“Perhaps you’ll get it back.” Bob sounded hopeful. “A thing like that would be difficult to sell.”
“Not to anyone who had no scruples and who knew Edward Niedland’s work,” said Prentice. “He was so young . . . so talented. There are people who would happily consort with thieves to get their hands on one of his creations.”
Jupe looked around the simple house. “Did he work here?” he asked. “Wouldn’t he need a furnace to work with molten glass?”
“My brother had a workshop in East Los Angeles,” said Charles Niedland. “That’s where he actually executed his work.”
“Weren’t there any other sculptures here?” asked Jupe. “Did your brother keep none himself? Or were they at the workshop?”
“Edward had a small collection, of his own work and other artists’, which he kept here at the house. I removed the pieces to a safer place after he died. It was pure chance that the Carpathian Hound was here when the burglar broke in.”
Fenton Prentice sighed.
“You see,” Charles Niedland continued, “my brother’s gallery show ended several days ago. He had borrowed pieces for it from other patrons, too, and I have been returning them. Late yesterday afternoon I came here, intending to deliver the Carpathian Hound to Fenton and spend some time sorting out my brother’s books. I arrived just when Fenton was expecting you boys–he’d told me about you earlier in the day, when I called to make arrangements. So I left the Hound and went out for a bite to eat first. When I came back, I saw through the window that an intruder was in the house. I called the police immediately from a neighbour’s phone.”
“Really, Charles, you were a little careless,” said Mr Prentice with a trace of bitterness.
“Now, Fenton, let’s not quarrel,” answered Niedland. “Let’s just call it bad luck.”
“Did anyone else know the Hound was to be delivered yesterday?” asked Jupe.
Both men shook their heads.
“Was the Hound insured?” asked Bob.
“Yes, but what use is that when it can’t be replaced?” replied Prentice. “It’s . . . why, it’s like losing the Mona Lisa! You can’t be repaid for a thing like that.”
“I assume the police looked for fingerprints and that sort of thing?” said Jupe.
“They were here half the night dusting fingerprint powder around,” replied Niedland. “Apparently they found nothing conclusive. They are now checking their files of known criminals in case a specialist in art theft is involved.”
“I’m sure they’ll be very thorough,” said Jupiter. “I doubt that there is more we could do.”
Mr Prentice nodded, took his leave of Charles Niedland, and led the boys back through the alley and into the courtyard of his building. Mrs Bortz was there, picking a dead leaf off a plant. Mr Prentice ignored her and went upstairs with the boys trailing him.
Once they were in Prentice’s apartment, with the door locked, Jupiter produced his jar of ointment and explained his plan. “There are ceramic knobs on your desk drawers,” he told Mr Prentice. “They are perfect for our purpose. This chemical reacts with metal and might damage copper or brass, but it can’t hurt ceramics. We’ll coat the knobs with the ointment, then go out. If someone comes in here while we’re away and opens a desk drawer, he will get black stains on his hands.”
“The intruder seems able to come and go whether I am here or not,” said Prentice. “Also, he seems able to ignore solid walls and doors. Why should a drawer handle bother him?”
“Mr Prentice, we can at least try it,” said Jupe. “You told us that you once came home and found that your desk had been gone through.”
“Very well,” said Prentice. “I am willing to try anything. Anoint the drawer handles, and then let’s go and get something to eat.”
“Wonderful!” cried Pete. “I’m starved!”
Jupe applied his magic ointment to the knobs on Prentice’s desk drawers, using a paper towel to get the ointment out of the jar. Then he and Pete and Bob went out with Mr Prentice and walked slowly down the stairs, talking loudly of the place where they would eat. The courtyard was empty, but at the gate they encountered Mrs Bortz and the lank young man named Sonny Elmquist. Both were looking down towards the church.
An ambulance was at the church door.
“What happened?” asked Pete.
“It’s the caretaker at the church,” said Elmquist. “He’s been hurt! The pastor found him a little while ago up in the choir loft!”
