“He must have something,” said Jupiter Jones, “or why would someone go to the trouble to search his office?”
4
Too Many Newcomers
JUPITER refused Haines’s offer of a ride back to Rocky Beach. “I’ve got my bike,” he told the policeman. “And I’m okay.”
Haines squinted at the bruise on Jupe’s forehead. “You sure?” he asked.
“I’m sure. It’s just a bump.” Jupiter started down the path.
“Well, watch it, Jones!” McDermott called after him from the house. “You keep poking your nose in where it doesn’t belong, you’ll get it cut off one of these days. And stick close to home, you hear? The chief will probably want to talk to you, too.”
Jupiter waved, picked up his bicycle, and stood waiting for a break in the traffic so that he could cross the highway. The tan Ford which Jupe had noticed earlier was still parked on the shoulder above the beach. The traffic slackened, and Jupe raced across the road with his bicycle. He stood beside the car and looked down at the beach. The tide was going out, leaving broad stretches of wet sand. Coming up the path towards him was the most magnificent fisherman Jupe had ever seen. He had on a sparkling white turtleneck shirt and, over it, a spotless pale blue jacket with a crest on the pocket. The jacket exactly matched his pale blue duck trousers and these, in turn, blended beautifully with his blue sneakers. He wore a yachting cap so immaculate it might have been taken off the shelf at the sporting goods store only yesterday.
“Hello, there!” said the man, as he came abreast of Jupe. Jupe saw a thin, tanned face, oversized sunglasses, and a grey moustache, waxed so that the ends pointed out and up towards the man’s ears.
The man’s fishing tackle and creel were, as perfect, as gleaming bright as the rest of him.
“Any luck?” asked Jupiter Jones.
“No. They’re not biting today.” The man opened the boot of the dusty Ford and began to stow his gear. “Maybe I’m not using the right bait. I’m new at this.”
Jupiter had already guessed that. Most fishermen, he knew, looked like refugees from the Salvation Army store.
The man looked across at the patrol car parked in front of The Potter’s house. “Excitement?” he asked.
“A little,” said Jupiter. “A housebreaker, probably.”
“How dull.” The lid of the boot thumped closed.
The man unlocked the car door on the driver’s side. “Isn’t that the shop of the very famous Potter?” he said.
Jupe nodded.
“He a friend of yours?” asked the fisherman. “You live around here?”
“Yes, I live around here. I know him. Everybody in town knows The Potter.”
“Hm. I should think so. Does beautiful work, I understand.” Behind the sunglasses, the eyes went over Jupe from head to toe. “Nasty bump you’ve got there.”
“I fell,” said Jupe shortly.
“I see. Can I give you a lift anywhere?”
“No, thank you,” said Jupiter.
“No? Well, you’re right. Never take rides from a stranger, eh?” The man laughed as if he had just said something terribly funny, then started his car, backed on to the highway, waved at Jupe, and drove off.
Jupe rode back to the salvage yard. He did not, however, go in through the main gates. Instead he continued on down the length of the wonderfully painted fence until he came to the curious fish poking its head up from the sea to watch the ship sailing through the furious storm. Jupiter got off his bike and pressed on the eye of the fish. Two boards swung up, and Jupe pushed his bicycle ahead of him into the salvage yard.
This was Green Gate Number One. In all, there were four secret entrances to The Jones Salvage Yard–and Aunt Mathilda Jones was unaware of the existence of any of them. Jupiter, emerging in the corner of the junkyard by his outdoor workshop, could hear Aunt Mathilda. She was evidently out behind the furniture shed, applying herself to cleaning up the recently purchased garden furniture. And she was urging Hans, with some vigour, to do likewise. She could not see Jupiter because he had cleverly arranged the piles of junk in front of his workshop to block the view. Jupe grinned, propped his bike against an old printing press, pulled aside a cast-iron grate which leaned against a workbench behind the printing press, and bent to crawl into Tunnel Two.
Tunnel Two was a length of corrugated iron pipe, it was padded inside with odd scraps of carpeting, and it led to a trapdoor in the trailer which was Headquarters for The Three Investigators. Jupe crawled the length of Tunnel Two, climbed up through the trapdoor, and reached for the telephone on the desk in the trailer.
