The Masked Monkey (10 page)

A stewardess ran up to inquire what was wrong. “This!” said the detective. He picked up the tube, which had a sharp needle projecting from one end. “It punctured his wrist,” Mr. Hardy went on. “It might be poison. He needs a doctor.”

The pilot radioed ahead, then made an emergency landing at an airport near a small town. An ambulance rushed the stricken man to a hospital while Fenton Hardy and the three boys followed behind in a police car.

In the emergency room an intern examined the stricken passenger and the tube, then administered an injection.

“Was it poison?” Fenton Hardy asked.

“Tes. Definitely. The antidote seems to be working, although he nearly died. Who is this man?”

The police officer went through the victim's pockets. When he pulled out a United States passport, Mr. Hardy asked to examine it. It was issued to Harold Solomon.

“It's not genuine,” the detective said.

“How do you know?” the officer asked.

“It's my business to know,” Mr. Hardy replied, and showed his credentials to the policeman.

“Then we'll hold Solomon on several charges,” the officer said. “Attempted murder and carrying a false passport.”

Frank, Joe and Chet, meanwhile, discussed the bizarre case. “A poisoned needle!” Frank shuddered. “And it was meant for us!”

Chet walked over and looked at the ashen face of the stranger, who was still unconscious. “You want to know something!” he said suddenly. “That's the guy who was watching you in New York!”

T
HE
boys peered down at Solomon, whose eyelids began to flutter.

“He must belong to San Marten's gang,” Joe said. “Probably a professional killer.”

“That's a good theory,” Fenton Hardy agreed. “I've checked his clothing. No identification marks. But his suit, shoes, and hat are all South American style. I'd say he's from Brazil. But here's the clincher.”

The detective held a ticket between his fingers.

“What's that?” Joe asked.

“A baggage claim check for a crate back at Kennedy Airport. Guess what's in the crate!”

Joe gasped as the truth suddenly dawned on him. “A monkey!”

“Right. The claim check is clipped to a health certificate declaring the animal has had all its
shots and can be brought into the United States.”

Two more policemen, one a captain, entered the hospital as he was speaking. Introductions were made. “Good to meet you, Mr. Hardy,” the captain said. “We can always use an assist from America's number one private eye.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” the detective replied. “But the praise actually belongs to these young men. They can tell you what happened.”

Frank described the trip to Brazil. Then Chet reported how the man in the Panama hat had kept them under surveillance at Kennedy Airport. Joe explained his theory that the man belonged to San Marten's gang.

“That seems to make sense,” the captain said. “We're here to take Solomon into custody—if that's really who he is. He's conscious now. All of you can come along and hear what he has to say for himself. We've examined the plane, by the way. It's clean.”

The doctor said the patient was well enough to leave the hospital. Two squad cars took the group to headquarters.

After the prisoner was seated and given a drink of water, he was advised of his rights to consult a lawyer before answering questions. He nodded and even refused to divulge his name.

“It really isn't Solomon, is it?” the captain asked. “And what's your nationality?”

“None of your business.”

“Where did you get the metal tube with the poisoned needle?”

“It isn't mine. I happened to fall on it in the aisle, that's all. And I won't have any more to say until I see a lawyer.”

“That's your privilege,” the officer replied.

The prisoner was taken to a cell. Fenton Hardy summoned the three youths aside for a conference on their next move.

“I'll stay here to press charges against Solomon,” he said. “What plans do you have?”

Frank made a quick decision. “I think we should go back to New York with that baggage claim check. The crate calls for a look-see.”

“That's what I had in mind, too,” Joe agreed.

The police provided photographs of the ticket claim check and the health certificate and kept the originals for evidence.

“I'll continue on to Bayport,” Chet remarked. “I'll brief the folks back home on the latest news from the Hardys, and then hit the road for Granite City.”

The group broke up. Frank and Joe returned to the airfield with Chet, and soon everyone was airborne.

