The Melted Coins (2 page)
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
“Well, you neverâcanâtell.” Chet's lips puffed a couple of times, then he dropped off into a gentle snore.
As they finished breakfast the next morning, Frank reconsidered their plans. “Okay, Chet, we'll take your advice and go to the Zoar office first,” he said.
With Frank at the wheel, they drove into downtown Cleveland. Joe studied the map and directed his brother. They passed the tall new buildings, drove into a side street, and continued into an older part of the city.
“Good night, is it down here?” asked Chet.
Glancing up at a row of dilapidated buildings, he spied the faded number on a dirty glass door. Frank parked the car in the next open spot. He locked it and the trio walked back.
“There must be some mistake,” Chet mumbled.
“Well, you said it was exclusive,” Joe needled.
They took a rickety self-service elevator to the third floor, walked down a hall, and came to a door marked Z.C.
Stepping inside, they found themselves in a dingy office. To the left was a switchboard, presided over by a stout blond girl who chewed gum furiously. She pulled out a plug and adjusted her headset. Then she swung around in her chair and stared at the visitors. “Yes, please?”
“We'd like to speak to somebody from Zoar College,” Chet spoke up.
The switchboard buzzed, and the girl turned around, inserting a jack. “Yes, this is the Bondway Trucking Company.... No, there's nobody in. ... Will you leave a message?”
She jotted down something on a pad, pulled the plug, and looked at the boys.
“We must be in the wrong office,” Frank said.
“No you're not,” the girl said matter-of-factly.
“We don't want a trucking company,” Joe informed her.
“I answer the phone for them. They have desk space here,” she replied tartly.
Just then a door opened and a thin youth who looked about nineteen drifted into the office. He had a sallow face and huge eyes partly covered by a mop of hair.
The girl nodded toward him. “They're looking for Zoar College,” she said.
“What do you want?” the youth asked coldly.
Chet blurted, “I paid my twenty-five bucks and I want to be sureâ”
The boy looked him up and down slowly. “Take down his address and phone number, Mabel.”
Frank brought out a matchbook he had taken from their motel which bore the address and number.
“Room fifteen,” he said.
“We'll be in touch with you,” the woman said.
The boys left. As they walked down the windy street, Frank glanced over his shoulder and noticed the youth behind them. Then a gust blew up and he had to squint to keep dust from getting into his eyes.
“What do you make of that high-class establishment?” Joe asked Frank.
“Think it's a phony?” Chet queried.
Frank shrugged. “Wait till they call us. We'll probably find out then.”
“Where to now?” Joe asked.
“We'll go see Dad's client.”
Frank consulted a street map for the address their father had given them. It was clear across town in a residential section. They found the house, parked, and walked up to the door.
A woman answered the bell. She said that Rod Jimerson had a room there but was at work.
“Do you mind telling us where?” Frank asked.
“Not at all. He's an ironworker on one of the new office buildings going up downtown.” She gave directions and the boys thanked her.
On the way to the car, Joe happened to glance back. “Hey, isn't that the creepy office boy from Zoar College?” he asked.
“Looks like him,” Frank replied.
The youth was slumped behind the wheel of a fairly new car parked some distance behind them.
“Why is he tailing us?” Chet wondered nervously.
“Maybe he wants to return your twenty-five bucks,” Joe quipped.
“He doesn't strike me as the charitable type,” Frank said. “I don't like this.”
After turning several corners they managed to lose the trailing car. Soon they came to the construction site. Frank had to drive around the block three times before finding a suitable parking spot.
The building loomed above them like a giant skeleton, its bare steel beams towering skyward. On the street was a freight elevator. Beside it was a stack of hardhats used by the construction men.
“Where can we find Rod Jimerson?” Joe asked a man who was loading brick onto the elevator.
“He's up with the angels, right on top.”
“Mind if we join you?”
“Hop aboard if it's important.”
“It sure is.”
