Chapter Nineteen: Island Prisoner
“WHERE?” Joe and Chet exclaimed in astonishment. “Lake Patzcuaro!” Frank told them excitedly. “Remember the reference those vaqueros made to butterfly nets? That’s what the fishermen there use.”
“You’re right!” Joe declared. “Let’s go!”
Chet too was eager for the trip. “Even if Seńor Tatloc isn’t there, I’d like to see those fishermen who use nets different from any others in the world.”
Patzcuaro was a long way from Oaxaca in a northwesterly direction. The boys decided to start out early and stop for lunch at Taxco which was on the way. At eight they phoned the police. The guard at the but had been jailed but refused to answer any questions. There was no other news.
By nine o’clock they were on the road. They reached Taxco about lunchtime and parked in the large, treeshaded zócalo. Cobblestone streets rose up the steep mountainsides surrounding it. Facing the public square was a very handsome old stone cathedral. The other three sides were lined with attractive shops and restaurants.
As the boys walked around before selecting a place to eat, they noted that many of the shops sold silverware. “Taxco is noted for its silver mines and skilled silversmiths,” said Frank as they paused before one window. “Boy, look at that figure!” On display was the statue of an Indian carrying a large pouch from which he was sowing a handful of corn seeds.
As the boys walked on, they saw several artists, seated on canvas stools, painting the scenes around the zócalo. The boys stopped to watch a red-bearded man who was wearing a bright-blue smock. He was sketching a little boy pulling a tiny burro.
The artist looked up at the visitors and smiled. “You are from the States?” he asked in English. When they nodded, he went on, “I lived there once myself, but I found so many fascinating things down here to paint I never went back!”
“Do you specialize in figures?” Joe asked him.
“Pretty much,” the artist replied. “By the way, my name is Don Hawley.” The boys shook hands and introduced themselves.
Mr Hawley continued talking as he went on with his sketching. “I don’t believe this picture will be much good. I am feeling sad. I read in the newspaper that a man whose portrait I painted was killed.”
Mr Hawley added that the man was a great archaeologist. Hearing this, Frank asked quickly, “Was he, by any chance, Seńor Tatloc?”
“Why yes. Then you read the account, too.”
“We did,” Frank replied, then asked, “Where is the portrait of Seńor Tatloc?”
“In my studio. It is a living likeness. Come, I’ll show it to you. I’m too upset to do any more work today.” He put a few pesos into the hand of his boy model and told him to return the next day.
On the way to the studio, Joe asked Mr Hawley about the archaeologist. The artist said that the man was an extreme contrast to his nickname. “Seńor Tatloc was a very peaceful person, yet his friends at the university affectionately called him `the Aztec warrior’.”
“Was his only hobby going on digs for relics?” Frank queried.
“Just about,” the artist replied. “Senor Tatloc had one of the most extensive and enviable collections of Aztec weapons and other artefacts in the world. Many had been handed down through his family for hundreds of years. Upon his death he wished the pieces to go to the State Museum. They’re locked up in a bank vault since he had no permanent home.”
The Hardys and Chet acted casually, but were excited at the new information. Tatloc and Moore did have a common interest of collecting weapons. By this time they had reached the studio which opened directly off the pavement of a side street. Inside, they were confronted by a life-size figure on canvas. This was indeed the man the boys had met in the hut!
“The painting is great!” said Frank. Grinning, he added, “I wish I had money to buy it.”
“Oh, it’s not for sale,” said Mr Hawley. “This picture was commissioned by a man very much interested in the State Museum. The portrait is to hang there, but Senor Tatloc requested that this not be done for another two years. He didn’t say why.”
The Hardys glanced at each other. Two years more would round out the five-year period after which Mr Moore was to return the Aztec warrior object to its owner. Was there a definite tie-in between the two dates?
The boys drew closer to the portrait to inspect it in detail. Seńor Tatloc was arrayed in a gorgeous Aztec costume, and in his hand he held a dagger with an obsidian blade and handle which was carved in the form of a plumed serpent. It was studded with turquoise. “Have you ever seen Seńor Tatloc’s weapons collection?” Frank asked Mr Hawley.
“No, and he was rather secretive about it. In fact, Seńor Tatloc remarked at the time we started this portrait that he wished it were possible for it to be painted two years from now. At that time he would have received a much more interesting dagger.”
“What does that one look like?” Joe asked excitedly.
“Seńor Tatloc did not say.”
The boys thought they knew the answer! The dagger must be the Aztec warrior object! Frank asked Mr Hawley, “Did Seńor Tatloc ever mention a man named Jonathan Moore?”
“No.”
After looking at several other fine pictures, the boys thanked the friendly artist and then said goodbye. As they walked down the street towards a restaurant, Chet remarked, “That was a lucky break. You fellows just about have this mystery wrapped up, don’t you?”
Prank shook his head. “I wish it were true, Chet. We don’t know where the living Aztec warrior is, and we don’t know where the missing dagger is hidden.”
After lunch Chet took the wheel of their hired car. As he drove along, he caught up with a bus crowded with men, women and children, carrying strange-shaped bundles and baskets from the market. The overflow of passengers was seated on the roof of the bus, clutching live chickens and dogs. One boy even had a baby goat.
The sight of barnyard creatures on a bus set the three boys laughing. Suddenly a chicken wriggled loose from under its owner’s arm. The hen squawked loudly as it flew through the air and landed smack on the windscreen of the car. Startled, Chet let the car swerve, narrowly missing a deep ditch at the side of the road as he jammed on the brakes.