Frank and Joe had lunch aboard. Upon landing at Kennedy they hastened to the warehouse where the animals in transit were kept. They told the attendant that a friend had supplied
them with the photographs and asked them to take a look at the monkey. He would pick the animal up later. The man told the boys to follow him and led the way through the building.

It was an enormous structure lined with cages of many sizes.

“This must be how Noah's Ark looked,” Joe said as they walked along. “I've already counted a baby hippo, a pair of lions, a sackful of snakes, and a wild assortment of zebras, tapirs, and antelopes.”

“Not to mention plain old cats and dogs,” Frank said with a grin. “Who owns these animals?” he asked the attendant.

“Well,” the man replied, “the domestic animals are mostly pets belonging to passengers. The rest are bound for zoos, menageries, and circuses.”

“San Marten's line,” Joe muttered to Frank. “He told us he was a wild animal trader. Remember?”

“Yes. But that obviously was a cover-up.”

Suddenly another attendant came dashing through the warehouse. “A snake has gotten loose!” he yelled. “A king cobra!”

The Hardys knew that cobra venom was among the deadliest of all. And the king cobra was the biggest of the poisonous serpents, ranging up to eighteen feet in length!

“Where is it now?” asked the first attendant.

“I don't know. I found the lid to its box ajar. It slipped out unnoticed. Goodness knows where it is!”

“Okay, everybody be careful,” the other man warned. “Don't step into a dark patch on the floor without looking to see if it moves. And don't feel around the tops of the cages with your hand. This cobra could be lurking anywhere. And it strikes like greased lightning.”

“We'd like to help capture the cobra,” Frank offered. “We've had experience with them.”

“Fine. Let's spread out and go over this warehouse yard by yard. First one to spot it, sing out loud and clear.”

Joe moved to the area housing the birds. In one cage an Andes condor flapped its wings. A dozen brilliantly hued parrots lent a splash of color to the dim interior of the place. Some jungle fowl began to cluck and scold.

Joe edged toward them. A slithering movement behind him caused him to turn. Around the corner of the cage whipped a king cobra at least twelve feet long!

It reared three feet off the floor. The hood spread wide open, and the reptile began to sway slowly from side to side. Its eyes locked onto Joe's with a malevolent stare.

Sweat poured down the boy's face. His hands felt clammy. “It's too close to miss me,” he thought.

For what seemed like an eternity, Joe stood as immobile as a statue. If he turned to run, the cobra would strike. The fangs would pierce his leg, pumping venom into his blood stream that would cause him to die in agony. Joe's nerves started to give way. He would have to move!

Suddenly a cord dropped over the serpent's head, pulling it to one side. Frank stood there holding the creature securely in the loop of a snake hunter's rod. The cobra writhed and twisted, hissing ferociously, but it could not break the hold of the loop. Skillfully Frank maneuvered the snake over to its box, dropped it in, and slammed the lid.

Trembling from head to foot, Joe sat down on the next cage. He was too shaken to speak.

“Take it easy,” Frank advised. “When I heard the jungle fowl clucking, I figured they were scared of something. So I hustled over for a look. But I didn't expect to see you cornered by the runaway snake.”

Frank gave Joe several minutes more to rest. Then they went to the cage corresponding to the number on the baggage claim check. Inside sat a howler monkey. He looked like the one they had seen at the Belem airport!

He chattered and gazed at them with a gentle demeanor, holding out one paw appealingly as if to shake hands.

Frank rubbed his chin. “We thought this critter
was too nice to be Diabo. We were right, weren't we?”

“Absolutely. I'll never forget the way Diabo snapped at us. This is an amiable monkey. Must be from a better jungle family.”

The boys turned to leave. As they neared the door on their way out, two men walked in. One was dressed in a whipcord jacket and corduroy pants. The other had on a trench coat and a snap-brim hat. Their faces were hard. They beckoned to the attendant, who was walking a few steps ahead of the Hardys.

“We came to get a monkey you have here,” Corduroy Pants said.

“May I see your claim check?”

“Forget it, buddy,” Snap-brim growled. “We lost it. But we know the number. That's good enough for us. It's good enough for you.”

