The basket was heaped with paper money when it reached Pete. He put a dollar on top of the pile and passed it along. And then someone called out from the top of the driveway, and the basket was whisked out of sight.
There was a shuffle and a rush, and Ernie and two other men were suddenly seated in front of the audience with guitars and an accordion. Ernie struck a chord on his guitar. The accordionist began to play and the blonde young woman sang softly.
The audience joined in a melody that was sweet and simple, like a country song sung by children.
Pete heard the roar of a motorcycle. He turned as a uniformed highway patrolman sped up the drive.
The singers wavered and the song died.
The highway patrolman left his motorcycle and went to clear the area near the lectern. “Sorry to interrupt you folks,” he said. “Who’s in charge here?”
“I am.” Ernie stood up. “What’s the matter? We have permission from Mr. Sanderson to rehearse here.”
“Sanderson?” The highway patrolman looked towards the motel office. “He the guy who owns this place?”
“That’s right. We rented the community room from him. Want to see the receipt?
“No. I believe you. But this isn’t the community room, and didn’t Sanderson–or somebody–tell you the motel is unsafe? Why do you suppose it’s closed? The ground is unstable after all the rain, and the hill can slide any minute. What are you doing here, anyway? Who are all these people?”
Ernie’s smile was beautifully innocent. “We’re the Sunset Hills Music Federation,” he said. “We’re practising for the Country Music Jamboree at the Coliseum on the twenty-seventh.”
The officer stared at the audience. “All of you?” he said. “You’re all rehearsing for this . . . this jamboree?”
“The Country Music Jamboree is for large amateur groups,” said Ernie patiently, “and yes, Mr. Sanderson did say the hill was unstable. But it was too late to cancel the rehearsal, and some people here come from as far away as Laguna, so we decided to practise out here in the open. It’s safer. Even if the motel goes, nobody will get hurt, huh?”
“Don’t count on it,” said the highway patrolman. He raised his voice. “Sorry, folks, but I’ve got to ask you all to leave just as quickly as you can. Don’t panic, but there is some risk, so don’t delay. Come on now. Move out, please. Never mind about the chairs. Just leave them and go.”
The crowd began to stream out, quietly and in good order. As Pete started down the hill, he heard Ernie saying to the officer, “Well, okay, but give me a chance to pack my guitar, will you?”
Pete shook his head in amazement. He could only think, wait till Jupe hears about this!
8
New Leads
“I DON’T KNOW WHAT they were up to,” said Pete, “but I’ll bet my entire allowance for April that it had nothing to do with folk singing.”
It was the next morning, and Pete sat on the floor of Headquarters. He scowled fiercely at nothing in particular.
“I won’t take your bet,” said Jupe. He had the entertainment section of the Los Angeles Times open on the desk in front of him. “There’s a livestock show at the Coliseum on the twenty-seventh.”
Bob sat on a stool near the curtain that separated the office in the trailer from Jupe’s crime laboratory. He had been discouraged when he returned from Santa Monica the day before, for he had been able to learn nothing more about the blind man. Now, having heard Pete’s story, his spirits were high. He held a world atlas on his lap, and was slowly turning the pages.
“The flag they used at that rehearsal or rally or whatever it was–it isn’t the Mexican flag,” he reported. “The flag of Mexico is red and white and green. And it isn’t the Spanish flag, and it doesn’t belong to any of the Central American countries.”
“Maybe it isn’t the flag of a country at all,” said Jupe. “Maybe it’s the banner of some organization.”
But then Bob said “Aha!” loudly, and Jupe sat up straight.
Bob studied a page in the atlas for a moment, and then looked up. “Mesa d’Oro,” he said. “It’s a small South American country. There are two flags shown next to the map. One is green with a state seal in the centre and one is blue with a cluster of gold oak leaves. The green one is the official flag of the country; the blue one is the flag of something the atlas calls the Old Republic. There’s a note that the blue flag is still used in some remote provinces and by some conservative groups on special holidays.”
