The Masked Monkey by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

said. “Joe, help me carry these!”
    The boys lugged the meat outside. “In they go!” Frank said as they tossed the provisions into the water.
    The piranhas were on them in a flash. The water boiled with the assault. In a few minutes only cleanly picked bones lay at the bottom of the pool.
    Suddenly the front door slammed. Frank andJoe dodged into the shrubbery, crouched down, and parted the leaves. The two servants walked warily across the patio to the pool.
    One laughed, elbowed his companion, and pointed to the bones. The other guffawed as if he had just heard a good joke.
    â€œThey think they’re looking at our remains,” Joe whispered.
    Frank nodded. “We’d better get off the premises before they find out the truth. Come on!”
    As they slipped through the shrubbery Joe tripped and fell. Frank paused to help him up. Then came the sound of pursuers.
    The boys careened past large bushes and small trees toward the fence at the back of the property. Frank scrambled to the top. Joe followed, barely escaping the clutching fingers of one of the servants.
    â€œThey’ll come after us!” Joe panted.
    They ran down the street and turned a corner.
    â€œIn there!” Frank replied, pointing to the nearest building. It was a low neat structure with the sign BIBLIOTECA beside the front door.
    â€œIt’s a library,” Frank said. “And look how we’re dressed.”
    The dark-haired pretty girl at the reception desk was startled by the sudden appearance of two boys in swim trunks. Readers looked up from their books and newspapers to see what all the commotion was about.
    The boys asked for help and the girl, in halting English, said, “I will get police. You wait.”
    Frank and Joe squatted behind some book-stacks. A few minutes later a squad car transported the Hardys to headquarters. The chief, Captain Vasquez, spoke English quite well.
    Frank asked for San Marten, but was told he had not come to headquarters. Then the boys went over the morning’s events repeatedly, only to be met with grins of disbelief.
    â€œAmericanos good with joke!” said a lieutenant, bursting into loud laughter.
    â€œJoachim San Marten would never do anything like this,” the captain insisted. “He is a respectable resident.”
    â€œSend your men to investigate his swimming pool,” Frank urged.
    Vasquez hemmed and hawed, but finally agreed. The squad car went out. It returned ten minutes later and the two policemen reported nothing unusual about San Marten’s pool.
    Frank was crushed. “The servants must have removed the piranhas and the bones,” he said weakly.
    â€œWe will forget your fish story,” Vasquez said, shaking his head, “and let you go this time. Get out of those swim trunks. We will find your size among clothing left by former prisoners.”
    â€œThanks,” Joe said glumly, disappointed that nobody believed them.
    The boys changed, then left. As they walked into the lobby of the Excelsior Grao Para, Frank grabbed his brother’s elbow. “Sh! Look over there at the desk!”
    â€œSan Marten!” Joe gasped.
    The Brazilian was in a towering fury. His face was flushed, his body trembling. He pounded the desk with his fist.
    â€œWhere are the Hardys?” San Marten demanded in English.
    â€œSir, I have no idea.”
    San Marten seized the man by the lapels and shook him. “Where did they go? Where can I find them?”
    â€œSir, if I knew, believe me I would tell you,” the clerk gasped.
    Thrusting him aside with a contemptuous gesture, San Marten wheeled around. The Hardys hastily ducked behind a large pillar. Had they been fast enough? Had their murderous enemy seen them?

CHAPTER IX
A Curious Number Seven
    S AN M ARTEN motioned savagely in the Hardys’ direction. He started walking toward the pillar behind which they were hiding.
    â€œHe’s spotted us!” Joe