The Jungle Pyramid (6 page)

“We'll make it,” Jane said.

Frank led the way to the starting point and pushed off with his poles. Joe and the girls followed. The slope took them in a long semicircle and once narrowed to a steep trail, where they had to go in single file. When it widened again, Frank swiftly decreased the gap between himself and Rory and caught up with him about three hundred feet from the bottom.

“Hey, slowpoke!” he yelled as he overtook the other boy.

Rory tried to catch Frank, but hit a slippery spot and fell.

This gave Joe and the girls enough time to pass him. and they waited at the bottom with Frank.

“Did you say you were a pro?” Karen joshed him.

“I hit an icy spot,” Rory said lamely. “My luck!”

“No excuses,” Jane said and laughed. “Just do better next time.”

Rory looked at the Hardys. “You guys ski well,” he admitted.

“We go to Vermont quite a bit,” Frank said.

They spent an hour or so skiing the Autobahn and surrounding slopes, then they rode up a different lift, which took them to a trail called St. Gotthart's Pass. A barricade blocked the way and a sign read: DANGEROUS SNOW CONDITIONS. TRAIL CLOSED.

“We don't want to ski down there,” Frank observed. “Let's go to the right and get another run.”

“Aw, that sign doesn't mean a thing,” Rory said flatly. “I'm not afraid to ski down there. According to the map, this connects with a slope called Rim Run, which sounds interesting. Let's go anyway!”

He quickly slipped around the barricade and was halfway through the first turn before Frank could convince him not to go.

“Girls,” Frank said, “Take another run. We'll meet you at the bottom.”

“Okay,” Jane said. “But be careful.”

Joe followed his brother, who was having trouble on the slippery surface. “Rory is crazy!” he fumed. “He's going to kill himself and us along with him by going down this death trap!”

Uneven and rocky under the snow, the trail was narrow, the ridges precipitous, and the gorges deep.

“This is like Russian roulette,” Frank muttered to himself. “Guess wrong, and it's your last chance. It's over the edge, and somebody else picks up the pieces at the foot of the cliff!”

He was relieved when he saw he was catching up with Rory. “I'll head him off,” Frank thought.

But Rory seemed determined not to be passed. He skied at top speed along ridges and past gorges. Reaching a steep decline flanked by an icy cliff, he looked back over his shoulder to see how close Frank was.

The gesture caused him to lose his balance. He slipped head over heels on the ice and lay still!

Wondering how badly his friend was hurt, Frank drove himself forward with his ski poles, his eyes on the crumpled form in front of him. His left ski hit a boulder hidden in the snow. His feet shot out from under him and he landed on his back. The momentum carried him into a long slide on the ice. Frantically he tried to stop himself, but it was no use.

Frank Hardy slid over the cliff!

 

 

 

 

JOE skidded to a stop near the top of the cliff, where he had seen Frank vanish.

Rory rose and shook his head woozily. “What happened?”

Joe did not explain. “Go get the ski patrol, prontol” he yelled.

Rory realized the seriousness of the situation instantly and quickly fixed his skis. Then he schussed down the treacherous trail as fast as he could.

Joe, meanwhile, had taken off his skis and edged himself over the cliff. Frank was clinging by his fingers to a stone ledge about two feet from the top. Beneath him there was a ragged drop.

“Hold on, Frank!” Joe shouted. He climbed onto the ledge. Planting his feet as firmly as he could, he gripped his brother by the arms and struggled to pull him up.

Frank tried to anchor his feet against the cliff, but it was of no use. His skis, dangling on his ankles by the safety straps, clattered on the rock.

“Just hold still,” Joe advised. “I sent Rory to get help.”

A few minutes later two men from the ski patrol arrived. A rope was dropped over the edge of the cliff, and Joe reached out to catch it. He tied it around Frank, who was drawn to safety by the men above.

“Thanks,” Frank said gratefully. “Thanks a lot.”

“You should have more sense than to ski down here,” one of the men chided. “Don't you realize we close these trails for a good reason?”

