Danger on Vampire Trail (8 page)

“Bless that Barbie,” Frank said, after swallowing the last crumb.

Again they heard the motorboat. It crisscrossed the water not far from shore, then headed for the marina.

“I guess they think we sank,” Joe said.

Frank nodded. “Let's start now,” he said. “Keep that motor at low speed until we're far out.”

The sky was velvety blue and the wind had abated completely. Stars could be seen briefly above the cover of cirrus clouds.

With a burping cough the outboard came to life and propelled the craft out into the lake. It crept along for ten minutes until Joe gave it more power. He aimed straight for the opposite shore. An hour later they reached the other side, slightly north of where their car was parked.

“Easy now, Joe,” Frank warned as they edged along the shore. “We don't want to bang into Mungo's boat!”

They came to the spot where the suspect's car had stood. It was gone, and so was his boat!

“Frank!” Joe exclaimed after he had scanned the area. “Our car's not here, either!” Only the camper remained, dimly silhouetted against the eastern sky.

“Chet and Biff might have parked it somewhere else. Come on.”

The boys climbed out of the boat. They pulled it ashore, then ran to the trailer. Frank opened the door and they walked inside. They played their flashlights about. The place was empty, except for Sherlock. He lay on the floor in a deep slumber.

“Frank, something happened here,” Joe said. “That hound's not sleeping, he's unconscious!”

“And where are Biff and Chet?” Frank wondered. “Maybe they're in trouble!”

Joe ran back to the boat and got the radio. They tried to raise their friends over the air, but had no success.

“What now?” Joe asked.

“Let's follow the tracks.”

Frank shone his light on the ground and picked up the tire marks of their car. But instead of heading toward the highway, the trail circled to the left.

“See here, Frank,” Joe said. “There's only one set of tracks. Where'd Mungo go?”

Before they had a chance to ponder this, their car loomed up ahead. The Hardys ran to it and shone their lights inside. Chet and Biff were in the back seat, tied up!

Frank and Joe swung the doors open and dragged their friends out. Chet was unconscious, but Biff began to mutter. The boys chafed their hands and massaged their necks, until Biff could talk coherently and Chet revived.

“What happened?” Frank asked.

Biff explained that Mungo had driven off to get some ice cream. “We thought he was returning the favor for having eaten chow with us,” Biff said.

“The stuff tasted kind of funny,” Chet put in.

“I didn't like it either.” Biff made a face. “And Mungo wouldn't have any at all. So Sherlock ate most of it.”

The pair related that they had suddenly become groggy. Unable to defend themselves, Mungo had tied them up, put them into the car, and parked them in the woods.

“Did you see where he went?” asked Joe.

“No. How's Sherlock?” Biff said.

“In the camper, unconscious. That's how we knew something was wrong. Well, let's get back.”

Frank drove the car to their campsite. Biff ran into the trailer and bent over Sherlock, then he shook his head sadly. “Poor dog's awfully sick,” he said, stroking the animal's back. “We'll have to locate a vet.”

The boys lifted the dog gently and carried him to the car. The tent was folded away in the trailer and they set off.

By the time they arrived in the nearest town, the sun was up. They asked a passer-by where they could find a veterinarian and were directed to Dr. Cameron's Animal Hospital.

“He lives on the second floor,” the man said. “Just ring the bell.”

Biff carried the dog to the door and the Hardys followed with Chet. Frank said, “We should really do some sleuthing about that ice cream. You stay here till we get back, Biff.”

“Okay,” Biff said and rang the doorbell.

The three boys walked around town until they came to a large ice-cream stand. The man who was cleaning up the place turned out to be the proprietor. Frank asked whether he had sold any ice cream the previous day to a man resembling Mungo.

“Oh yes, I remember him,” the man replied. “He bought a half-gallon brick—strawberry and chocolate with peach ripple in the middle.”

“You've got a good memory,” Joe said, pleased with their quick success.

“I couldn't forget that guy,” the man replied. “He walked down the end of the counter, split the brick in the middle, and poured something on it.”

“Didn't you think that was strange?” Frank asked.

“Sure. Why didn't he wait till he got home before he cut it up and poured syrup over it? But there are all kinds of weird people.”

“It wasn't syrup, it was poison!” Joe declared hotly.

The proprietor blanched. “Are you sure? Did anybody get sick?”

“Not real bad,” Frank said. “Only our dog.”

The man looked distressed. “I'm awfully sorry,” he said. He reached into the freezer and pulled out another half-gallon brick. “Maybe you'd like to have this to make up for it,” he said.

“No thanks,” Frank said. “It wasn't your fault.”

Their next stop was at police headquarters. The boys told the deputy chief in charge about the poisoned ice cream and the stolen cruiser, and he promised to put out an all-points bulletin for Mungo and his pals at the marina.

When Frank, Joe, and Chet returned to the animal hospital, Biff was sitting outside on the steps holding his head in his hands.

“He really loves that dog,” Chet said as they walked up to him.

“Hi, Biff,” Frank called out. “How's old Sherlock?”

Biff replied with a long face, “Not good. I don't think he'll make it!”

 

 

 

 

“You mean Sherlock's going to die?” Chet asked.

“It looks like it,” Biff replied in a downcast voice.

All four went inside to speak to the doctor, a kindly-looking man in a white uniform.

“Don't be so glum, Biff,” he said.

Biff's face brightened. “Is there some hope for my hound?”

