He peered happily at the creamy paste in the jar. “That should do it,” he announced as he screwed on a lid. “We now have a magic ointment.”
“So what?” demanded Pete.
“Suppose we put a coating of this ointment on something . . . say, perhaps, the drawer handles of Mr Prentice’s desk. The ointment will stay clean and white. But suppose someone then comes along and touches the drawer handles. Within half an hour, that person’s fingers will have black spots on them–spots that cannot be washed away!”
“Aha!” said Bob. “You want us to take the case!”
“Mr Prentice called me late last night,” said Jupe. “He said he couldn’t get to sleep. Several times last evening he was sure that there was a shadowy presence in his apartment. He was upset and afraid.”
“Good grief, Jupe, the man’s a kook!” said Pete. “What can we do for him?”
“Yes, he could be imagining things,” acknowledged Jupe. “I gather that he spends a great deal of time alone, and lonely people sometimes do imagine things. That’s why I hesitated to take the case. But we may be doing him a great injustice if we don’t investigate. He’s right when he says that he can’t take his problem to the police. He couldn’t even take it to a regular firm of private investigators. If he’s only imagining things, there may be nothing we can do for him. But if a real person is at the bottom of this, we may be able to identify him. I am sure it would be a great relief to Mr Prentice.”
Jupiter looked at his companions. “Shall I call and tell him we’ll come?”
Bob smiled. “You knew the answer to that before you called us,” he said.
“Good,” said Jupe. “The first bus from Rocky Beach to Los Angeles leaves at seven. I left a note for Aunt Mathilda saying that we won’t be here this morning.”
Pete handed him the Headquarters telephone. “Then call Mr Prentice and let’s go,” he said. “I don’t want to be around when your aunt finds that note. You heard her talking yesterday. She has lots of plans for you–and none of them include smearing magic ointment around somebody’s apartment!”
4
The Demon Dog
IT WAS ALMOST eight when the Three Investigators got off the Wilshire bus and walked up Paseo Place. Father McGovern, the pastor of St Jude’s Church, was in front of the rectory fumbling in his pocket as they came along. He nodded cheerfully and wished them a good morning.
They did not encounter the unpleasant Mrs Bortz when they went into Mr Prentice’s building, but they did not find the old gentleman at home, either. They found a note on his door, instead.
“My three young friends,” read the note. “I am at 329 Lucan Court. The house is directly behind this building. Cross the alley and come around to the front door. I will be expecting you.”
Jupe stuffed the note into his pocket. “That’s the place that was broken into,” he said.
“What are you boys doing up there?”
The boys looked down from the balcony and saw that Mrs Bortz had come out of her apartment. She wore a dressing gown and her red hair was tousled.
“Isn’t Mr Prentice at home?” she asked.
“Apparently not,” said Jupiter.
“Where could he be at this hour?” she said.
The boys didn’t answer her. Instead they went down the stairs, through the courtyard, and out through the back entrance of the building–a little passageway that led past a laundry and a storeroom and up a few steps to an alley. They saw dustbins and garages and the backs of the buildings which faced the next street.
As Fenton Prentice had reported, 329 Lucan Court was directly behind Prentice’s apartment house. It was a square, one-storey frame residence. When Pete rang the front doorbell, the door was opened by Charles Niedland, the grey-haired man who had been talking to Prentice the night before. He looked haggard.
“Come in.” He stepped back and swung the door wide.
The Three Investigators entered a place that was partly a home and partly a studio. A skylight had been cut into the living room ceiling. The room had no carpets and very little furniture. There were drawing tables and an easel. Photographs and sketches were tacked all over the walls, and books were piled everywhere. There was also a tiny television set, a sophisticated-looking stereophonic sound system, and a huge collection of records.
Fenton Prentice sat on a daybed with his chin in his hands. He seemed tired but calm. “Good morning, boys,” he said. “Perhaps you would like to solve another puzzle. As it turns out, I was the one who was robbed last night.”
“Now, Fenton,” said Charles Niedland. “I’m sure that was only an accident. No doubt the police scared the burglar off before he could take anything besides the Carpathian Hound.”
