“There are those marble garden ornaments your uncle brought from that ruined house in Beverly Hills,” said Aunt Mathilda. “They are absolutely filthy. You know where the bucket is, and the soap.”
“Yes, Aunt Mathilda,” said Jupiter.
“And plenty of elbow grease!” ordered his aunt.
Aunt Mathilda and Uncle Titus clattered away in the truck. Jupiter cleared a space in the back of the salvage yard and set to work with hot soapy water on the marble figures and the garden urns. The things were coated with years of soil and grit and mould. Jupiter scrubbed away, cleaning the face of a chubby cherub who held up an apple. Hans found him there.
“I see your aunt been talking to you,” said Hans, eyeing the scrubbing brush and the bucket.
Jupiter nodded, wiped off the marble cherub, and turned to a bulging urn with grapes clustered on its sides.
“Where is everybody?” Hans wanted to know. “I been over to house, and nobody there. Nobody in office, either.”
“Aunt Mathilda and Uncle Titus have gone tip to The Potter’s house to see Mrs Dobson,” reported Jupiter.
“Huh!” snorted Hans. “I don’t go to that place–not for a million dollars. That place is haunted. That crazy Potter, he’s walking round up there in his bare feet. You saw it. I saw it.”
Jupiter sat back on his heels. “We saw the footprints,” he reminded Hans. “We did not see The Potter.”
“Who else could it be?” demanded Hans.
Jupiter didn’t answer. He stared at the urn, which was an ungainly piece, and he thought of The Potter, who made such handsome things. “The urns on The Potter’s porch are much better than this one,” said Jupiter.
“Yah! Yah! His stuff’s good. But he was crazy anyway.”
“No, I don’t think so,” said Jupiter. “But I wonder why one of the eagles on that urn has only one head.”
“Nothing wrong with one head on eagle,” declared Hans.
“True. Except that The Potter seemed to prefer them with two,” answered Jupiter Jones.
14
The Jolly Fisherman
IT was noon before Aunt Mathilda and Uncle Titus returned to the salvage yard with the information that Eloise Dobson was the most stubborn creature on the face of the earth. In spite of Chief Reynolds’ urging and Aunt Mathilda’s considerable powers of persuasion, Mrs Dobson had firmly, and rather angrily, announced that no one was going to drive her out of her father’s house.
“She was ready enough to go last night,” said Jupiter.
“Then you should have seen that she left,” snapped Aunt Mathilda, and she stormed across the street to the house to make lunch.
Jupiter rinsed the last of the marble pieces with the hose and went in to take a shower. After lunch, he returned to the salvage yard. His aunt had neglected to issue any instructions for the afternoon, so Jupiter made his way to Headquarters through Tunnel Two, and then escaped unseen from the salvage yard through Red Gate Rover. He then hurried down to the Rocky Beach Police Department.
Jupiter found Chief Reynolds brooding behind his desk.
“Anything on your mind, Jones?” asked the chief.
“There is a man staying at the Seabreeze Inn who has been rather over-attentive to Mrs Dobson,” said Jupiter.
“In that department,” said the chief, “I think Mrs Dobson can take care of herself.”
“That is not what concerns me,” said Jupiter. “He has led Miss Hopper to believe that he is here to fish. However, he does not catch anything.”
“So? He’s got rotten luck.”
“That is certainly possible, but his car was parked across from The Potter’s house on Saturday when I was attacked in The Potter’s office. Also, he attempted to visit Mrs Dobson last evening not long before that second set of flaming footprints appeared in the house. And then, there are his clothes.”
“What about his clothes?”
“They are all brand new, so far as I can judge,” said Jupiter. “It is almost as if he were costumed for a part in a film. The clothes, incidentally, do not match the car he drives. That is old and somewhat battered. It is a tan Ford. Perhaps you might wish to wire to Sacramento to see how the car is registered. The man calls himself Farrier.”