Bob looked down at the atlas again. “Mesa d’Oro has seaports on the Pacific,” he told his friends. “It exports coffee and wool. Barley is grown in the uplands south of the capital, which is a port named Cabo de Razon. Population is three and a half million.”
“That’s it?” said Pete.
“An atlas doesn’t give a lot of information,” said Bob. “Just maps and population and stuff like that.”
“Very curious!” said Jupiter. “A rally of some sort at which money is collected–possibly money for a small South American country. The leaders of the meeting are furtive; they lie to the highway patrolman when he appears. A huge photograph of the blind beggar is displayed, and the man who is leading the meeting is the same one who reacted with alarm–or at least with strong emotion–when Mrs. Denicola told of a dream in which a blind man appeared and picked up a wallet.
“What were those people really doing last night? Did they have anything to do with the robbery or do we have a separate puzzle here? Certainly they didn’t want the police to know the purpose of their gathering.”
“They couldn’t have been planning any crime,” said Bob. “That would be ridiculous. Not with so many people, and not without any security. Pete just walked in and sat down and was accepted.”
Jupe frowned and pulled at his lip–a sure sign that he was trying hard to find the answer to a question.
“Maybe the man whose picture I saw last night isn’t the same man Bob saw outside the bank,” said Pete. “Maybe it’s a different blind man.”
“That would be too much of a coincidence,” said Jupe quickly. “There is the scar, and there is the fact that Mr. Sebastian must have dropped his wallet near Denicola’s pier, and the fact that Ernie recognized the description of the blind man when Mrs. Denicola told about her dream. It must be the same man. But what does he have to do with a country called Mesa d’Oro? And does he have anything at all to do with a bank robbery in Santa Monica?”
“Maybe Ernie is a foreign agent and the blind man is his contact,” Pete said. “If Ernie is really a spy, he wouldn’t want the highway patrol to know, so he’d pretend to be something else–like a folk singer.”
“You watch television too much,” said Bob. “In real life, people don’t act like that.”
“I think that in real life people behave in ways that are even more fantastic,” said Jupe. “But we don’t know enough yet about Ernie–or anyone–to understand what’s going on in this case. Fortunately, Pete’s adventure last night gives us some new leads to investigate. Mesa d’Oro, for one. We’ve got to keep digging until we find something that will clear Mr. Bonestell.”
Bob said, “I’m due at my job at the library at ten. I’ll look up Mesa d’Oro there and see what I can find out.”
“Jupiter!” It was Aunt Mathilda calling from somewhere in the salvage yard. “Jupiter Jones, where are you?”
Pete grinned. “Aunt Mathilda sounds as if she really means it,” he said. “She wants you–on the double!”
Bob opened a trapdoor in the floor of the trailer, and a moment later the boys had lowered themselves through it. Beneath the old mobile home was the end of a large corrugated iron pipe which was padded inside with pieces of discarded carpeting. This was Tunnel Two. It ran through heaps of neglected lumber and other junk to Jupe’s outdoor workshop. It was only one of several hidden passageways that the boys had rigged up so that they could go in and out of Headquarters without being seen by Aunt Mathilda or Uncle Titus.
It took the Three Investigators only moments to crawl the length of Tunnel Two, push aside an iron grating that covered the exit from the pipe into the workshop, and emerge into the open.
“Jupiter Jones!” Aunt Mathilda was very close now.
Jupe hastily pulled the grating over the pipe.
“There you are!” said Aunt Mathilda. She had appeared at the entrance to the workshop. “Why didn’t you answer when I called? Hans needs you. He has to make a delivery. You go along, too, Pete, as long as you’re here. There’s some furniture–you know those tables and benches that your Uncle Titus painted blue and red and green and yellow? What gets into that man sometimes I can’t imagine. But a woman was in yesterday and bought the lot of them. She’s opening a nursery school in Santa Monica, on Dalton Avenue. Thank heaven for nursery schools, or we’d have that furniture forever. Bob, where are you going?”