Niedland turned to the boys. “Mr Prentice tells me that you have a knack for detection. I think, in this case, there is nothing unusual to detect. The burglar got in through the kitchen window. He used a glass cutter to make a hole in the windowpane and reached in and opened the latch. Very ordinary.”
“But he took only the Carpathian Hound,” insisted Prentice.
“The police didn’t think that was odd,” countered Charles Niedland. “They said the television set wouldn’t be worth a darn, anyway. It’s only a nine-inch screen. And the stereo had my brother’s social security number etched on the underside of the turntable and on the speakers. That would make it very difficult to sell. Nothing else here is valuable. My brother lived very simply.”
“A great artist,” said Mr Prentice. “He lived for his art.”
“What’s a Carpathian Hound?” asked Pete.
Charles Niedland smiled. “A dog. A dog that probably never existed except in the minds of a few superstitious people. My brother was a romantic, and he liked to depict romantic subjects in his work.
“There’s a legend that two centuries ago, a village in the Carpathian Mountains was haunted by a demon dog. I believe the Carpathian Mountain villagers are noted for being superstitious.”
Jupiter nodded knowingly. “The area is also known as Transylvania. The vampire Dracula is supposed to have lived there.”
“Yes,” said Charles Niedland, “but the demon dog wasn’t a vampire, or a werewolf, either. The people in the village believed he was the ghost of a nobleman–a man who was an avid hunter, and who bred a pack of savage hunting dogs. They were said to be part wolf. The nobleman wanted them to be keen when they hunted, so he kept the dogs half-starved. According to the old tale, one of the dogs got out of the kennel one night and killed a child.”
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Bob.
“Yes. A tragedy, if it really did occur. The father of the child demanded that the dogs be destroyed. The nobleman refused, and it’s said that he tossed a few coins to the villager as payment for the dead child. The father was very angry, of course, and in his rage he picked up a stone and hurled it at the nobleman. It killed him, but not instantly. Before he died, the vicious nobleman cursed the village and everyone in it. He vowed that he would return to haunt the place.”
“I suppose he came back as a dog?” said Pete.
“A huge hound,” said Charles Niedland. “A huge, half-starved hound who could have been part wolf. The nobleman’s entire hunting pack was destroyed, but on dark nights, one gaunt creature roamed the streets, howling and whining, its ribs showing through its coat. The people were frightened. Some put out food for the beast, but it couldn’t or wouldn’t eat. So, if the demon dog was the old nobleman, the curse came true. He did haunt the village. However, there was a horrible justice to it, for he was always hungry, as his own dogs had always been.
“In time, the villagers moved away. If the dog still prowls, he does so in an abandoned ruin.”
“Did your brother make a painting of the dog?” asked Jupe.
“My brother was not a painter,” explained Charles Niedland. “He sketched, of course, when he was working out his designs, but he was really a sculptor. He worked in glass and crystal–sometimes in crystal combined with metals.”
“The Carpathian Hound was a marvellous piece,” said Fenton Prentice. “Edward Niedland made it especially for me. It was finished a month ago but never delivered. Edward was having a show of some of his newer work at the Mailer Gallery, and he wanted to include the Hound. Of course I was happy to let him do so. And now it’s gone!”
“It’s a glass statue of a dog, then,” said Bob.
“Crystal,” Mr Prentice corrected him. “Crystal and gold.”
“Crystal is a type of glass,” Charles Niedland put in, “but an extremely special type. It’s made of the very finest silica, with a high proportion of lead oxide, so it’s heavier and much more brilliant than ordinary glass. My brother worked with glass–and crystal–that was so hot it was still almost liquid. He’d shape it with tools, then reheat it as it cooled, then shape it some more, reheat it, shape it, and so on until he had the form he wanted. Then he’d finish it, grinding and buffing and polishing with acid. When it was done, the Carpathian Hound was a magnificent sculpture. The eyes of the dog were rimmed with gold, and there was golden froth on the jowls. In the legend, the ghost dog was supposed to have glowing eyes.”