The Mystery of Sinister Scarecrow - M. V. Carey [20]
“I have references,” said Jupe eagerly. “Burroughs told me you check references.”
“Certainly we check references,” said the woman. “We wouldn’t stay in this business very long if the people we recommended weren’t reliable. In Burroughs’ case, for example, we wired to England to his previous employer. When Lord Armiston assured us by return cable that
Burroughs is capable and his wife
is an excellent cook, we placed
them right away.
“In
your
case,
however,
references won’t help. We simply
don’t have positions for young
boys.”
“I see,” said Jupiter.
“I’m surprised that Burroughs
would even suggest that you come
here,” said the woman.
“He didn’t exactly suggest it,”
admitted Jupe. “I thought of it
myself when he told me that you’d placed him.”
“That’s a little different, isn’t it?” said the woman. “Well, come back and see us in a few years. Perhaps then we’ll have something to talk about.”
Jupiter thanked her and went out, frowning furiously. Burroughs was a houseman who had once been employed by a British lord. It did not seem likely that he could be a scarecrow who put ants into people’s beds.
**
While Jupe was boarding the westbound bus, headed for Rocky Beach, Bob was busy farther east. He had ridden in with Jupe, and then had stayed on the bus until it stopped in front of the big, square building that housed the Graham Art Institute. Bob knew a little bit about the school, which had trained many really fine artists. He went up the broad front steps of the place and pulled open a heavy bronze door.
When he stepped through the door, Bob found himself in a long, wide hall that had doors opening off to either side. The odor in the air reminded him of the Mosby house. It was the smell of oil paints.
“You looking for something, buddy?” said a young man in blue jeans. He had come out of one of the rooms carrying a small stepladder.
“I’m … I’m looking for my cousin,” said Bob in a hesitant way. Then he frowned.
Jupiter would not have stammered or hesitated. Jupiter would have been firm and assured.
Bob took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “My cousin used to be a student here,” he said. “I don’t know his present address, and I thought that the school might have a record of his whereabouts.”
There! That sounded much better!
“Oh, sure!” said the young man. “They try to keep track of all the alumni. The administration offices are on the second floor in the front of the building. Ask anybody there.”
Bob thanked the young man, climbed the stairs at the end of the hall, and found the administration offices. They were a series of glass-enclosed cubicles, and they were empty except for a bearded man who was looking through a card file.
“Yes?” said the man when he saw Bob. “You wanted something?”
“My cousin used to be a student here,” said Bob. “His name is Gerhart Malz. I’m visiting in Los Angeles, and my mother told me to call him while I’m here, but I can’t find his name in the telephone book.”
“Malz?” said the man. “Why, sure. He was a student of mine, a long time ago.
He’s the curator now at the Mosby Museum.”
Bob allowed his face to remain blank, as if he had never heard of the Mosby Museum. The bearded man turned away from the card file. “The Mosby Museum is way out in the hills above Rocky Beach,” he said, “so don’t try to get there on your own. The museum’s listed in the telephone book. Call your cousin. I understand Gerry’s as proud of that museum as if he owned it. Let him come and get you and show you through the place. I hope you like old masters.”
“You mean pictures?” said Bob.
“Right. Pictures by artists like Rembrandt and Van Dyke and Vermeer. The Mosby house is full of them.”
“Oh,” said Bob. “Well … uh … I suppose that’ll be interesting. A curator’s a pretty important person, isn’t he? I mean … I guess my mother will be glad to know Gerry’s doing some important work.”
A rather bleak look came over the face of the bearded man. “Your