“It wasn't Frank's idea.” Joe came to his brother's defense. “Rory wanted to get the connection to Rim Run—”

“You can get it another way,” the man said curtly. “Now follow us down and don't try it again!”

The boys put their skis back on and made it safely to the intersection of Rim Run. From there it was not far to the bottom, where they met Rory and the girls in the lodge. He was drinking a mug of hot chocolate and was glumly stroking the pigeon's egg on his forehead.

“Boy, do I have a few choice words for you!” Frank said, anger welling up in him again.

“Oh, please don't!” Rory said, rolling his eyes and pointing to his head. “I've ruined my beauty externally and it doesn't feel so hot internally either!”

The Hardys laughed. “Serves you right, my friend,” Joe said. “And I think now we'd better quit!”

The skiers returned their equipment and found an inexpensive guesthouse in which to spend the night. The following day the Hardys skied till early afternoon, then said good-by to their new friends, who planned to stay for a few more days. Frank and Joe took the train back to Zurich.

At the William Tell Hotel, Frank phoned police headquarters and spoke to Captain Hard.

“We're still looking for Zemog,” he informed the boy.

“Any clues?”

“Negative.”

After lunch the following day the boys walked to the Swiss Gold Syndicate. It was nearby in a gray limestone building.

“Looks like a fort,” Joe commented.

“Sure does,” Frank agreed. “It's made of stone and filled with gold.”

The brothers identified themselves to one of the guards, who escorted them to the office of the director. It was a large room with a high ceiling, thick rugs on the floor, and small stone-framed windows.

Johann Jung, a tall, dark-haired man, greeted them in perfect English. “I'm glad you're here,” he said. “We've had another call this morning.”

“Anonymous again?” Joe asked.

“Yes. It seems that a small time crook has gotten wind of the fact that the Wakefield gold is to be traded on the black market and wants to capitalize on his information.”

“What did he say?” Frank asked eagerly.

“He told us to deposit five hundred Swiss
marks
in a small pedestrian tunnel in the old section of town. When he finds the money, he'll leave the information he has.”

“Could be a big hoax,” Frank said. “He might take the money and run.”

Jung nodded. “That's possible,” he said. “On the other hand, the Wakefield gold heist is not known to anyone here except myself and the staff. How did he find out about it?”

“Shall we take a chance and pay him, then?” Joe asked.

“I have already,” Jung said. “He wanted the money at two o'clock. I sent someone to deposit it.”

“Can your man stake out the place and see who our anonymous friend is?” Frank asked.

“I doubt it. The fellow picked an excellent spot for this type of thing. The tunnel is short, narrow, and dark, and many people use it. Anyone waiting inside or on either end would be obvious.”

It was not long before there was a knock on the door. A young man entered and handed Jung an envelope. “I deposited the money, sir. This is what I got in return.”

Jung took the envelope. “Thank you, Hans. Did you see the man?”

Hans shook his head. “I waited about ten minutes after I left the money before going into the tunnel again. In the meantime, too many people walked through it. I have no idea who took the five hundred
marks
and left this envelope.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

Hans left and Jung opened the message. It read: “If you want to find out about the Wakefield gold, go to Auerbach's.”

“What does that mean?” Frank asked, puzzled.

“Auerbach's is a restaurant in Niederdorf,” Jung said. “Maybe you'd better check it out. I'll give you directions.”

Half an hour later Frank and Joe walked into Auerbach's. A few people sat at scrubbed wooden tables. The boys approached the elderly man in an apron, who waited on them, and started a conversation in their high school German.

The wrinkle-faced Swiss grinned. “You Americans?” he asked.

Frank nodded. “I'm glad you speak English.”

“I lived in Chicago for ten years,” the man said.

They found out he was Xaver Auerbach, the owner. After some general comments on Zurich and their travels, Frank said, “We hear people around here trade in gold.”

The man looked at him suspiciously. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Joe pulled out a ten dollar bill. “A friend told us to come here if we wanted to buy gold.”

