The Masked Monkey by Franklin W. Dixon

their room. It was not air conditioned and seemed like an oven.
    â€œWe’d better get as much air as we can,” Frank suggested, forcing the window wide open.
    â€œCome to think of it,” Joe said, “the fire escape would be a good place to sleep on a night like this. Natural air conditioning.”
    They showered and then turned in. Frank placed a flashlight on the table beside the bedfor emergency use, which was an old habit with him.
    Both boys slept fitfully, turning and tossing on sweat-dampened sheets. Suddenly both were wide awake. There was a strange noise in their room. Dimly they made out a figure bending over their clothes.
    â€œA thief!” Joe thought.
    Carefully Frank reached for his flashlight. Pointing it toward the intruder, he snapped it on. A cone of light stabbed through the darkness. It revealed a hideous-looking simian standing beside a chair, holding Frank’s shirt in one of its paws. The monkey’s nose was wrinkled, the eyes drawn into narrow glaring slits, and his fangs were bared in a ferocious scowl!

CHAPTER VIII
Fish Bait
    F RANK and Joe jumped up and dived for the simian. Joe got a hand on a furry leg, but the animal scampered free. It dashed to the fire escape and swung down the metal framework from floor to floor, using its long prehensile tail as a fifth paw. The boys watched in dismay as the monkey finally leaped to the pavement and vanished around a corner of the hotel.
    â€œThat’s the ugliest brute I’ve ever seen,” Joe said in a shaky voice. “I’d consider it a nightmare if you hadn’t seen it too, Frank.”
    â€œOh, it was real enough,” said Frank, who had been examining his clothes. “Real enough to make off with my wallet, key ring, passport and other identification papers.”
    Joe went through his pockets. “Good night! I’m cleaned out, too!”
    Frank sat down on the bed. “Joe, we’re dealing with a monkey clever enough to be a professional burglar. A human being couldn’t have pulled off the job more neatly.”
    â€œA human being put that monkey up to it!” Joe said.
    An odd feeling swept over both boys. They felt as if they were in the grip of some evil power, as if a malevolent force was bent on their destruction.
    â€œFrank,” Joe said, “we’re stuck. No money, no passports, no nothing. What’ll we do?”
    â€œGo to the American Consulate,” Frank said. “Then I suggest we call San Marten and tell him our sad story. If he’s involved in it, we might as well stick close to him. He doesn’t know we suspect him, so maybe we can pick up a clue.”
    At nine in the morning Frank asked the hotel clerk to put him through to San Marten’s home. After a brief wait, the Brazilian’s voice came over the wire. Frank told him they had been robbed.
    â€œI will help you,” San Marten assured them. “Come here for breakfast. Take a taxi at my expense. I will instruct my servants to set two extra places.”
    Frank and Joe accepted his invitation, but first made their way to the consulate. A United States official gave them some cash, arranged for themto cable home for money, and promised to have identification for them shortly.
    The boys thanked him, caught a taxi in front of the consulate, and reached the suburbs of Belem in about twenty minutes. It was an exclusive residential area of large houses with broad lawns. Maids were sweeping off front porches and washing windows. Gardeners were spading the earth.
    â€œNice area,” Joe commented. “The rich live well here, too.”
    The Brazilian’s home turned out to be a plush one. A wrought-iron gate gave access to a walk flanked by tropical flowers leading up to a big house. The door was opened by a servant who ushered the boys through to a patio in the rear of the property.
    San Marten sat at a table beside a broad, deep swimming pool. Thick shrubbery grew a few