Too Many Traitors Read Online Free Page A
Author: Franklin W. Dixon
us in no time.
Behind the cover of the paper Frank jerked his head to one side, signaling Joe to make his move. Then Frank began to walk, apparently aimlessly, toward the front door, flipping through his newspaper like a tourist looking for somewhere to go.
Frank walked through the front door and onto the street and breathed a sigh of relief. He tossed the newspaper into a trash basket. Where was Joe? he wondered. Had they finished the sketch and recognized him before he could escape?
No, there was Joe, coming out the door.
"Now what?" Joe asked, joining him in front of the hotel. "All our stuff is in our room, and we can't get to it. What are we going to do?"
Before Frank could answer, a cry of "Alto!" sounded behind them. They turned to see a uniformed policeman with a paper in hand. He spoke to them rapidly in Spanish.
He's got us, Frank thought. That must be our picture in his hand. As if hearing Frank's thoughts, the policeman thrust the paper into their faces and started asking more questions in Spanish.
The picture he held was a photograph of Martin.
"He wants to know if we know the man in the picture," Joe said, and then, to the policeman, 'Wo. Dispenseme. No comprendo."
The policeman nodded, shrugged his shoulders, then went back toward the hotel.
"Come on," Frank said. "Let's hit that cafe where we had breakfast. We can rest and sort things out there."
The Hardys entered the cafe and sat at a back table that was partially hidden by lush green plants. Seconds later a waiter appeared with menus. It was the same waiter who had served them at breakfast, and his lean face brightened when he recognized them.
"You are back," he said slowly in English. "I am Francisco. What may I bring you, my friends?"
"Dos Coca-Colas, porfavor," Joe answered. The waiter spun around and vanished into the kitchen.
"He sure is friendly," Joe said, grinning. "I must have tipped him better than I thought."
"Great." Frank rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Someone else who can recognize us." He looked around the room. Besides the door they had come in through, there was a door to the kitchen. Good, we can reach that easily if we have to, Frank thought. "Why are the cops looking for us anyway?"
Joe stared at his brother. "I thought you heard. They think we killed Martin."
"What?" Frank looked angry. "Where did they get that idea?"
"How should I know?" Joe said. "Maybe we should turn ourselves in. After all, we are innocent."
"I don't think so," Frank responded. "This whole thing is starting to smell like a setup. If someone fingered us for Martin's murder, who knows what evidence they've manufactured? We're not in America, Joe. I have a feeling we'd better be able to prove our innocence before we start talking to any police."
Francisco reappeared with the drinks. "Mind if we sit here a bit?" Frank asked. "We'll order some food in a little while."
"Si!" the waiter said, flashing his smile at them. "Stay as long as you like. Eat! Eat!" He wandered toward the front of the restaurant.
Sure that they were alone again, Joe sipped his drink and said, "You've got a point. We're probably better off on the streets." He chuckled. "Besides, we don't want to make it too easy for the Russians to find us, do we? You don't suppose they set us up?"
Frank shook his head. "There wasn't time. You know who I bet could give us a few answers? Our chauffeur. He's the one who gave us Martin's note. And he led us to the Russians. Maybe he's working for them—at least, his disappearance was awfully well-timed."
"You're right," Joe agreed. "But we don't even know what he looks like. I never got a good look at his face, and his face wasn't his real face anyway. He could be anyone."
"We can't even be sure he's a he," Frank said. "It could possibly have been a woman."
Joe's eyes widened. "You don't suppose that Spanish girl at the plaza ... "
"I doubt it," Frank said with a shrug. "Too slight. The chauffeur's height and build would be hard to fake. No, I'd
Behind the cover of the paper Frank jerked his head to one side, signaling Joe to make his move. Then Frank began to walk, apparently aimlessly, toward the front door, flipping through his newspaper like a tourist looking for somewhere to go.
Frank walked through the front door and onto the street and breathed a sigh of relief. He tossed the newspaper into a trash basket. Where was Joe? he wondered. Had they finished the sketch and recognized him before he could escape?
No, there was Joe, coming out the door.
"Now what?" Joe asked, joining him in front of the hotel. "All our stuff is in our room, and we can't get to it. What are we going to do?"
Before Frank could answer, a cry of "Alto!" sounded behind them. They turned to see a uniformed policeman with a paper in hand. He spoke to them rapidly in Spanish.
He's got us, Frank thought. That must be our picture in his hand. As if hearing Frank's thoughts, the policeman thrust the paper into their faces and started asking more questions in Spanish.
The picture he held was a photograph of Martin.
"He wants to know if we know the man in the picture," Joe said, and then, to the policeman, 'Wo. Dispenseme. No comprendo."
The policeman nodded, shrugged his shoulders, then went back toward the hotel.
"Come on," Frank said. "Let's hit that cafe where we had breakfast. We can rest and sort things out there."
The Hardys entered the cafe and sat at a back table that was partially hidden by lush green plants. Seconds later a waiter appeared with menus. It was the same waiter who had served them at breakfast, and his lean face brightened when he recognized them.
"You are back," he said slowly in English. "I am Francisco. What may I bring you, my friends?"
"Dos Coca-Colas, porfavor," Joe answered. The waiter spun around and vanished into the kitchen.
"He sure is friendly," Joe said, grinning. "I must have tipped him better than I thought."
"Great." Frank rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Someone else who can recognize us." He looked around the room. Besides the door they had come in through, there was a door to the kitchen. Good, we can reach that easily if we have to, Frank thought. "Why are the cops looking for us anyway?"
Joe stared at his brother. "I thought you heard. They think we killed Martin."
"What?" Frank looked angry. "Where did they get that idea?"
"How should I know?" Joe said. "Maybe we should turn ourselves in. After all, we are innocent."
"I don't think so," Frank responded. "This whole thing is starting to smell like a setup. If someone fingered us for Martin's murder, who knows what evidence they've manufactured? We're not in America, Joe. I have a feeling we'd better be able to prove our innocence before we start talking to any police."
Francisco reappeared with the drinks. "Mind if we sit here a bit?" Frank asked. "We'll order some food in a little while."
"Si!" the waiter said, flashing his smile at them. "Stay as long as you like. Eat! Eat!" He wandered toward the front of the restaurant.
Sure that they were alone again, Joe sipped his drink and said, "You've got a point. We're probably better off on the streets." He chuckled. "Besides, we don't want to make it too easy for the Russians to find us, do we? You don't suppose they set us up?"
Frank shook his head. "There wasn't time. You know who I bet could give us a few answers? Our chauffeur. He's the one who gave us Martin's note. And he led us to the Russians. Maybe he's working for them—at least, his disappearance was awfully well-timed."
"You're right," Joe agreed. "But we don't even know what he looks like. I never got a good look at his face, and his face wasn't his real face anyway. He could be anyone."
"We can't even be sure he's a he," Frank said. "It could possibly have been a woman."
Joe's eyes widened. "You don't suppose that Spanish girl at the plaza ... "
"I doubt it," Frank said with a shrug. "Too slight. The chauffeur's height and build would be hard to fake. No, I'd
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