Slowly Auerbach took the money. “The only person I hear talking about gold around here is Karl Pfeiffer, and it seems to me he's more talk than action. He usually drops in at five for something to eat.”

“Thanks,” Frank said. “We'll see him then.”

But at five Karl Pfeiffer did not appear. At six there was still no sign of him. Frank slipped Auerbach another bill. “Maybe we could talk to Pfeiffer at his house,” he said. “We really can't wait any longer.”

“He lives at nine Annastrasse, three blocks from here to your right. The basement apartment.”

“Thanks.”

The boys found the address and knocked on the door. A sloppy-looking man in his thirties answered.

“Karl Pfeiffer?” Frank asked.

“Ja
.
”

“You speak English?”

“Ja.
A little.”

“What do you know about the Wakefield gold?”

“Nothing.”

“That's not what you've been saying at Auerbach's,” Joe put in.

Pfeiffer looked scared. “I don't know what you're talking about. I—”

He looked up as a police car halted in front of the building. Then he whirled around and hurried into his apartment as two officers approached.

“Hey, Pfeiffer, wait!” Frank called out. He ran after the man, who had opened a window on the other side of his living room and was about to climb out.

“Hold it!” Frank said and pulled him back just as the policemen entered the apartment.

“Vielen Dank fuer die Hilfe,”
one of the officers said, thanking Frank for his help. Obviously they had come to arrest Pfeiffer!

Frank tried to explain why the Hardys wanted to talk to the man, but the policemen spoke little English and the boys' German was not fluent.

“Let's go with them to headquarters,” Frank suggested, “and talk to Captain Hartl.”

“Right,” Joe said. “It'll be interesting to find out why they nailed Pfeiffer.”

The officers did not object to the boys' accompanying them to headquarters. When the group arrived, one of them showed Frank and Joe into Captain Hartl's office. They explained what had happened, and the captain looked puzzled.

“Pfeiffer was seen at the scene of a burglary this morning,” he said. “That's why we brought him in. He's a petty thief, but is not known to be a smuggler. Why don't you wait here and I'll talk to him.”

The captain was gone for about fifteen minutes. When he returned, he held two envelopes in his hand. “This is a rather amazing turn of events,” he said. “Look what we found on Pfeiffer!”

One envelope contained five hundred Swiss marks, the other a few gold coins. In the upper left-hand corner of the second envelope were printed the words
Wakefield Mint
.

“Wow!” Frank exclaimed. “What a clue! Pfeiffer is involved in the gold heist!”

“I don't think so,” Hartl said. “He told me the whole story. Pfeiffer was approached by a man last week and paid to spread the rumor about the Wakefield gold. The stranger also gave him the envelope with the coins for future use. Then he told him to call the Swiss Gold Syndicate and arrange for them to pay him five hundred marks in exchange for the information about Auerbach's.”

“Who hired Pfeiffer?” Frank asked.

“He doesn't know. But I know Pfeiffer. He's been in and out of our jail several times. I think he's telling the truth. He was set up by someone who wanted to mislead you!”

“What did the stranger look like?” Joe asked. “Maybe it was Zemog.”

“I asked Pfeiffer that,” Captain Hartl replied. “The fellow was tall, thin, and in his early thirties. He spoke German without a trace of an accent and Pfeiffer thinks he's either German or Swiss. That doesn't fit Zemog.”

“It doesn't,” Frank had to admit.

“If I find out anything else about this case and Zemog, I'll contact Mr. Jung,” Captain Hartl promised.

“Thank you very much for your help,” Frank said and the boys left.

“Let's go back to the hotel and call Jung,” Frank said. “I'm sure he'll be glad to hear the police recovered his five hundred
marks.”

A short while later Frank and Joe took the elevator to the fifth floor of the William Tell Hotel. The door clanged open and they stepped into the corridor. At the same time, a man was about to enter the next elevator, which was going down. The boys looked straight at him. He stared in return.