrest Pampton.”

“Probably not,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “They may have a clever warning system in case of a raid, and no doubt some foolproof hiding places on the grounds. In fact, Grafton would be crazy not to, if your theory's correct.”

“Then it might help if you could case the layout from the inside first. Right, Dad?”

“No doubt about it. What do you suggest?”

Frank said, “By checking into the health farm yourself—say, posing as a tired businessman from St. Louis.”

Fenton Hardy was instantly taken with the scheme. To avoid suspicion that he might be a detective on Pampton's trail, Mr. Hardy decided that he would first fly to Cleveland.

“I'll make the arrangements from there over the phone, then hop a plane to Bayport and check in at the health farm under a disguise. I'll call myself—hmm—let's say, Foster Harlow.”

Frank said, “Try to keep in touch with us by radio. We'll tell Chet to be on the lookout, in case you need any help there at the farm.”

The talk with their father made both boys eager for another look at Doc Grafton's health resort. Frank also hatched an idea for gleaning further information on Malcolm Izmir.

“Remember what Bill Braxton was telling us about Zachary Mudge on the way to Long Point?” he remarked to Joe.

“You mean about Mr. Mudge being a big wheeler-dealer in the financial world?”

“Right. With his contacts, he could probably find out plenty about Izmir.”

Joe gave a puzzled nod. “Maybe so, but what makes you think he'd tell
us?
Businessmen are pretty closemouthed about that sort of thing.”

“Usually, but I think I know how we can get Mr. Mudge to help us.” As Frank explained his plan, Joe grinned approval.

As soon as lunch was over, the brothers drove to the health farm. Frank told the gatekeeper who they were and asked if they might see Mr. Zachary Mudge. “It's about a boat he was thinking of buying, called the
Sea Spook,”
Frank said.

The gatekeeper relayed their message over the telephone. After a few minutes he received Mudge's reply and turned back to the boys.

“Okay. Mr. Mudge says he'll be waiting for you on the terrace. Go straight up the drive.”

On their way up, the Hardys saw Chet heaving a medicine ball back and forth to several guests on the lawn. The men looked cool and relaxed in shorts and summer shirts, but Chet was red-faced and puffing.

Joe grinned as they waved to their chum. “Looks as though poor Chet is getting more of a workout than the patients,” he murmured.

Zachary Mudge was pacing with his cane on the stone-flagged terrace, a large cigar clenched between his teeth.

“Finally got here, did you?” He shook hands briskly with the boys. “Took you long enough to get up that hill. Could've made it twice as fast myself.”

“I guess we haven't your energy, sir,” Frank said with a smile.

Mudge grunted, then followed Joe's gaze toward two men standing near the front door of the building. One was Rip Sinder. The other was a small, foxy-faced man wearing a large diamond ring. They had been watching the Hardys, but as they saw Mudge looking at them, the smaller man broke into a gold-toothed smile and waved.

“Who's that man?” Joe asked.

“That weaselly little twerp? He's Doc Grafton, the quack who runs this vegetable farm.” Mr. Mudge sneered. “Nosy, too. Let's take a stroll.”

The trio walked out across the lawn.

“Now then, what's all this about the
Sea Spook?”
Mudge asked. “The engineer who checked her out says she broke down on the test.”

“That's partly what we came to tell you about,” said Frank. “Braxton believes she was sabotaged and we think he may be right.”

“Y' think so? My man Rummel doubts it.”

“Well, we can't prove it,” Frank admitted. “But don't forget, Braxton was attacked at his boathouse and knocked unconscious. There may be no connection, but—well,
something
mysterious is going on.”

Mudge paused and peered at Frank from under bushy eyebrows. “What're you suggesting, son?”

Frank shrugged. “You remember us mentioning a Mr. Lambert who was interested in the
Spook?”

“Are you saying he was behind the sabotage?”

“We don't know,” Frank said. “We've been doing some investigating, though, and the trail seems to lead to a wealthy businessman over in Ocean City. His name is Izmir.”

“Malcolm Izmir?”

“That's right,” said Joe. “Do you know him?”

“I've heard the name.” The old man's eyes kindled with interest as if he sensed a hint of financial skulduggery. Suddenly Mr. Mudge was right in his element. “Let me get this straight, boys—do you think Izmir could have had the
Spook
sabotaged to keep me from investing money in Braxton's design?”

Again Frank shrugged. “We didn't say that, sir.”

But the financier had already made up his mind —exactly as the Hardys had hoped.

“So Izmir thinks he can put one over on me—Zack Mudge, does he?” The old man cackled and thumped his cane on the ground. “Well, we'll see about that. You leave it to me, sonnies. In twenty-four hours I'll know all there is to know about Malcolm Izmir, including what he eats for breakfast!”

The Hardys escorted Mr. Mudge back to the terrace, then said good-by. A smile was twitching at Joe's lips as the brothers started down the drive. He muttered to Frank:

“I'll bet Mr. Mudge is a whirlwind when he goes into action! You sure revved him up with that line you gave him!”

“I didn't say anything that wasn't true,” Frank replied. “For all we know, there may be some connection between Spotty Lemuel and Izmir.”

“Guess we'd better post Chet on the latest,” said Joe.

The medicine-ball session was over and Chet was now leading his group of guests in a series of push-ups.

“Eleven-uh ... twelve-uh ... Ummh-thirteen -uh ...” The last came out in an agonized grunt as Chet, beet-red, barely hoisted himself off the ground.

Joe chuckled. “We'd better rescue Chet before he folds up.”