Footprints Under the Window by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

raincoat!” Joe gasped.
    â€œThis hole matches the piece we found at the airport!”
    Frank asked the puzzled vendor where he had obtained the coat. The man summoned a tall ear-ringed Guianan from the shop and spoke with him in rapid French.
    â€œLa fleuve,” the peddler told the boys, pointing to the river. “Down two, three mile. You buy?”
    â€œOui.” Frank brought out several francs and handed them over.
    â€œBut how will we get down the Cayenne River?” Joe whispered. “That’s real jungle.”
    â€œHe take you—for price,” the vendor confided, motioning to the native.
    Arrangements were made for the trip and the boys followed their guide toward the river. On the way Chet bought some tropical fruit.
    Soon they came to a short wooden dock. Next to it was a dugout canoe with hornlike stern and bow curving upward. The native beckoned the boys to climb in. “To coat man—I take you.”
    Chet was uneasy. “Do you think we can trust him?” he whispered to the Hardys.
    â€œI think so,” Frank replied. “We haven’t much choice if we want to find Martin.”
    With Frank and the guide paddling, and Joe and Chet seated in the middle, the canoe glided out into the motionless, mud-colored water. A searing sun burned down as they slipped past lush green jungle banks. White clouds were mirrored in the still river surface.
    Presently they passed a clearing of thatch-roofed Indian huts. Farther along, several native women were beating laundry with flat sticks at the waterside. After a while the only sound was the chatter of birds from the depths of the jungle. Something in the primeval stillness prompted the boys to speak in whispers.
    â€œIt’s like another world!” Joe said, awed.
    Past a bend a flock of beautiful flamingos scattered at the canoe’s approach. Several crocodiles lay sleepily along the banks. Chet held his breath until they had left the ugly creatures behind.
    Several miles farther, the native pointed to a channel off to the right. Frank nodded and they steered in. Enormous mangrove trees arched overhead, blocking out the sun. Gnarled vines hung in trailing loops. The travelers ducked as low-hanging branches tore at their shirts and faces.
    â€œHere!” The guide steered toward a bank covered by thick roots. The boys sat breathlessly, their hearts pounding. Were they about to meet the missing Raymond Martin?
    The canoe glided against the bank, where the Guianan pointed to a long, overhanging branch, then at the torn raincoat. Frank understood.
    â€œHe means he found the raincoat hanging from that branch!”
    â€œA distress signal by Martin!” Chet guessed.
    â€œThe coat man—where is he?” Joe asked the guide.
    The native hopped out, secured the craft, and motioned the boys to follow. They clambered after him up the bank into the jungle. Something in his expression made the boys uneasy. Was he leading them into a trap?
    â€œStick together,” Frank cautioned Joe and Chet.
    Patches of blue sky broke through the dense foliage. The guide stopped at a small clearing and the boys peered ahead at the remnants of a campfire. A laceless black shoe lay nearby.
    Joe picked it up and read the faded brand name, one familiar to the boys. The clearing seemed eerily deserted. The Guianan led them to a patch of thick shrub. “Here—coat man!”
    With a sweep of his arm he threw back the dropping mass of leaves, disclosing a long white form. The Hardys and Chet gasped.
    A human skeleton!

CHAPTER XV
    City of Silence
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    THE three boys peered, shocked at the skeleton. Frank stepped back as a centipede slithered out of the skull.
    Chet backed away, shuddering. “L-let’s get out of here!”
    The Hardys, too, had instinctively recoiled, but now inspected the skeleton more closely.
    â€œThis can’t be Raymond Martin.” Frank pointed out the parched discoloring