The Shattered Helmet

THE SHATTERED HELMET

Danger is the name of the game when the Hardys agree to help their pen pal from Greece, Evan Pandropolos, search for a priceless, ancient Greek helmet Years ago, Evan's uncle had loaned it to a Hollywood movie company for use in a silent motion picture, but the treasured helmet had been lost.

At Hunt College, where Evan, Frank, Joe, and Chet Morton are taking a summer course in film-making, the boys are harassed by enemies who grow more and more vicious. Are gangsters hounding them to force Mr. Hardy to give up his investigation of an international crime syndicate? Or are the boys' sinister foes also seeking the helmet?

Clues that the young detectives unearth keep them constantly on the move—from college campus to California and finally to Greece. In a sizzling climax the Hardys, Evan, and Chet match wits with their powerful enemies on the island of Corfu.

Suddenly Jock's foot kicked out!

“C
AN
you tell a Greek by looking at him?” asked Joe Hardy.

“Stop kidding,” his brother Frank replied, “and keep an eye peeled. This is quite a crowd. We may miss him.”

The boys scanned the faces of incoming passengers hurrying to the baggage claim area of Bayport Airport. They were waiting to meet Evangelos Pandropolos, a Greek student who would attend Hunt College with them for a few weeks while taking a course in film-making.

“There he is!” Joe exclaimed.

The youth at the claim center looked exactly like the photo he had sent the Hardys. He was shorter than Frank and Joe, had wavy black hair, keen dark eyes, and a handsome face. At the moment he looked perplexed.

“He's in trouble!” Frank said. “That big blond guy is trying to take his suitcase!”

Frank and Joe hurried over to Evangelos. He and a tall, good-looking young man were grasping the handle of the same suitcase. The man, who was slightly overweight around the middle, carried an expensive movie camera in his other hand.

“Evangelos!” Frank said. “What's the matter?”

The Greek youth turned and smiled. “The Hardys? What an embarrassing way to meet you. This person wants my suitcase.” He spoke excellent English with a pleasant accent.

The tall man broke in, “Listen here! I'm Leon Saffel, and this is my bag, bud. Come on, let go!”

“I beg your pardon,” Evangelos replied. “Perhaps if we both let go, I can prove to you that it belongs to me!”

His adversary sneered. “You foreigners are all alike. Always want to prove something.” With this he gave a furious tug. Evangelos let go at the same moment.

Saffel stumbled backward over another suitcase and landed flat on his back, desperately clutching his camera with one hand and the bag with the other. He lay stunned for a moment. Meanwhile, a crowd had gathered to see what all the excitement was about.

Frank and Joe tried to hide a look of amusement, then each grasped one of Saffel's arms and helped him to his feet.

Saffel stumbled backward.

“Leave me alone!” Saffel fumed. “If this camera is damaged I'll have you all arrested! I'll sue you!”

“Calm down,” Evangelos said. “It was your fault.”

“You asked him to let go,” Frank added. “Now, let's get this straightened out.”

As he spoke, a uniformed baggage claim agent pushed through the crowd and asked if he could be of help.

“Yes, sir,” Evangelos said. He opened his ticket folder, took out a claim check, and handed it over. “This man has my bag.”

The agent compared the numbers. “That's right. This suitcase is yours.” He took it from Saffel and gave it to the Greek.

“B-but—” Saffel stammered in disbelief.

“Here comes another one like it,” the agent said, pointing to the conveyor belt. He stepped forward, grasped it, and asked Saffel for his claim check. Then he verified the suitcase as his.

Saffel looked embarrassed as the three boys walked out of the terminal building to the parking lot, where the Hardys' car waited.

“Evangelos,” Frank said, “you entered Bayport with a bang!”

“How's that?”

“With plenty of excitement,” Joe said, smiling.

“Quite unfortunate,” Evangelos said. “I hope it isn't a bad omen.” Then he added, “Please call
me Evan. Now which is Frank and which Joe?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out two photographs. “I get confused.” He studied the boys' faces as they stood beside their car, then referred to the pictures. “Ah, yes. You're Frank, the older one.”

“Right. I'm eighteen.”

“And, Joe, your hair is light—almost the same color as the unfortunate Mr. Saffel's.”

Joe laughed. “I'm just about a year younger than you and Frank.”