“Hermit or no hermit,” said Jupiter Jones, “he was also a grandfather. A number of Aunt Mathilda’s friends are grandparents, and they’re always showing off snapshots of their grandchildren. The Potter never, never did that. He never even mentioned you or your mother to anyone.”
Tom hunched forward and hugged his knees. “Makes you feel invisible,” he declared. “This thing’s like some kind of a bad dream. I’d say we ought to hightail it out of here and get back home, only . . .”
“Only, if you did that, you’d never know the answer, would you?” said Jupiter. “I would suggest that you employ a firm of private investigators.”
“Hey, we couldn’t do that!” protested Tom. “We aren’t wracked in poverty, but we aren’t exactly rolling in the green stuff either. Private investigators cost money.”
“You’ll find this firm very reasonable,” said Jupiter. He took a card out of his pocket and handed it to Tom. It was an oversized business card, and it read:
THE THREE INVESTIGATORS
“We Investigate Anything”
? ? ?
First Investigator –
Second Investigator –
Records and Research –
JUPITER JONES
PETER CRENSHAW
BOB ANDREWS
Tom read the card and smiled a wry smile. “You’re putting me on,” he said.
“I am quite serious,” Jupiter told him. “Our record is very impressive.”
“Why the question marks?” asked Tom.
“I knew you would ask that,” said Jupiter. “The question mark is the universal symbol of something unknown. The three question marks stand for The Three Investigators, and we are prepared to solve any mystery which may be brought to us. You might say that the question marks are our trademark.”
Tom folded the card and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “Okay,” he said. “So if The Three Investigators take on the case of the missing grandfather, what then?”
“First,” said Jupiter, “I suggest that any agreement between us remains between us. Your mother is already somewhat upset. She might, quite unwittingly, disturb any arrangements we might make.”
Tom nodded. “Grown-ups do gum things up,” he said.
“Second, Officer Haines is right. I think it unwise that you and your mother remain in this house alone.”
“You mean you want us to go back to the Seabreeze Inn?”
“It will depend upon your mother, of course,” said Jupiter. “However, if you remain here, you would probably be more comfortable if one of the investigators stayed in the house with you.”
“I don’t know about Mum,” said Tom, “but I’d be a darn sight happier.”
“It’s settled then,” said Jupiter. “I’ll talk it over with Bob and Pete.”
“Jupiter!” Aunt Mathilda bustled out of the house. “We have finished putting up the other bed. I must say, you could have been a little more helpful.”
“Sorry, Aunt Mathilda. Tom and I got to talking.”
Aunt Mathilda sniffed. “I have been trying to persuade Mrs Dobson to return to the inn, but she insists that she will remain here. She has the ridiculous idea that her father will show up at any moment.”
“Perhaps he will,” said Jupiter. “This is his home.”
Mrs Dobson came out, looking pale but somewhat braver after her cup of tea.
“Well, my dear,” said Aunt Mathilda, “if there’s nothing more we can do for you, we’ll be going. If you get frightened, just call. And do be careful.”
Eloise promised that she would be most careful, and that they would lock the house securely.
“They’ll have to get a locksmith, you know,” said Aunt Mathilda as she, Jupiter, and Hans drove down the road towards Rocky Beach. “They can lock the doors from the inside, but they can’t unlock them from the outside. That crazy Potter must have all the keys with him. And they should have a telephone put in. It’s simply madness for them to be there without a telephone.”
Jupe agreed. When they reached the salvage yard, he slipped away and crawled through Tunnel Two to call Pete Crenshaw and Bob Andrews.
“The Three Investigators have a client,” he told Pete, “and this time, it is not Jupiter Jones!”
7
A Royal Tragedy
IT was after five when The Three Investigators met in their trailer Headquarters. Jupiter reported briefly on the Dobsons’ move to The Potter’s house, and on the flaming footprints which had appeared in the kitchen.
“Good grief!” exclaimed Pete. “You don’t suppose The Potter died, and is coming back to haunt the place?”
