The Mystery of Sinister Scarecrow - M. V. Carey [19]
years before. In addition to
his
degrees
and
his
expedition, the book jackets
noted that Charles Woolley
was unmarried, and that he
was an assistant professor at
U.C.L.A.
Pete carried the books
back to the reference desk.
“Find
out
what
you
needed to know?” said the girl
who had helped him.
“I sure did,” said Pete,
bravely.
“I’ll bet,” said the girl. “I took one of Dr. Woolley’s courses once, and what he doesn’t know about ants isn’t worth knowing. I thought it was going to be an easy way to get three credits in science. Was I ever wrong! The human bug really put us through the wringer.”
“The human bug?” Pete echoed. “Is that what his students call him?”
She laughed and then suddenly looked serious “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.
Is he a friend of yours?”
“Not exactly,” said Pete. “I met him a while ago up in the mountains. The Santa Monica Mountains, I mean. He’s doing some research there. And he does look kind of like a bug!”
“Right,” said the girl. “Also he doesn’t mix with people if he can help it. Only ants.
I’m surprised he even talked to you.”
“He told me a little about his work,” said Pete, launching into his cover story. “I thought it sounded interesting, and I had to do a biology project this summer, so I decided to study army ants. Did you know there are army ants right here in California?”
“I think I did know,” said the girl. “Makes it nice for Dr. Woolley, doesn’t it? He doesn’t have to keep running off to Panama.”
Pete waited for a moment to see if the girl would have anything further to say about Charles Woolley. She didn’t. She put the books he had given her on a shelf and went back to a notebook she was studying.
Pete wandered out into the sunlight with his own notes in his pocket. He was pleased with his performance, but at the same time he felt oddly let down. He had discovered nothing new about Charles Woolley, except that the man was certainly no impostor. He was Dr. Woolley, an assistant professor at U.C.L.A. He had indeed written two books about army ants and had his picture on the jackets to prove it.
**
While Pete considered this, Jupiter Jones was hurrying down Doheny Drive in Beverly Hills. He had called Letitia Radford that morning and had asked her which employment agency Mrs. Chumley used when she engaged new help.
“The Barker-Phillips Agency, I guess,” Letitia had answered. “They’re pretty reliable and my mother liked them. I imagine Mrs. Chumley calls them when she wants someone. Shall I ask her?”
“Please don’t,” said Jupiter. “Don’t say anything to her about this inquiry.”
Jupe had then dressed himself in his best slacks and jacket and taken the bus into Beverly Hills.
The Barker-Phillips Agency did business in a tastefully furnished pair of rooms on the second floor of a small business building on Doheny. In the outer office sat a woman with blue-white hair and fine pink skin.
“Yes?” she said, when Jupiter came in.
“My name is Jupiter Jones,” said Jupe. “I’m looking for work, and …”
“Oh, dear!” said the woman.
“Yes, I know that I’m young,” said Jupe quickly. “However, I am intelligent and I am willing to work hard. I could be very useful in a large household. I can clean things and repair things, and if there’s a dog to be walked …”
The woman laughed. “It’s nice to find so much talent in a boy your age,” she said.
“However, people who have large households usually hire adult servants. Why don’t
you get a newspaper route? Or apply at one of the markets and see if there’s an opening for a box boy.”
Jupiter allowed his face to take on a look of great woe. “I had hoped to do better,”
he said. “Burroughs told me you’re very good.”
“Burroughs?” said the woman.
“The houseman at the Radford estate,” said Jupe.
The woman swung around in her chair, opened the drawer of a filing cabinet, and took out a folder.