5
The Guilty Stains
THE THREE INVESTIGATORS and Mr Prentice rushed next door to the church. Two men in white were just coming out with a stretcher. On it lay Earl, the caretaker, covered to the chin with a blanket.
Father McGovern came out together with the vocal Mrs O’Reilly.
“He’s killed!” the woman wailed. “Killed! Murdered! Dead!”
“Mrs O’Reilly, he’s not dead, thanks be to God!” The priest was pale. His hands shook as he locked the church door. “I should have come back here with him last night and helped him close up. It isn’t the first time he’s fallen, but to have him lie in the choir loft all night!”
The priest came down the steps. “It’s my fault for giving him his own way,” he said. “He turns out most of the lights when he can and goes groping about in the gloom. He thinks he’s saving money for the parish.”
“Precious little he’ll save on this piece of foolishness,” said Mrs O’Reilly. “And who’s to do his work while he’s idling away his time in the hospital?”
“Now, don’t you worry about that, Mrs O’Reilly,” said the priest. “Why don’t you go and . . . and make yourself a nice cup of tea?” He got into the back of the ambulance. The doors closed and the vehicle started away from the kerb.
“Cup of tea!” exclaimed Mrs O’Reilly. “A nice cup of tea, he says! What ails the man? Earl with a hole knocked in his head, murdered perhaps by that wandering spirit, and he talks of cups of tea!”
She brushed past Prentice and the Three Investigators and went muttering towards the parish house.
“Murdered by a wandering spirit?” said Bob.
“She likes to think there’s a ghost in the neighbourhood,” said Fenton Prentice. “She claims she’s seen one–the ghost of the former pastor. He’s been dead for three years. She claims he appears in the church and on the street.”
The boys and Mr Prentice walked on toward Wilshire Boulevard.
“Ah, Mr Prentice, do you suppose that this wandering spirit could be the same shadow that you see in your apartment?” asked Bob.
“Certainly not!” answered Mr Prentice. “I would recognize the ghost of the old pastor–if there is such a thing. So far, only Mrs O’Reilly has seen him. She insists that he walks about the church at night carrying a candle. Why he would be compelled to do that, I cannot imagine. He was a pleasant old man. I used to play chess with him. He wasn’t given to night-walking. In fact, he was usually in bed by ten.”
Mr Prentice and the boys turned the corner on to Wilshire Boulevard and walked a few blocks to a private club. Inside, brass doorknobs gleamed with the lustre of years of care, the tablecloths were starched, and the carnation in the vase on the centre of their table was unmistakably real. It was late for breakfast and early for lunch. Except for a waiter who hovered near the door to the kitchen, they had the dining room to themselves.
“Mr Prentice,” said Jupiter when they had been served, “your apartment building is rather large, but I haven’t seen many people there. There is Mrs Bortz . . .”
Mr Prentice made an unpleasant face.
“Mrs Bortz,” repeated Jupiter. “Also Sonny Elmquist. He seems to be home at odd hours.”
“He works from midnight to morning at the market on Vermont,” said Prentice. “Strange young person. There’s something pathetic about a grown man who is called Sonny. I understand that his real name is Cedric. He has the smallest apartment in the building. I don’t suppose he makes much money. There is also a young woman named Chalmers–Gwen Chalmers–who has the apartment next to Elmquist’s. You haven’t met her. She works as a buyer for a department store downtown. Mr Murphy is a stockbroker.”
“He’s the man who came up the steps last night after the police left,” said Bob.
“Yes. He has the corner apartment at the back of the building. You may see him later today. He goes into his office very early, because the stock market opens early in New York and we’re three hours behind the East Coast. He could be at home any time after noon. His nephew Harley Johnson, a college student, is with him at the moment. I understand Murphy is Harley’s guardian. Then there’s Alex Hassell, the cat man.”
“Cat man?” echoed Pete.