“He's past the crisis,” the vet replied.

“Good old gumshoe,” Joe said.

Frank asked, “Can we take him with us now, Doc?”

“I'm afraid that's impossible. Sherlock's in no condition to travel.”

“But we'll have to move on,” said Joe.

Biff spoke up. “In that case I'll stay until the dog's ready to go and catch up with you later.”

The boys looked at one another. Joe shrugged. “That'll be okay with me,” he said.

“But,” Chet said, “you can't carry a dog on a bus. I tried it once. No go.”

“Leave the details to me,” Biff said. “I'll get there somehow.”

“Where will you stay while Sherlock's recuperating?” Frank inquired.

The vet smiled when he heard this. “Biff can help me around my hospital and in return he can have a bed in my home,” he said. “The dog's recovery should only take a couple days.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Biff said, grinning. Then he turned to the Hardys and Chet. “So long, fellows. Good luck! Try to find Whip Lasher by the time we meet again.”

It was decided that the trio would have breakfast, then go ahead to Denver and notify Biff where they were staying. The ride was uneventful except for the grandeur of the country which opened up before their eyes. Their car climbed upward to the mile-high city on the eastern slope of the Rockies. The air was crisp and clear and the city sparkled in the late-afternoon sunshine.

Chet poured over a map. He located a large camping site on the northern fringes of Denver and they pulled in between two other trailers. After the boys had set up their tent, the young couple on their right strolled over.

“Hi, my name's Henry,” said the man. “This is my wife Betty.”

Frank Hardy introduced his group and Henry went on, “You're just in time for the cook-off competition.”

“What's that?” asked Chet.

“It's really something to see,” Betty remarked. She told them that a soup company sponsored the Open-Fire Camp Cooking Contest. “Contestants' recipes are selected for main dish, vegetable, and dessert,” she said.

As she spoke, the aroma of food drifted over the campsite, and the boys saw other people being drawn to the competition.

“We're going over now,” Betty said. “Want to come along?”

Frank, Joe, and Chet joined the couple and walked to an area behind the campsite. Twenty or more campfires were burning and contestants with skillets, pots, and pans were nearly finished with their masterpieces.

A tall man wearing western boots and a ten-gallon hat spoke over a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen! We have fifteen judges—seven men, seven women, and a little girl. But one of the fellows dropped out. Do we have a volunteer taster?”

“Here!” Joe cried out and lifted Chet's arm in the air.

“Wait a minute!” the stout boy protested.

“Ah-ha,” the official called out. “That well-fed young man will be perfect.”

Frank and Joe pushed Chet forward as the emcee went on, “What is your name?”

“Chet Morton.”

“You'll be one of the dessert tasters.”

A benign smile crossed Chet's face. Desserts were his favorites!

“I'm really in luck!” he told the Hardys.

The aroma of the cook-off was enough to make anybody hungry. The smoke which drifted over the area carried the scent of grilled trout, gingered ham in tantalizing juices, and Twirly Birds, a special chicken recipe. Frank and Joe followed Chet to a table marked
Desserts.

“Look at these!” Chet exclaimed as he read the labels. “Caramel peach crunch, apple dumplings, and peach turnovers.”

“Will the tasters eat sparingly of the sweets,” the announcer said. “I'm saying this for your own good!”

Several men and women joined Chet as they sampled the luscious recipes. “Hm!” Chet mused. “Can't seem to make up my mind!” He went from dish to dish, taking a man-sized portion each time. His eyes rolled and he smacked his lips.

“Come on, Chet!” Joe prodded him as the onlookers chuckled.

“They're all so good,” Chet said. “It's awfully hard to figure out which is best!”

“All right,” Frank said. “Just one more time, fellow!”

Chet patted his stomach and started down the line again, relishing each mouthful. Finally he decided. “I vote for the caramel peach crunch,” he said when the roll was called.

“Chet's in for trouble,” Joe whispered to Frank. “Look, he's getting pale.”

“I'd say he's getting green around the gills,” Frank remarked.

Chet's smile had vanished. “Fellows,” he said, “I'm going back to our trailer. How far is it?”

“About ten miles,” Joe said. “Don't say that!” Chet made his way through the crowd at a half-trot and held his stomach.

By the time Frank and Joe reached the camper, they found their buddy lying down.

“How do you feel, my gourmet friend?” Joe asked.

“Better.”

But Chet's illness lasted the balance of the evening. In the morning he was still not his bouncy self.

“Want to come downtown with us?” Joe asked after breakfast.

“What for?”

Frank explained that they were going to visit the Mountain Dogie Store.

“Don't ask me to do anything for a while, will you?” Chet begged.

“Okay, you stay and recuperate,” Frank said. “Joe and I will be back later.”

With a nod of appreciation, Chet said good-by. The Hardys unhitched their car and drove to a public telephone, where they contacted Biff to tell him of their whereabouts. Sherlock was well enough to travel, Biff reported, and they would leave that morning. Then Frank and Joe went on to downtown Denver. It did not take long to find the Mountain Dogie Store. A sign announced:
The World's Greatest Emporium for Sports and Camping.

The smell of new cloth and leather goods pervaded the huge store. Crowds moved about inspecting hundreds of items from camping gear to sports clothes.

At an information booth they obtained directions to the shoe department. Frank asked for the head clerk. He was a young man in his twenties.

“We'd like to know,” Frank said, “if anybody recently bought shoes here with a Magnacard.”