M. V. Carey
The Mystery of the Magic Circle
A Word from Alfred Hitchcock
Greetings, mystery lovers.
Again it is my privilege to introduce to you The Three Investigators, those young detectives whose specialty is mystery–and the more unusual, the better. In this adventure, the intrepid sleuths encounter a witch who hides from the world, performing secret rites and brooding on an accident that happened long ago. Or was it an accident? It may have been murder done in a magical fashion!
If you have not already met The Three Investigators, you will wish to know that Jupiter Jones, the leader of the group, is a stocky boy with an astonishing talent for deduction. Pete Crenshaw, the second investigator, is quick and athletic, while Bob Andrews, a studious fellow, uses his talent for research to help solve the problems the youths encounter. The boys live in Rocky Beach, California, not far from Hollywood.
So much for the formalities. You may now turn to Chapter One and proceed with the adventure.
ALFRED HITCHCOCK
1
Fire!
“EXACTLY WHAT are you boys up to?” demanded Horace Tremayne. He stood in the doorway of the mail room of Amigos Press and scowled at Jupiter Jones, Bob Andrews, and Pete Crenshaw.
“Up to?” said Pete. “We’re . . . we’re just sorting the mail.”
“Don’t give me that!” snapped Tremayne. His face, which was usually quite pleasant, looked threatening. “You’ve got some nerve, pretending to be mail clerks when you’re really private detectives!”
With that, Tremayne–the young man who was publisher at Amigos Press, and who was called Beefy by everyone on the staff–relaxed and began to chuckle. “You are private detectives, aren’t you?” he said.
“Hey,” said Pete, “you really scared me!”
Bob Andrews smiled. “The private detective business is slow this summer,” he said. “We thought we’d get some experience with office work.”
“How did you find out about us?” asked Jupiter Jones, his round faced filled with curiosity.
“Last night my uncle Will hired a limousine to take us to a premiere in Hollywood,” said Beefy Tremayne. “It was a gold-plated Rolls-Royce, driven by a British chauffeur named Worthington.”
“I see.” Jupe laughed, for Worthington was an old friend. Some time before, Jupe had entered a contest sponsored by the Rent-‘n-Ride Auto Rental Company and had won the use of the gold-plated Rolls for thirty days. Worthington had chauffeured the car for the boys, and had become fascinated with their detective work.
“Your names came up when Worthington started telling me about his regular clients,” Beefy explained. “When he heard that you three had summer jobs here, he said I was in for a lively time. He said that trouble just seems to happen when you’re around.”
“It doesn’t just seem to happen,” said Pete. “Jupe stirs it up!”
“Then we all help settle it,” put in Bob.
Jupiter took a card from his wallet and handed it to Beefy. It read:
THE THREE INVESTIGATORS
“We Investigate Anything”
? ? ?
First Investigator –
Second Investigator –
Records and Research –
JUPITER JONES
PETER CRENSHAW
BOB ANDREWS
“Very professional,” said Beefy. “What are the question marks for?”
The stocky First Investigator looked smug. People always asked about the question marks. “They’re the universal symbol of the unknown,” said Jupe. “The unknown is always intriguing.”
“Yes, it is,” agreed Beefy. “If I ever need a private detective firm, I might call you. Worthington says you’re very clever.”
“We’ve been able to solve a number of interesting cases,” said Jupe. “We think our success is due to the fact that we believe almost anything can happen.”
“You’re young enough not to be prejudiced, eh?” Beefy commented. “That could be a great help in an investigation. Too bad there’s nothing around here that needs investigating–besides why the coffee machine makes such lousy coffee!”
The boys heard footsteps outside the mail room. Beefy stepped back into the hall and looked towards the front of the building. “Uncle Will, what took you so long?” he called.
A second later, a tall, thin man with sandy hair and a small moustache appeared beside Beefy. He was Mr William Tremayne and, as usual, he looked very elegant. He wore beige slacks and a linen jacket the colour of cocoa. He glanced into the mail room but didn’t bother to speak to the boys.
