Ken Holt - Mystery Of Green Flame Part 1

THE MYSTERY OF THE GREEN FLAME.

A KEN HOLT MYSTERY.

By Bruce Campbell.

CHAPTER I.

ACROSS THE BORDER.

THE LITTLE TRAVELING alarm clock said seven thirty. Through the window of the hotel room came the muted sounds of a city stirring into early-morning activity. Laredo, Texas, on the border between the United States and Mexico, was just coming alive.

But inside the hotel room there had been action for the past half-hour. Ken Holt and Sandy Allen were both showered and dressed, and Sandy's bag was already closed.

"You're sure you packed everything?" Ken ran a brush over black hair that was still damp and then tossed the brush into his own bag. He took a quick glance into the bathroom and stepped inside to pull two pairs of socks from a towel rack. "If we'd planned to leave these behind," he pointed out, "there was no sense in our washing them." Suddenly he bent over double, with an ease that spoke of steel muscles in top condition, and straightened again with a pair of slippers that had been under Sandy's bed. "You might need these in the next couple of weeks too," he remarked.

Sandy didn't respond. He was standing at the window, his ma.s.sive, better-than-six-foot frame nearlj 2 .

blocking the gla.s.s. In the hard morning sunlight his red hair seemed afire.

"What are you looking at?" Ken demanded.

"Mexico." As Ken joined him, he gestured southward over low roof tops. "And feeling pretty let down about it," Sandy added. "It looks just like Texas to me."

Ken grinned up at him. "What did you expect? Acres of sombreros in full bloom?"

Sandy looked at him with disgust. Deliberately he took a small book from his shirt pocket, riffled through its pages, and then p.r.o.nounced slowly, "Usted es loco." As he put the book away again he added loftily, "Since you don't share my great knowledge of Spanish, I will translate that for you. It means 'You are crazy.'"

"Y usted tambien," Ken retorted. "Which means 'And you too.'" He gave Sandy a brisk shove in the direction of their bags. "Come on. With Mexico just two blocks away, we're both crazy to be standing here instead of heading for the border."

"Right," Sandy agreed. "Especially since your father's expecting us to arrive in Mexico City eventually." He opened his bag, put in the socks and slippers Ken had found, and closed it again.

Ken snapped the locks on his own bag and then pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. "According to the list Dad left us, I think we're all set. We've got our tourist visas, we've got our vaccination certificates, we've changed some dollars into Mexican pesos, we've got Mexican insurance on the car-"

"Insurance!" Sandy broke in. "That reminds me." He took out his wallet. "Here's the bill for straightening and repainting our fender. We might as well send it home to Pop from here, so that he can forward it to the insurance company for payment." He glared down at ACROSS THE BORDER 3.

the bill and shook his head. "Twenty-seven dollars- and two days' time-just because a dog didn't know enough not to run out into the middle of a Texas highway."

"Just because you can think fast enough to save a dog's life," Ken corrected him.

Sandy's face took on the red hue of his hair-an automatic response on his part to any hint of praise. "But your father had to catch a plane for Mexico City instead of being able to ride all the way down with us," he pointed out.

"What's worrying you?" Ken demanded. "Dad got there in time for his conference. Our car is as good as new again. And here we are at the border ourselves, all set for our first look at foreign territory. Are you afraid?"

"Afraid?" Sandy repeated in amazement. "What of?"

"Of starving to death. Maybe you think we won't be able to order enough food to keep you alive, if we have to talk Spanish."

Sandy ignored Ken's grin. "I am prepared to meet that emergency," he said, tapping the book in his pocket. He closed his big hand around the handle of his bag and swung it down from the luggage rack. "But speaking of food, what about breakfast?"

Ken picked up his own bag and led the way toward the door. "Why don't we wait until we cross the border?" he suggested. "We might as well find out right away whether your book is going to work or not."

"Suits me. Tortillas, enchiladas, tacos-here we come!"

"You don't even know what those words mean-except that they're things to eat," Ken reminded him.

"That's all I need to know," Sandy retorted.

4 .

A few minutes later, as they stood at the desk paying their bill, Sandy said, "I'll mail this car stuff to Pop. And why don't I wire the folks that we've reached the border?"

"Good idea," Ken agreed.

He joined Sandy at the telegraph counter when the bill was settled. As he watched his friend phrase the telegram he thought once more of the strange stroke of good fortune that had thrown him into the middle of the Allen family-the "folks" at Brentwood, New Jersey.