The elevator rattled to the top, where the boys stepped off onto a narrow platform. Construction workers were guiding a girder, which was being lowered by a boom.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” a workman demanded.
“Are you the foreman?” Frank asked.
“That's me.”
“We'd like to speak to Rod Jimerson.”
“Who gave you permission to come up here?”
“Nobody,” Joe said. “But we'd like to see Jimerson for a moment. It's important.”
“Okay, he's over there. But be careful!” The foreman pointed to a young man tightening a bolt with a large wrench.
Joe stepped toward him, balancing on top of a high beam. He looked down, then quickly averted his eyes from the long drop.
He had moved only a few steps when a blast of wind whipped across the top of the framework. Joe teetered, lost his balance, and plunged!
CHAPTER II
Motel Knockout
JoE dropped with arms outstretched, wrists bent and fingers clawed like grappling hooks. He touched the edge of the girder and hung on tight.
Shouts went up all around him but he heard them only faintly as his body swayed in the stiff wind. His knuckles grew white. The strength seemed to be draining out of his aching arms.
“Hold it, I'll get you!” Rod Jimerson called out. He put his tool aside and worked his way along the girder. Leaning over, he grasped Joe's wrists in his viselike hands, then hoisted the exhausted boy up beside him.
“Easy now,” he said, and guided Joe back along the girder to the platform where Frank and Chet stood, white-faced but vastly relieved.
“Thank you,” Joe managed to say weakly. “Boy, I thought my number was up!”
“We almost had to pick you up in pieces,” Frank said.
“That was a careless thing to do,” the foreman yelled angrily at Joe.
Rod Jimerson held up his hand. “Hold it, Mike! He's had enough. I don't think he realized how dangerous it was.”
The foreman mopped his head. “I know, I know. But I'm responsible up here and an accident is all I need!” Shaking his head, he walked away.
“We came to see you, Mr. Jimerson,” Frank spoke up.
“You did?” The Seneca's eyebrows lifted and his tanned forehead wrinkled above his high cheekbones. “Well, let's go down to the street where we can talk.”
After the freight elevator had rattled to the bottom of the steel frame, all four stepped out onto the wooden sidewalk and stood in the shade of a gallery which protected pedestrians.
“Now, what's it all about?” Rod Jimerson asked.
Frank quickly told him the story and added, “It seems you had a bad phone connection, Mr. Jimerson. But why didn't you call Dad back later?”
“I did, but the line was busy. Then other things came up.”
“Well,” Joe said, who by now had recovered from his shock, “we're here to help you if we can.”
“What about this person called Spoon Mouth?” Frank put in. “Is he lost or did he run away?”
Rod Jimerson laughed, tilted back his hardhat, and said, “Spoon Mouth is not a person.” He explained that Spoon Mouth was a highly revered object which had been stolen from the Indians.
“Something like an idol, you mean?” Chet asked.
“No, I wouldn't say that. There's a lot to tell, but I've got to get back to work.” He glanced at his watch and added, “Where are you fellows staying? Maybe I could meet you tonight.”
“Okay,” Frank said, and gave the Indian their address. “I know you're not getting paid to bat the breeze, Mr. Jimerson.”
“Rod.”
“Good enough, Rod.” Frank shook his hand. “Suppose we meet at the motel at nine.”
“Suits me.”
Frank watched the Seneca return to the elevator and press the buzzer. Soon he was soaring to the top of the steel skeleton.
“He looks like a real interesting guy,” Chet remarked as they returned to the car.
“And is he strong!” Joe added. “He picked me up like a sack of potatoes.”
They had just entered their room in the motel when the phone rang. Frank dashed for it and lifted the receiver. The voice at the other end was smooth and self-possessed. The man identified himself as Dr. John Snedecker, president of Zoar College.
“Then you want to speak to Chet Morton,” Frank said. “He's right here, sir. Hold the wire.”