The telephone was another improvement in The Jones Salvage Yard of which Aunt Mathilda was unaware. Jupiter and his friends, Bob Andrews and Pete Crenshaw, paid for it with money they earned working in the salvage yard, and with occasional fees The Three Investigators collected for solving a case.
Now Jupiter dialled Pete’s number. Pete answered after only two rings. “Hey, Jupe!” Pete seemed delighted to hear from Jupiter. “Surf’ll be up this afternoon. What do you say we take our boards and–”
“I doubt that I will have an opportunity to do any surfing today,” said Jupiter dourly.
“Oh? You mean your aunt’s on the warpath?”
“Uncle Titus acquired several pieces of garden furniture today,” said Jupiter. “They are badly rusted, and Aunt Mathilda is now directing Hans on the removal of rust and old paint. I am certain that when she sees me, I shall join Hans.”
Pete, who was accustomed to Jupiter’s precise method of speech, simply wished him happy paint-removal.
“That is not why I called,” Jupiter informed him. “Can you come to Headquarters tonight at nine?”
Pete could and would.
“Red Gate Rover,” said Jupiter simply, and hung up.
He then dialled Bob Andrews’ home. Mrs Andrews answered. Bob was at his part-time job at the Rocky Beach Public Library.
“May I leave a message, Mrs Andrews?” asked Jupe.
“Of course, Jupiter, but I’d better get a pencil and write it down. You boys never seem to say anything in plain English.”
Jupiter did not comment on this. He waited while Mrs Andrews found a pencil and a piece of paper, and then said, “Red Gate Rover at nine.”
“Red Gate Rover at nine,” repeated Mrs Andrews. “Whatever that may mean. All right, Jupiter, I’ll tell him when he gets home.”
Jupiter thanked her, hung up, and retreated out of Headquarters and back down Tunnel Two. He opened Green Gate One, pushed his bike on to the street, and rode up to the gravel drive of The Jones Salvage Yard.
Aunt Mathilda was waiting beside the office, stained rubber gloves on her hands. “I was about to send the police after you,” she announced. “What happened?”
“The Potter wasn’t there,” Jupe told her. “His company came, though.”
“They did? Why didn’t you bring them back with you? Jupiter, I told you to invite them!”
Jupiter parked his bicycle next to the office. “They are not sure whether or not I am Jack the Ripper,” he told his aunt. “They have gone to the Seabreeze Inn. One of them is a lady named Dobson who says she is The Potter’s daughter, and the other is her son Tom.”
“The Potter’s daughter? Jupiter, that’s ridiculous. The Potter never had a daughter!”
“Are you sure?” asked Jupe.
“Well, of course. He never mentioned . . . he never . . . Jupiter, why should they think you’re Jack the Ripper?”
Jupiter explained, as briefly as he could, about the intruder in The Potter’s office. “They think I broke into the house,” he finished.
“The very idea!” Aunt Mathilda bristled with indignation. “And look at your head. Jupiter, go in the house this minute. I’ll get you an ice pack.”
“Aunt Mathilda, it’s all right, really.”
“It is not all right. In the house. Now! Go!”
Jupiter went.
Aunt Mathilda brought him an ice pack. Also a peanut-butter sandwich and a glass of milk. By dinner time she had decided that his bump on the head was no worse than any one of a hundred other bumps he had survived. She clattered through the dinner dishes, left Jupiter to dry and put away, and went to wash her hair.
Uncle Titus gratefully went to sleep in front of the television set, and when Jupiter tiptoed out of the house, his big moustache was vibrating softly to the rhythm of his snores.
Jupiter crossed the street and circled round to the back of the salvage, yard. The yard’s back fence was as fancifully decorated as the front fence. The painting depicted the great San Francisco fire of 1906, with terrified people fleeing from burning buildings. In the foreground of the scene, a little dog sat watching the excitement. One of his eyes was a knot in the wooden board. Jupiter deftly picked the knot out of the board, reached through the hole to undo a catch, and three boards swung open. This was Red Gate Rover. Inside, a sign with a black arrow pointed the way to “Office.” Jupiter followed the direction of the arrow, crept under a pile of lumber, and came out into a corridor with junk piled high on every side. He made his way along the corridor until he came to several heavy planks which formed the roof of Door Four. He had only to get under these, crawl a few feet, and push on a panel–and he was in Headquarters.