Ken, motherless since early childhood, had spent most of his life in boarding schools while his father, Richard Holt, traveled the world in search of the news stories that had made him the most famous foreign correspondent of Global News. Then there had come the time when Holt's nose for news made him dangerous to a band of criminals. They had kidnaped the newsman and were after Ken himself. And Ken, closely pursued, had taken refuge in the office of a small-town weekly newspaper, the Brentwood Advance. There he had found stanch allies in Pop Allen, the newspaper's editor, Pop's older son and a.s.sistant, Bert, and his younger son, Sandy. The three Aliens, all redheaded and all over six feet in height, had joined Ken immediately in the adventure they still remembered as The Secret of Skeleton Island.

And when that adventure was over, tiny Mom Allen had joined her husband and her sons in insisting that Ken become one of their family. Since that time Ken and Sandy had been as close as brothers. They shared a room at the Allen house. They shared their work on the Advance, Ken supplying the stories and Sandy the accompanying photographs. Many of their a.s.sign- ACROSS THE BORDEB 5.

ments had led to excitement and danger. And on several occasions Global News had purchased Ken's stories and Sandy's pictures, reporting their adventures, for distribution through its nation-wide news service.

The trip to Mexico, however, was not expected to yield either news stories or news pictures. Richard Holt had been a.s.signed to cover the Pan-American conference taking place in Mexico City, and it was his suggestion that the boys drive him to Mexico and join him, when the conference ended, for a three-week tour of the country. With Pop Allen's blessing, the boys had enthusiastically agreed. And the trip had been pleasant but entirely uneventful until the minor highway accident which forced Richard Holt to fly on ahead, while the boys remained for two days in the small Texas town where their car was being repaired. Now Ken and Sandy were on their way again toward the capital of Mexico, still some seven hundred miles to the south.

"Sound all right?" Sandy shoved the yellow telegram blank toward Ken.

"Headline for your front page," Sandy had scribbled. "Prominent Rrentwood citizens about to cross border into Mexico."

"Fine," Ken told him. "That'll provide a great scoop for the Advance"

Ten minutes later they were in the low, sleek red convertible that was their proudest joint possession. Their bags were neatly stowed away in the trunk and Sandy was maneuvering through the empty early-morning streets of Laredo toward the International Bridge that arched the muddy stream of the Rio Grande River.

The United States customs officer, at the north end of the bridge, waved them on after a quick check of 6 .

their licenses and car registration. They paid the toll and drove on over the bridge.

"We've crossed the line!" Sandy exclaimed. "We're in Mexico."

"And here's your first chance to practice your Spanish." Ken pointed ahead toward the uniformed Mexican border official who was signaling them to halt.

Sandy braked the convertible to a stop and reached into the glove compartment for their tourist visas. He took a deep breath. "Senor," he began, "aqui-eh- . n aqui- The cheerful face under the trim uniform cap broke into a grin. "Perhaps," the border guard said in brisk English, "you would prefer to speak your own language."

The boys grinned back at him.

"I guess you'd prefer it," Sandy admitted. He glanced sidewise at Ken. "Maybe we'll go hungry after all."

"Don't worry," the Mexican a.s.sured him. "Most of the restaurants along the main highway have English-speaking waiters." Then he pointed off to the right of a large modern building. "Will you please pull around to that side and park your car?"

"St, senor." Sandy looked at him questioningly. "That does mean 'Yes, sir,' doesn't it?"

The guard grinned once more. "Si, senor."

"Thanks."

The indicated parking s.p.a.ce was entirely empty at this early hour. When Sandy slid the car to a stop again, under the overhanging roof of the building, another uniformed guard appeared immediately, followed by a porter.

"If you will give the porter all your luggage," the guard said, "he will take it inside for inspection. And ACROSS THE BORDER 7.

you will then both come with me, please. Bring your tourist permits and the application for your car permit."

Ken and Sandy were traveling light. The porter had no difficulty with their two suitcases, a canvas duffel bag, and Sandy's camera case. As he walked off toward an open doorway the guard said politely, "You need not bother to lock your car. It will be watched while you are inside."

The border formalities were completed quickly and courteously. Less than ten minutes after the boys had entered the customs building their visas had been stamped and their car permit filled out, and they were waiting on one side of a long table on which their luggage had been arranged. The inspector, opposite them, rebuckled the straps of the camera case. Then he affixed seals to all the bags.

"Please do not break the seals immediately," he said. "You will pa.s.s two more customs stations. The first is seventeen miles south of here, the second some miles beyond that. If the seals are still in place, there will be no delay at those stations."

"Thank you."

"And now I will call a porter for your bags."

"Never mind," Sandy told him. "We can manage." He picked up the two valises as Ken took the duffel bag and camera case.

