Free The Secret Warning by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

by some trickery before the ship left port.”
    â€œWould there have been time for anyone to do either?” Frank asked.
    â€œOf course. I purposely arranged to have the head brought aboard several hours before any passengers embarked, in order not to attract attention. That was in Beirut. Again there was a chance for trickery when we stopped at Le Havre. If the purser was dishonest—who knows?”
    Zufar shrugged unhappily. The purser, he added, had been lost in the sinking.
    Frank replaced the note in its envelope, then said, “Personally, I think you should take this note to the police, Mr. Zufar.”
    The art dealer’s eyes bulged fearfully. “You think I am a fool?” he said shrilly. “If I did, my life would be in danger!”
    â€œBut you’ve showed the note to us,” Frank pointed out.
    â€œThat is different. Your father is not the police. If these—these thieves contact me, I can say simply that I have hired him to act as my go-between.”
    Dabbing his face with the handkerchief, Zufar went on, “Furthermore, once this became an official matter for the police, the news might leak out. I cannot afford to endanger my reputation any further!”
    The telephone on Zufar’s desk rang. “Excuse me.”
    He scooped it up. “Hello? ... Yes, this is Mehmet Zufar speaking.”
    Suddenly the dealer’s face grew pale. He beckoned frantically to the Hardys and held the telephone away from his ear so they could listen in.
    â€œYou heard me! Speak up!” a harsh voice was saying on the other end of the line. “I asked if you’re ready to make a deal.”
    Zufar looked pleadingly at the boys.
    Frank and Joe hesitated. Then, with a glance of mutual understanding, reached a quick decision. Frank nodded emphatically.
    Zufar gave a sigh of relief. “Very well,” he said into the receiver. “What do you wish me to do?”
    â€œListen carefully. Have the money ready in small bills. Take that key to the Philadelphia Airport. Use it to open a public-storage locker there and stand by.”
    There was a sudden click as the caller hung up. Zufar, too, put down the phone and turned his eyes to the Hardys. “You keep the note and the key, and you will inform your father immediately?”
    â€œWe’ll get in touch with him,” Frank promised, pocketing the envelope. “Good-by.”
    Frank and Joe left the office. In the corridor they almost bumped into Fritz Bogdan. The proprietor gave them a thin smile and walked on quickly down the hall to a rear storage room.
    As the boys went through the display area, their gaze swept over the exotic assortment of merchandise. A tigerskin rug hung on one wall between dusty carpets and tapestries. Near the green Buddha, the painted face of an Egyptian mummy case stared back at them sightlessly. Both boys felt there was something sinister about the dingy place.
    An employee was moving a large, murky-col ored landscape painting in a gold frame. The Hardys recognized him as Zufar’s granite-faced chauffeur.
    When they reached the street, Joe muttered, “Do you suppose that fellow Bogdan was eavesdropping?”
    â€œDon’t know. I was wondering the same thing,” Frank replied. “You know, I have a feeling I’ve seen him somewhere before.”
    â€œMe too. I thought his face seemed sort of familiar.”
    Neither of the Hardys could explain the impression.
    â€œWell,” Frank said, “we’d better get in touch with Dad and then get a bite to eat. I could sure use a couple of hamburgers.”
    Sighting a drugstore on the next corner, the boys went inside where Frank phoned their father. Mr. Hardy readily approved of his sons’ action.
    â€œDon’t worry, you and Joe used good judgment,” he said. “The Philadelphia Airport angle strikes me as a good omen, too.”
    â€œHow so, Dad?”
    â€œThere are only a few private