As the attendant eyed the intruders nervously, Frank pulled Joe behind a cage with baby hippos.

“What's the number?” the warehouse man asked.

“Forty-two-o-seven-six.”

The attendant led the way back to the cage he had shown the Hardys.

“I'll have to call the supervisor,” he told the men. “I'm not allowed to give you the monkey without a claim check.”

“That's all right,” Snap-brim said. “Meanwhile we'll go see our little pet.”

“Did you send your friends to look at the monkey?” the attendant asked timidly.

“What?” Snap-brim looked puzzled.

“Never mind,” Corduroy Pants said impatiently. “Call the supervisor. We're in a hurry.”

As soon as the attendant had left, the two men grasped the cage by the corners. Grunting and swearing, they maneuvered it out of the warehouse as fast as they could to a station wagon parked nearby.

Frank and Joe, ducking behind crates, had trailed the two men to the spot where the monkey cage had stood, then followed them to the door. They saw Snap-brim and Corduroy Pants lifting the cage into the rear of the vehicle.

As they did, the cage tilted and a package wrapped in brown paper fell out onto the road. The men did not see it. They hopped into the car and drove off.

“We've got to follow them!” Frank said. The boys ran out of the warehouse. Joe pounced on the package, which was small enough for him to slip into his jacket pocket. Frank took down the license number of the men's car, at the same time flagging a taxi. The boys jumped in, and Frank ordered the driver to follow the station wagon.

It moved fast in the heavy traffic at the airport. The driver kept right on its tail, zooming around and past slower cars. It was a close race until the station wagon whizzed through a red light.

The taxi had to stop. Disappointed, the boys watched their quarry vanish into the myriad of cars headed for New York City.

“No use trying to catch up with them now,” Frank said, and told the driver to return to the airport. They got out and paid the fare.

Joe suddenly remembered the package he had picked up. “Let's see what is in it,” he said. “Maybe it'll give us an idea of what to do next.”

He unwrapped the brown paper and took out a rubber mask of a hideous countenance. The snout was misshapen. The eyes were mere slits of hatred. The fangs were bared in a savage scowl!

“A monkey mask! It's the face of Diabo!” Joe exclaimed.

“T
HE
face of Diabo!” Frank repeated. “Now I get it. This hideous mask is a form of psychological warfare. It sure can scare the wits out of a victim.”

Joe turned the mask over, noting how the rubber would stretch under a simian's jaw and over the back of its head. The earpieces were broad and thick, almost like earmuffs.

“Do you suppose,” Frank said, “that the monkey in the cage really was Diabo?”

“That howler was friendly,” Joe replied. “I can't imagine him spitting and snarling like Diabo.”

Frank snapped his fingers. “Joe, something else just occurred to me. If San Marten knows this fellow Solomon, then the Brazilian may be involved in Dad's passport case, too! Remember, Solomon had a doctored passport.”

“Wow!” Joe shook his head. “This San Marten
is really a master criminal. Playing two rackets at the same time.”

“Except that we don't know for sure that the monkey is Diabo.”

“I can't believe he is,” Joe said. “But it would be a strange coincidence if he wasn't.”

Frank and Joe took a plane back to Bayport. At home they held a long session with their father after dinner.

“I go along with your suspicion of San Marten as far as the passport racket is concerned,” Mr. Hardy said. “The man's an enigma. The Brazilian Embassy hasn't been able to come up with any information on him. All they know is that he lives in Belem, has no police record down there, and doesn't court publicity.”

“Anyhow, maybe we can help each other in our investigations,” Frank said.

“Right. If I smash the passport gang, it may lead me to Graham Retson. Or, if you fellows find Graham, you may find the gang's ringleader at the same time.”

Early the next morning Frank and Joe drove back to Whisperwood to join their buddies. Chet was in high spirits. “I hope you guys are doing as well as we are,” he greeted them.

“Just how well is that?” Joe asked.

“We retrieved a couple of hundred more golf balls last night,” Phil said.