The Secret Warning by Franklin W. Dixon

handkerchief, he dabbed the beads of perspiration from his large forehead.
    â€œMy dear young man,” Zufar snapped, “Fenton Hardy was recommended to me as the ablest private investigator in America. In fact, I was referred to him on a matter of the utmost importance by Mr. Scath, the museum curator. I did not come to deal with boys!”
    Frank said evenly, “I just thought we might help.”
    â€œIf you’ll tell us what you want,” Joe put in, “we’ll inform Dad as soon as we can get in touch with him.”
    Zufar glared for a moment, then said abruptly, “My card, please!”
    The art dealer fished a gold pencil from an inside pocket and jotted something on the back of the card. “When Mr. Hardy is free,” he said, “please have him contact me at this address in New York.”
    With a final swipe of his handkerchief, Zufar clapped his straw hat back on his glistening dome and rose to depart.
    â€œMay we call you a taxi?” Frank offered.
    â€œNo, thank you. My car is outside.” The stout man stalked off without another word.
    As the door closed behind him, Frank and Joe dashed to the front window for a better view. They saw Zufar climb into a black limousine. A hulking, granite-faced chauffeur slammed the car door, returned to the wheel, and drove off.
    â€œWho was that sourpuss?” inquired Chet, coming up behind the Hardys.
    â€œThe owner of the golden Pharaoh,” Joe replied. “I’d sure like to know what he was so worked up about—he wouldn’t tell us.”
    â€œMaybe Mr. Scath can give us the lowdown.” Frank glanced at his watch. “Come on! We can stop off at the museum on our way to the beach!”
    Ten minutes later the Hardys’ convertible turned into the curving driveway of the Howard Museum, which stood well back from the street among landscaped grounds. The three boys hurried up the broad marble steps of the ivy-clad building and went straight to the curator’s office.
    Mr. Scath, a slender man with wispy strands of hair and rimless pince-nez, rose to greet his visitors as they entered.
    â€œCome in, boys, and sit down. I take it you’ve just talked to Mr. Zufar.”
    â€œThat’s right, sir,” said Frank. “But he insisted on seeing Dad and wouldn’t tell us what he wanted. We hoped you might fill us in.”
    â€œHmm, yes. Well, he came here this morning and introduced himself as an art dealer specializing in Middle Eastern antiquities. Then he tried to interest me in a blue faience Egyptian cat, dating back to the Twentieth Dynasty.”
    â€œFaience?” Joe repeated. “What’s that?”
    â€œEarthenware, coated with an opaque glaze.”
    Frank then asked the curator, “Did you tell Mr. Zufar about the warning you received—that someone would try to sell you an Egyptian fake?”
    â€œIndeed, I did. I told him so bluntly.” Mr. Scath gave a shrug of distaste. “The result was quite upsetting.”
    â€œWhat happened?” Frank asked.
    â€œZufar became very emotional. He said that some enemy—he didn’t know who—was trying to ruin his reputation.”
    â€œMeaning,” Joe guessed, “the anonymous tip you received?”
    â€œYes. And he said someone had evidently spread a similar rumor about a much more valuable object which he had hoped to bring to this country.”
    Frank bent forward eagerly. “Did he mention what the object was?”
    â€œNot then,” Mr. Scath replied, “But he did later—a solid gold head of the Pharaoh Rhamaton IV, valued at one million dollars.”
    Chet’s eyes bulged.
    The curator went on, “However, as I say, that came later. At the moment he was too worked up trying to convince me of his spotless reputation.” Mr. Scath sighed. “Anyway, Zufar gave me various personal references to call and urged me to inspect the faience cat as