Footprints Under the Window by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

and cracks in the bones. Several fragments were missing. “These are old—maybe a year or more. Look how the grass has grown around them!”
    Joe also recalled their fleeting glimpse of Martin. He was a taller man than the skeleton would indicate. Frank turned to their puzzled guide and said, “Not coat man.”
    The native looked disappointed and shrugged. Through gestures he indicated that he knew nothing more.
    The boys searched for clues. Finding none, they returned to the dugout. Joe took the bow paddle this time and they headed back upriver.
    Frank said he felt that the raincoat had been left there as a trick by the person or persons who had kidnapped Martin; also, that the shoe and campfire were part of the scheme.
    â€œYou think he’s still alive?” Joe asked.
    â€œYes, though it’s just a hunch. Spies may be holding him to find out what happened to their missing Micro-Eye film.”
    â€œOr to keep him from telling Dykeman’s men how the film got into his coat—if he even knows that,” Joe ventured.
    Chet had a guess. “Maybe they sneaked into his house the way the intruder did at Dad’s travel agency,” Chet suggested.
    Frank snapped his fingers. “If he wanted the names of persons flying to Cayenne, maybe Martin was to be a victim of the luggage thieves—only they planned to take his coat instead of his suitcase.”
    Chet whistled. “Then the suitcases stolen down here may carry spy messages?”
    â€œThat’s right—brought in by innocent people.”
    â€˜A sudden wind came up and the bright blue skies turned to a smoky leaden hue. The paddlers increased speed and reached the dock at Cayenne just as the clouds opened in a blinding downpour.
    The boys and their guide leaped ashore and dashed to a nearby shop for shelter. Torrents of rain drummed on the roof like thunder, and the tall coconut palms swayed and bent in the gale.
    â€œChet, you didn’t forecast this cloudburst,” Joe needled.
    â€œHow could I? Tropical storms come up out of nowhere!” Chet defended himself.
    In several minutes the squall ceased as suddenly as it had begun. Frank paid their guide, who grinned widely and ambled off. The boys walked back through the town to their hotel, where they dried off and once more changed clothes.
    Refreshed, the boys joined Jack at supper in the hotel restaurant. He listened with interest as they recounted their adventure in low tones. When Frank presented his theory on the luggage thefts, the pilot was intrigued.
    â€œIt’s possible,” he admitted, frowning, “that travelers from Bayport and nearby towns unwittingly transmit Micro-Eye secrets. But how are the films or devices put into the suitcases?”
    â€œWe’re not sure yet,” Joe confessed. “Somebody probably sneaks into the person’s home and conceals the information in the baggage.”
    â€œCould be,” said Frank.
    â€œMy conferences today didn’t bring me any clues,” Jack told the boys. “But if you’re right, fellows, this is a job for United States Intelligence. I’ll case Cayenne tomorrow, myself, and try to follow out this new angle. We’ll have to fly back the day after.”
    The Hardys reviewed what they must learn: the real identity of Gomez, the meaning of the names in the sea shell, some clue to North’s tie-in with the Huellas, and the whereabouts of Martin.
    â€œIt’ll be a tight schedule,” Frank said. “We’ll catch the earliest launch for Baredo tomorrow morning.”
    Jack said, “Let’s report to Mr. Dykeman.”
    He cabled the intelligence officer, using guarded language. Later, as they again discussed the mystery, Jack expressed concern over the boys’ proposed trip to Baredo.
    â€œBe extremely cautious,” he warned. “Dictator Posada has lookouts all over the place.”
    At his suggestion the boys signed a