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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
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henchmen and reached into his jacket, pulling out a large, nickel-plated 9mm automatic pistol. Holding it casually at the bridge of Frank's nose, he asked, "Perhaps this will help your memory a little?"
To Frank, the barrel of the gun looked about the size of a manhole cover. But he gave Theo his most innocent, puzzled look and replied, "There's nothing I can tell you. And if you shoot me, then there definitely will be nothing I'll be able to tell you."
"Shoot you? Oh, no, my young student friend, I would never dream of shooting you." Theo's mouth curved up into a smile, and that smile was the ugliest expression he had shown yet — the look of a shark that had just sniffed out a tasty meal.
"No, you are to remain alive for the time being," Theo went on. "But I am going to introduce your friends here to a very old custom of our country — one which your brother and you, with your great interest in Greek history, will no doubt find fascinating."
Theo put his gun away and climbed the steps out of the cellar, returning a moment later with a small clay pot in his hand. "It is a kind of lottery," he explained.
Pulling a knife from a sheath on his belt, Theo crossed the basement. The wall there had once been decorated with black and white tiles. Many were now missing or broken. Theo pried several of the tiles loose, then slipped the knife back in its sheath.
"You see," Theo said, holding the tiles out in his hand, "I have three white tiles and one black one. When the ancients had to choose one person from a group to suffer an unpleasant fate, they put tiles or rocks in a pot, like so.
He dropped the tiles into the pot and shook it up. "Then each member of the group would pick a tile. The person with the bad luck to draw the black tile—that one would suffer. Now we relive this old Greek custom. Fun, eh?"
Frank reached for the pot, but Theo shook his head.
"Oh, no, my friend, you may only observe our little lottery," Theo said. "But the rest of you," — he swung his gaze over Chet, Peter, Alma, and Aleko — "will reach into the pot and choose a tile. Whoever chooses the black tile, that unhappy soul will suffer if Frank refuses to answer my questions."
He smiled again. "Whether you live or die will be entirely Frank's responsibility."
Chapter 12
JOE HARDY CLUNG to the rocky surface of the old fortress tower like a fly to sticky paper. He was only halfway down when the gunman had appeared to subdue Clea.
Apparently the enemy scout had seen only her and decided on a quiet capture. He had clamped a hand over her mouth and begun dragging her backward.
But Clea refused to cooperate. She sank her teeth into the guy's hand. He grunted in pain and lost his grip on the girl, who darted away. He recovered quickly and lunged after her.
Twelve feet above, Joe pushed out from the wall. Falling like dead weight, he hit his unsuspecting target squarely on the back. They both fell heavily, with the man taking most of the impact.
Joe kicked free and got to his feet, while his dazed opponent wobbled to his hands and knees. Before he got up any farther, Joe delivered a roundhouse right to the side of the guy's head with enough power to send him flat on his face, down and out.
Clea rushed up as Joe removed the unconscious gunman's pistol and checked the clip. There was a full load of eight shots. He made sure the safety was on and stuck the gun in his belt.
"Are you all right?" Clea asked.
"Never felt better," he answered, pulling a coil of rope from his pack. "Let's drag him over behind the bushes there and tie him up."
They left the scout behind a dense growth of plants, a gag stuffed in his mouth and his hands and feet bound behind his back. By this time, Andreas had joined them. They still heard occasional firing from the other side of the tower.
"Okay," Joe said. "Clea and I will circle in front of the tower and create a diversion with this." He patted the pistol.
"I figure if they think they're under fire from two sides,
To Frank, the barrel of the gun looked about the size of a manhole cover. But he gave Theo his most innocent, puzzled look and replied, "There's nothing I can tell you. And if you shoot me, then there definitely will be nothing I'll be able to tell you."
"Shoot you? Oh, no, my young student friend, I would never dream of shooting you." Theo's mouth curved up into a smile, and that smile was the ugliest expression he had shown yet — the look of a shark that had just sniffed out a tasty meal.
"No, you are to remain alive for the time being," Theo went on. "But I am going to introduce your friends here to a very old custom of our country — one which your brother and you, with your great interest in Greek history, will no doubt find fascinating."
Theo put his gun away and climbed the steps out of the cellar, returning a moment later with a small clay pot in his hand. "It is a kind of lottery," he explained.
Pulling a knife from a sheath on his belt, Theo crossed the basement. The wall there had once been decorated with black and white tiles. Many were now missing or broken. Theo pried several of the tiles loose, then slipped the knife back in its sheath.
"You see," Theo said, holding the tiles out in his hand, "I have three white tiles and one black one. When the ancients had to choose one person from a group to suffer an unpleasant fate, they put tiles or rocks in a pot, like so.
He dropped the tiles into the pot and shook it up. "Then each member of the group would pick a tile. The person with the bad luck to draw the black tile—that one would suffer. Now we relive this old Greek custom. Fun, eh?"
Frank reached for the pot, but Theo shook his head.
"Oh, no, my friend, you may only observe our little lottery," Theo said. "But the rest of you," — he swung his gaze over Chet, Peter, Alma, and Aleko — "will reach into the pot and choose a tile. Whoever chooses the black tile, that unhappy soul will suffer if Frank refuses to answer my questions."
He smiled again. "Whether you live or die will be entirely Frank's responsibility."
Chapter 12
JOE HARDY CLUNG to the rocky surface of the old fortress tower like a fly to sticky paper. He was only halfway down when the gunman had appeared to subdue Clea.
Apparently the enemy scout had seen only her and decided on a quiet capture. He had clamped a hand over her mouth and begun dragging her backward.
But Clea refused to cooperate. She sank her teeth into the guy's hand. He grunted in pain and lost his grip on the girl, who darted away. He recovered quickly and lunged after her.
Twelve feet above, Joe pushed out from the wall. Falling like dead weight, he hit his unsuspecting target squarely on the back. They both fell heavily, with the man taking most of the impact.
Joe kicked free and got to his feet, while his dazed opponent wobbled to his hands and knees. Before he got up any farther, Joe delivered a roundhouse right to the side of the guy's head with enough power to send him flat on his face, down and out.
Clea rushed up as Joe removed the unconscious gunman's pistol and checked the clip. There was a full load of eight shots. He made sure the safety was on and stuck the gun in his belt.
"Are you all right?" Clea asked.
"Never felt better," he answered, pulling a coil of rope from his pack. "Let's drag him over behind the bushes there and tie him up."
They left the scout behind a dense growth of plants, a gag stuffed in his mouth and his hands and feet bound behind his back. By this time, Andreas had joined them. They still heard occasional firing from the other side of the tower.
"Okay," Joe said. "Clea and I will circle in front of the tower and create a diversion with this." He patted the pistol.
"I figure if they think they're under fire from two sides,
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