Chet took the phone and smiled into the mouthpiece. “Hello, Dr. Snedecker.”
There was silence for a few moments. “Oh, I knew there must have been a mistake.... You say I went to the wrong office? .. Yes, sir. Hold on until I get the new number.” Quickly he jotted it down on a pad next to the telephone.
There was more talk on the other end, then Chet said, “Suppose I bring my friends, Frank and Joe Hardy.” A pause. “Okay, I'll be there.”
“Now what was that all about?” Frank said after Chet had hung up.
“This call proves that I was right after all,” Chet said with an air of injured dignity. He explained that Dr. Snedecker wanted him to come to their new offices. “I asked to take you along, but he said he was too busy to have anyone else in on the conversation.”
“What do you think he'll tell you?” Joe asked as he flopped down on one of the beds.
“I don't know,” Chet replied with a shrug. “Guess he just wants to interview his future star student.”
“That'll be the day!” Frank said, poking Chet's massive rib cage. “When is your appointment, hotshot?”
“Right away, sooner if possible,” Chet replied. He stood before the mirror, using the palms of his hands to smooth his hair which had been whipped by the wind.
“Where?”
Chet gave the name of the building and the room number.
“Look, Chet, I don't like the idea of your going there alone,” Frank said. “Remember that creepy guy who followed us?”
“Don't worry. I can handle him.”
Nonetheless the Hardys convinced their friend that they should at least accompany him to the place. They would then wait downstairs in the lobby while he had his interview.
The building was an outstanding steel-and-glass model of architectural beauty. The boys pushed through the front doors, walked into an impressive lobby, and escorted Chet to a bank of elevators.
“Take it easy now,” Joe advised him. “And don't let any gorgeous secretaries turn your head.”
“I'm perfectly immune to such charms,” Chet said loftily. He stepped into an elevator, punched the number eight button, and a second later was gone.
Frank and Joe turned to wander about the vast lobby. “Maybe the college deal is not a phony after all,” Joe said.
“Let's have a look at the directory board,” Frank suggested.
They walked to a huge board listing the tenants who occupied the building. Frank looked under the Z column.
“Joe, they're not listed.”
“Well, obviously they just moved here. Maybe they haven't been entered on the board yet.”
“I have a hunch that Chet might be in trouble. Let's go after him!”
They went across the hall and saw one of the elevators yawn open. Quickly they stepped inside, pushed the number eight button, and started upward.
Alighting at the eighth floor, Frank and Joe looked left and right, then did a double-take as Chet approached them with a lively spring in his gait. His round face was beaming.
“Is everything all right?” Joe asked.
“Certainly,” Chet replied. “As a matter of fact, it sounds just beautiful!” He reported that Dr. Snedecker had been extremely cordial. “He even offered to return my money if I had any doubts about his college.”
“Did you take it?”
“Of course not. I refused. With offices like those, old Snedecker must be worth a million!”
“I still don't like the whole thing,” Frank said, glancing uneasily at Joe. “You and Chet go on down. I'm going to check out this Suite 825.”
“But, Frankâ” Chet started to protest.
Joe steered him to the elevator. “Come on. Big boss knows what he's doing.”
Frank walked down the hall, found the number, and stepped into a small vestibule. It was tastefully decorated with a Louis XIV chair, small marble-top table, and a vase filled with artificial flowers. An inner door was marked with gilded letters, but they did not announce Zoar College. Instead, they spelled out
Magnitude Merchandising Mart.
Magnitude Merchandising Mart.
Frank opened the door and stepped inside. A smiling, attractive dark-haired receptionist, smartly dressed, sat behind a desk. Several doors led into cubicle offices.
“May I help you?” the girl asked.
“Yes,” Frank replied. His eyes roved about and he leaned first on one foot, then the other, feigning embarrassment.
“Well, what is it?” the girl went on.
“I guess I have the wrong place,” Frank said. “I'm looking for Zoar College.”
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