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few minutes later they arrived at the airport. Pierre Buffon was nowhere to be seen. After the detective had boarded his flight, Frank and Joe took another cab to their hotel. Frank spotted Buffon’s car across the street.
    â€œI wonder what he’s up to,” Joe said.
    â€œMaybe he figures we have his envelope and decided to watch our every move,” Frank said. “We’ll have to keep an eye on him all night.”
    The boys paid the cabbie and went into the hotel.When they arrived at their room, Frank tossed his briefcase on the bed. Joe stared at it.
    â€œFrank! Something’s sticking to the bottom!” he cried out, pointing. “What is it?”
    Frank looked and pulled off an envelope. “I don’t believe it!” he exclaimed. “It stuck to my briefcase on a piece of gum! Obviously it’s the envelope Buffon was looking for!”
    â€œOpen it,” Joe urged. “I can’t wait to see what has such sentimental value to an arch criminal.”
    The envelope contained a faded and tattered piece of paper with a strange message written on it. Frank read it aloud:
    Not where you think it be
But up the hill and down
The roots sink deep
And Simbu will not sleep
If you dare steal the gold
He will punish you tenfold.
    The boys were stunned. “It must be the work of the old man Dad told us about,” Joe said finally. “The man who hid the gold with the help of his slave and left a Simbu to guard it.”
    â€œJust as the fortune-teller predicted,” Frank said, a hollow ring to his voice. “We’re being lured to look for the treasure guarded by an idol who brings death to those who fool with it.”
    â€œNow who sounds superstitious?” Joe tried to make light of the matter.
    â€œCall it what you want. You have to admit something strange is going on here.”
    â€œYou’re right,” Joe said somberly. “What do you think we should do next?”
    â€œWell, I don’t think we should just let it go and throw the message in the wastebasket. I’d like to pursue it, and if we find the gold, we can turn it over to the police or some charity to dispose of it.”
    â€œThat’s my feeling too,” Joe said enthusiastically.
    Frank walked to the window and peered through the curtains to see if Buffon was still watching the hotel. “It’s starting to rain,” he reported. “And our friend is still out there. Ah! He’s pulling away. I suppose he figures we won’t go anywhere in a storm.”
    The skies had opened up and the wind rushed through the treetops.
    â€œLet’s fool him!” Joe declared. “It’ll be a wet ride, but we have good rain gear and I have a couple of entrenching tools in my luggage that I brought for camping.”
    â€œRight!”
    A few minutes later, the boys walked out the back door of the hotel to where their bikes were parked. Gently they eased the motorcycles out to the main street, again looking for the white Mercedes. But the coast was clear and the boys accelerated along the mostly empty road to their target, the property near the Cresthaven Diner.
    Luck was with them and soon the rain stopped. The clouds cleared away and a beautiful, brilliant moon guided them. They passed the diner and tookthe road next to it for a few miles. Then they pulled up alongside some heavy road construction equipment that stood near the stone wall enclosing the old man’s property. They parked their bikes and walked through the gate. Clouds skittered across the moon. The wind picked up and soon rain started to fall once more.
    â€œThis isn’t much fun,” Joe grumbled, when even the flashlights were of little help in guiding them through wide-spreading oak trees with strands of Spanish moss hanging down from their limbs.
    Night birds screamed in their ears and went flapping off in the rain. Frogs were calling. Frank stumbled knee-deep into a swamp and felt