“They didn’t have a spare car to lend me when I left the car at the garage,” he told his nephew. “I had to call a cab. It’s so tiresome. Nothing is really properly organized these days.”
“I suppose not,” said Beefy in his cheerful way. “Say, listen, Uncle Will, today’s the day Marvin Gray’s coming in with that manuscript. Do you want to see him about anything when he gets here?”
“Marvin Gray?” William Tremayne looked both bored and puzzled.
“Oh, come on, Uncle Will, you remember him,” said Beefy. “He’s Madeline Bainbridge’s business manager. He negotiated the contract for her book.”
“Ah, yes,” said William Tremayne. “The chauffeur.”
“He used to be her chauffeur.” Beefy sounded irritated, but he took a deep breath and kept his voice level. “He’s Bainbridge’s business manager now, and that manuscript he’s bringing could be terrific. Madeline Bainbridge knew everybody who was anybody in Hollywood when she was a star. Just wait till the news gets out that we’re going to publish her memoirs!”
“I’m sure it will cause a sensation,” said Will Tremayne disdainfully. “I do not understand this fascination with has-been actresses, but there is no reason why we shouldn’t make money on it.”
“Bainbridge isn’t a has-been,” said Beefy.
“Then what is she?” demanded his Uncle. “She hasn’t made a picture for thirty years.”
“She’s a legend,” Beefy declared.
“Is there a difference?” asked William Tremayne. He turned away without waiting for an answer. A moment later the boys heard him on the stairs that led up to the first floor, where he had his office. Beefy stood looking unhappy, as he often did after an exchange with his uncle.
“Have you actually met Madeline Bainbridge?” Jupe asked.
Beefy blinked. “You know about her?”
“I’m a student of films and the theatre,” Jupe explained. “I’ve read about her. She was beautiful, and supposedly also a fine actress. Of course, it’s hard to judge today, when her films are never on release or on television.”
“I haven’t actually met her,” said Beefy. “She’s a recluse. She doesn’t see anyone. She does everything through Marvin Gray. He seems a very competent business manager, even if he did start out as a chauffeur. Bainbridge bought the negatives of her films from the producers when she retired, and they’re in storage in a special vault on her estate near Malibu. Marvin Gray hinted that she may sell them to television soon. If she does, her book could be the bestseller of the year.”
Beefy grinned at the thought, and left the mail room. The boys heard him start up the stairs and stumble. He recovered and climbed to the first floor, whistling cheerfully.
“He’s a nice guy,” said Pete, “but he’s got no co-ordination.”
No one argued with this. The boys had been working in the offices of Amigos Press for three weeks, and they knew that Beefy Tremayne tripped on the stairs every morning. He was as broad shouldered and muscular as any athlete, but he gave the impression of being made of slightly mismatched parts. His legs were just a bit too short to go with his barrel chest. His feet were slightly too small, and so was his nose, which he had fallen on and broken at some time in his life, so that now it was flattened and slightly crooked. His fair hair was cropped close, yet it managed to seem untidy. And although his clothes were always fresh and starched, they were also always somewhat rumpled. He was homely, and yet very pleasant looking. The boys liked him.
Pete and Bob began sorting the mail into neat stacks on the long table that ran along one side of the room. Jupe was just opening a big canvas sack stuffed with letters when a withered-looking grey-haired man came bustling in.
“Good morning, Mr Grear,” said Jupiter. “Morning, Jupe,” he replied. “Morning, Bob. Pete.”
Mr Grear, who was the office manager, went into the small room that adjoined the mail room and sat down at his desk. “Have you seen Mr William Tremayne this morning?” he asked.
“He went upstairs a few minutes ago,” said Jupe.
“I have to see him,” said Mr Grear. He sighed. Mr Grear was not fond of William Tremayne.
Indeed, no one on the staff seemed to care for him. William Tremayne was regarded as a usurper. Amigos Press had been founded by Beefy’s father, and Beefy was heir to it. A tragic boating accident had made Beefy an orphan when he was nineteen, but according to the terms of the will left by Beefy’s father, William Tremayne was president of Amigos Press and would control the business until Beefy was thirty.