“Good grief!” he cried, as the stunned chicken fell on to the road.
By this time the owner of the hen, a stout woman, had yelled for the bus driver to stop and was now climbing down a ladder on the outside of the vehicle. Reaching the pavement, she ran back to the boys’ car and began to wave her arms in anger at Chet.
He sat mute as she picked up the hen which was dead, and demanded in voluble Spanish that Chet pay for the finest egg layer in her flock.
“You’d better do it,” Joe advised with a grin.
“But it wasn’t my fault!” Chet remonstrated. “Anyway, if I have to pay her for the hen, it’s mine. But what’ll I do with a chicken? It’s probably good eating, but how could I cook it?”
At this, both Hardys burst into laughter. Their hilarity infuriated the woman. She held the hen by its feet and waved it in the air with one hand. With the other she made irate gestures at Chet, threatening to have him arrested.
Completely abashed and a bit frightened, Chet pulled out his wallet, removed a bill and handed it to the woman. Her reaction was a surprise. Dark looks changed to a broad smile and with a mighty heave the woman threw the hen into the car. Then, waving the bill triumphantly, she ran back to the bus and climbed the ladder. As the vehicle started off, she blew kisses at the boys!
The Hardys roared with laughter as Chet, red in the face, sat staring at the chicken. “What are we going to do with this?” he asked.
“Like to stop for a picnic?” Joe needled him.
Just then Frank noticed a little girl standing not far away in a field. Evidently she had heard the commotion while playing near her farm home which was not far away. Without a word, Frank picked up the hen. He walked over to the child and handed it to her.
“You take this home,” he said, smiling.
“Gracias,” the little girl said, and ran off across the field.
The boys drove on and towards evening reached the quaint village of Patzcuaro. They registered at a small hotel on one of the narrow streets. After having a wash, they lost no time in trying to find a clue to Seńor Tatloc’s whereabouts. As they questioned people in the hotel and on the street, they showed the pictures of the archaeologist. No one had seen the man in town. Disappointed, the boys went to bed.
“I can’t get the reference to butterfly nets out of my mind,” said Frank, just before they all went to sleep. “Tomorrow morning let’s go down to the lake and question fishermen.”
This procedure brought results. Three men said they had seen the stranger in the pictures. He was in a public launch heading for the island of Janitzio. The boys could see the hilly island, far out in the lake. On top of it was a huge statue of Morelos, the priest who led a victorious revolution in 1810.
At once Frank inquired about hiring a launch to take them over to the island. He was directed to a small dock where a boat was waiting. The boys quickly got aboard, and soon the craft was chugging across the water.
The boys were fascinated as they watched fishermen swing their huge nets, which resembled giant butterfly wings, and gracefully let them down into the water. As the nets were raised again, thousands of tiny fish the size of sardines squirmed and flopped inside.
The pilot of the launch told his passengers it took years to become skilled at using these nets.
“What do they do with such tiny fish?” Joe inquired.
“They are taken to Janitzio, dried on mats in the sun and sent mostly to Mexico City. They are considered a great delicacy.”
As the boat drew near the island, the boys saw that along the beach was a row of crudely hewn dugouts which belonged to the fishermen.
“They’re unusually wide and long compared to the ones we sometimes use for camping trips,” Frank said.
Here and there on the beach were groups of women busily mending fishing nets. Their dexterity amazed the boys.
Frank made arrangements for the pilot to wait, and they began their sleuthing. First, Frank showed the pictures of Seńor Tatloc to the women who pointed up the hilly street just beyond. It was a narrow, cobblestone road lined with shops and houses. In front of them stood huge poles between which the giant butterfly nets had been stretched.
Again Frank showed the pictures, this time to some men who also pointed up the hill.
“Now we’re getting somewhere!” said Joe, starting off at a fast pace.
“Hold on!” Frank advised. “I don’t see any policemen about, and we may run into trouble. I think we should get a couple of husky men to go with us.”
The other boys agreed. Two fishermen, with pleasant faces and bulging muscles, were chosen. When Frank explained the situation, the men looked startled and one said: “Kidnappers on our island! Zapato and Pancho will be glad to help you search.”
The group trekked up the hill, inquiring at each shop and house, but they met with no success. At the top the road turned left. The Hardys decided that the searchers should divide their work.
Frank chose the most distant point and sprinted ahead of the others towards the last house on the street. All the doorways were open.
“Nothing looks sinister or suspicious around here,” he thought.
Nevertheless, Frank inquired at each dwelling. As he came to one where no one seemed to be at home, he was suddenly yanked inside and the door closed.
Frank’s cry for help was cut off by a gag being thrust into his mouth. The next instant his arms were pinioned and a huge fish net wound round him. He was then thrown into a corner of the one-room shack where a pile of fishing nets was tossed over him.
Frank churned with anger at being caught off guard. There was silence for several minutes, then Frank heard a man say, “What can I do for you?”
“Can you identify the man in this photograph?” It was Joe speaking!
There was a slight pause, then the man answered, “Yes, I saw this old fellow. He was with two other men. They went down to the lake. An American boy was following them.”
“Thank you very much,” said Joe. “We’ll go down there and look for them.”
Silence followed. As Frank lay helpless, he knew that Joe and the others had left.