"I hope you will enjoy your visit to Mexico," the guard told them. "Just one word of warning, if I may," he added.

"Warning?" Sandy's eyebrows lifted.

"A Mexican hot sauce-it can be quite hot, senores."

Ken laughed. "Thanks. We'll remember."

"You don't scare me," Sandy said. "That's the first thing I intend to try."

8 .

The inspector shrugged cheerfully. "Well, don't say I didn't warn you."

Ken walked through the outer door ahead of Sandy and glanced back over his shoulder to see his friend examining a rack of colorful folders.

"Maps and stuff," Sandy called after him. "I'll pick up a few and be right out."

Ken nodded and continued toward the car. It was still the only vehicle parked beneath the overhanging roof. Beyond the block of shade under the roof the sun was already a white-hot glare. Ken squinted his eyes against it. He was within a few steps of the car before he saw the man standing alongside the convertible's left door.

Ken smiled automatically, a.s.suming from the man's visored cap that he was another of the customs officials. But an instant later he realized his mistake. The man's cap was not part of a uniform. It was a fishing cap, worn at a rakish angle above well-fitted tan slacks and a matching sport shirt. The face beneath the visor was long and thin, like the man's body, and tanned to almost the shade of his clothes. The eyes were bright and watchful.

"Good morning," Ken said, as he moved around to the back of the car to open the trunk. The man probably was a tourist like themselves, Ken decided, and wondered vaguely where his car might be. He noticed only one other car in sight, a gray coupe. But it was parked a full hundred feet away from the customs building, and the swarthy, dark-haired man behind its wheel did not seem to be awaiting attention from the inspectors. He seemed, in fact, to be asleep. The eyes beneath the low forehead were apparently closed. Ken's idly curious glance traveled back from the gray ACROSS THE BORDER 9.

coupe to the man who still stood beside the door of the red convertible.

"Morning," the stranger said then, quietly. And when Ken had stowed his burdens inside the car, he added, "Cigarette?"

"No, thanks. I don't smoke." Still curious, Ken wondered if the man was planning to cross the border on foot-or if, perhaps, he was leading up to a request for a ride with Sandy and himself.

The man fished a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and, without removing his strangely intent gaze from Ken's face, opened the lid of a silver lighter. A bright green flame leaped into life above the metal case.

Ken's eyes widened involuntarily. "Tricky," he commented. "What makes the green color-a special fuel?"

The intent gaze narrowed slightly. "You shouldn't leave your car unlocked like this," the man said, ignoring Ken's question.

"Why not? The guard told us it would be safe. Besides, all our luggage was with us inside the building. There was nothing here to steal." The stranger's att.i.tude annoyed him.

"Nothing?" The quiet voice repeated a single word out of Ken's reply, giving it the rising inflection of a question.

Ken frowned. "That's right. Nothing."

The man blew a cloud of smoke into the still air. "All right. I guess you're trying to play it safe." He flicked his cigarette away. "But you can relax now. Just give me the keys and we'll get moving."

Ken stared at him blankly. Then he said, "Look, there must be some mistake. You must have us mixed up with some other party. We don't need a guide."

"We?" Suddenly the quiet voice sharpened. "Who's 10 .

with you? Just because you're across the border, don't think that-"

"Don't think what?" Sandy had arrived unnoticed and dropped the two bags on the ground with a thump. "What's up, Ken?"

Ken signed with relief. Now that Sandy had joined him they could leave. "Nothing," he a.s.sured Sandy. "This gentleman here just had us confused with someone else."

As he spoke, another car swung around the corner of the building from the direction of the International Bridge. It, too, was a convertible. And it, too, was red. It pulled to a stop and the driver looked expectantly around, as if seeking something. His neat dark business suit seemed out of place in the bright Mexican sunshine, and the pallor of his face was accentuated by dark gla.s.ses.

The horn of the gray coupe", parked some distance away, sounded loudly, twice.

As Ken heard the signallike toots he saw the man with the green-flamed lighter swing sharply around and focus his eyes on the new arrival. When he turned back toward the boys he was smiling for the first time.

"You were right," he said. "I guess that's the party I was supposed to meet." His hand gestured a brief salute in the air as he walked briskly toward the second convertible.

"Now that that slight confusion has been cleared up, let's go." Sandy swung the two bags up into the trunk and banged the lid down decisively.

"Wait a minute." Ken spoke quietly. "I can tell you exactly what's going to happen. Our friend is going to offer a cigarette to the man in the convertible, then he's going to light it with a lighter that has a green flame."

The flame glowed green for an instant.

12 .

"A green flame?" Sandy stared at him with mock concern. "Has this foreign air affected your mind?"