“He may just do that because it’s his name,” said the chief. “Look, Jones, I know you think you’re the greatest thing since Sherlock Holmes, but I wish you’d knock off this business of snooping around where you’re not wanted. And I’ve got real problems. That Mrs Dobson seems to expect me to produce her missing father–if he is her father–by nightfall, if not sooner. With my overwhelming staff of eight men, I am to go out and scour the Pacific Coast Range and find a man who doesn’t want to be found. I am also expected to figure out how somebody got into a locked house and set the stairs on fire.”
“Have you had any report from the lab on the charred linoleum?” asked Jupiter.
“When I do, you may be the last to know,” said Chief Reynolds. “Now go away and let me have my headache in peace.”
“You don’t plan to wire Sacramento?” Jupiter persisted.
“No, I don’t. And if you go bothering that Farrier guy, I will personally have you declared a public nuisance.”
“Very well,” said Jupiter. He left the chief’s office and proceeded with all due speed to the Seabreeze Inn. He noted with satisfaction that the tan Ford was not in the parking area. Miss Hopper, he knew, was addicted to afternoon naps and might well be dozing peacefully in her own apartment. With the exception of a stray guest or two, that left only Marie the maid to be reckoned with.
The lobby of the Seabreeze Inn was deserted, and the door behind the desk was closed. Jupiter tiptoed around the desk. Miss Hopper was an extremely meticulous innkeeper, and Jupiter knew her very well. He found the spare key to room 113 where he knew it would be–in its properly numbered slot in the bottom drawer of Miss Hopper’s desk. Jupiter extracted the key without making a sound, put the key in his pocket, and strolled out on to the verandah. Marie was nowhere to be seen, and there were no guests lounging on the terrace which overlooked the beach.
Jupiter put his hands in his pockets and sauntered along the verandah. When he reached the door of room 113, he stopped and waited, listening. No one stirred anywhere in the inn.
“Mr Farrier?” he called, knocking softly. Mr Farrier did not answer.
With great care, Jupiter slid the key into the lock, opened the door, and stepped into the room.
“Mr Farrier?” he said again softly.
But the room was empty–empty and tidy. Marie had had time to make up the bed and vacuum the carpet.
Jupiter eased the door shut and set to work. The dressing-table drawers were empty, and so were the desk drawers. Mr Farrier had not troubled to unpack his handsome suitcases–except for several crisp and sporty jackets which hung in the wardrobe along with half a dozen spotless turtleneck shirts and several pairs of cleanly creased blue duck slacks. Jupiter felt the pockets of these garments, but they were empty.
Next, Jupe turned his attention to the suitcases. There were two. One stood open on a little bench at the foot of the bed. It contained about what one would expect a suitcase to contain–pyjamas, socks, a pair of sneakers which looked as if they had never been worn, underwear, and, wadded at the bottom of the bag, a few pieces of clothing in need of laundering.
The second suitcase stood on the floor next to the bench. It was closed, but when Jupe tried it he discovered that it was not locked. There were more clothes–all new, and bearing the labels of various Los Angeles men’s shops. One shirt still had the price tag attached, and Jupiter almost gasped when he saw how much it had cost.
Jupiter’s probing fingers touched paper in the bottom of the suitcase. He lifted the clothes out, careful not to disarrange anything, and stared at a piece of folded newspaper. It was the classified section of the Los Angeles Times. An item in the “Personal” column was circled. It read: “Nicholas. I am waiting. Write Alexis at P.O. Box 213, Rocky Beach, Ca.”
Jupiter lifted the paper out. There was another sheet of newsprint beneath it. This was part of the classified section of the New York Daily News, and an identical advertisement appeared there. There was also a copy of the Chicago Tribune, with the same notice. Jupiter glanced at the dates on the newspapers. They were all the April 21 editions of that year.
Jupiter frowned, put the Chicago Tribune back where he had found it, placed the Daily News back on top of that, and the Los Angeles newspaper on top of that. He then replaced the clothing in the suitcase, closed the case, and put it down again on the floor.