“That is what Hans suggested,” said Jupiter. “But those footprints were not made by The Potter. At least, they were not The Potter’s footprints. The Potter has gone barefoot for many years. You may have noticed that his feet have spread. The footprints were small; they might be the prints of a short man, or of a woman.”
“Mrs Dobson?” said Pete.
“She would not have had time to manage it,” said Jupiter. “She went down the stairs and out to the truck to get the groceries. I followed immediately. She had already collected the groceries and was about to enter the kitchen when she saw the flames. I was right behind her. Also, why would she do such a thing? And how was it accomplished?”
“The men from Hilltop House?” suggested Pete.
“A possibility,” said Jupiter. “They came down to the beach as we started moving the Dobsons in. We have no assurance that they stayed on the beach. They could have walked in through the front door, which was open, set the footprints on fire in some manner, and slipped out the back way and down to the beach again. Pete, what were you able to find out about Hilltop House?”
Pete took a small notebook out of his pocket. “Mr Holtzer has never been so happy,” he told the others. “I stopped in his office today to see if he wanted his lawn mowed–which he doesn’t–and I didn’t even have to ask any questions. He’s had Hilltop House on his books for about fifteen years, and it’s such a mouldering ruin that he’s never been able to sell it or rent it or even give it away, and then along comes this man who decides it is the one and only house in Rocky Beach, and he has to have it. Took a year’s lease and paid three months in advance. Mr Holtzer had the lease out on his desk–I think he was working out his commission–so I got a look at the new tenant’s name.”
“Which is?”
“Mr Ilyan Demetrieff,” said Pete. “Or maybe it’s Demetrioff. I was looking at it upside down, and Mr Holtzer needs to clean his typewriter. Anyhow, Demetrieff, or Demetrioff, listed his previous address as 2901 Wilshire Boulevard, Los Angeles.”
Bob reached for the Central Telephone Directory which was on top of a file cabinet, leafed through, then shook his head. “He’s not listed.”
“Lots of people aren’t,” said Jupiter. “We can check the address later and see what we can find out about Mr Demetrieff.” Jupiter pulled at his lower lip. “I wish we knew more about the double-headed eagle. I think that may be very important. It appears not only on The Potter’s medallion, and on those two urns in his yard, but there is an immense plaque in one of his bedrooms with the design. It seems to have fascinated The Potter.”
Bob Andrews grinned. “On that we’ve been lucky,” he told Jupiter.
“What do you mean?”
“We don’t have to wait for the library to open tomorrow,” said Bob. “My father bought a coffee-table book.”
“A what?” said Pete.
“A coffee-table book–one of those big picture books they’re always advertising by mail. Dad’s got a weakness for them.” Bob had been sitting with a cardboard package at his feet. Now, smiling proudly, he put the package on the desk and opened it. Jupiter and Pete saw a handsome volume with a glossy jacket. Royal Riches, read the title. A photographic study of the crown jewels of Europe, with commentary by E. P. Farnsworth.
“Isn’t that the British crown?” said Jupiter, looking at the magnificent object which decorated the cover. It had been photographed at close range, resting on a scarlet velvet cloth.
“One of them,” said Bob. “The British have a couple of crowns, plus so many sceptres and orbs and maces and swords you wouldn’t believe it. The guys who did this book covered a lot of territory. They’ve got photographs of the British crown jewels, plus the crown of Charlemagne, which is in Austria, and the crown of St Stephen of Hungary. Also something called the Lombard crown, which is made out of iron. There’s a little bit on Russia, and the Russians went in for eagles in a big way, but I think the eagle we want is this one.”
Bob had paged through past the middle of the book. He pushed the volume across the desk to Jupe. “The imperial crown of Lapathia,” he said.
Pete bent over Jupe’s shoulder to stare. “Yeah!” he exclaimed.
The imperial crown of Lapathia looked more like a helmet than a crown–but a helmet of gold, solidly encrusted with blue stones. At the top, four bands of gold encircled a huge ruby, and above this gem was an eagle–a scarlet eagle with two heads. The brilliant wings were spread wide, and the heads looked to right and to left, diamond eyes glittering, beaks open in fierce, warlike defiance.