The Mystery of the Blazing Cliffs - M. V. Carey [42]
Now he was a rich and famous writer, and the only mysteries he solved these days were the ones he dreamed up for his books and movies. But he still took a professional interest in the detective business.
Mr. Sebastian had recently purchased a ramshackle old building which had formerly been a restaurant named Charlie’s Place. He was slowly converting it into a residence.
When the boys wheeled into the parking area outside the place, Mr. Sebastian was there, leaning on his cane and contentedly watching an electrician perched atop a ladder. The man was working on the neon tubing that ran around the eaves of the house.
“Hi, boys!” Mr. Sebastian grinned and nodded towards the man on the ladder. “I’m enjoying my new life of comfort and ease,” he said. “Once, I’d have been up on the ladder struggling with the wires myself. Today I get to supervise. Actually, I only get to watch.
That man is a master electrician, and he doesn’t take kindly to supervision.”
“Are you having the neon taken off the house, Mr. Sebastian?” asked Bob.
“No,” said Mr. Sebastian. “I’m getting it fixed so that it works properly. Then, if I’m expecting company for dinner, I can turn on my neon lights and my guests can find me.”
Bob looked startled, and Mr. Sebastian laughed. “I know,” he said. “Neon isn’t the usual thing to have on a house. But think how handy it will be on a dark night for somebody who doesn’t know the neighbourhood. Now come on. Let’s go inside. When you called this morning, I told Don you were coming. He’s been out in the kitchen rattling pans around. I don’t know exactly what he’s cooking, but the place smells terrific.”
The boys followed Mr. Sebastian up on to the rickety wooden porch of Charlie’s Place, then in through a lobby which was rich with the odours of baking. Beyond the lobby was a huge room which had once been the main dining room of the restaurant. The floors there were polished hardwood, and huge plate-glass windows looked out over trees to the ocean.
The room was almost bare of furniture, there was a low, glass-topped table with several patio chairs beside it. At the other end of the room, partially screened by a bank of tall bookshelves, sat a big desk and a typewriter table. Papers were scattered on the floor around the desk, and there was a sheet of paper in the typewriter.
Mr. Sebastian nodded towards the desk. “I’m having trouble settling down to work here,” he said. “I write a hundred words or so, and then I have to go roaming around my estate to make plans for the things I’m going to do here. Like the terrace.”
Pete looked around. “What terrace?” he said.
“I’m going to have a terrace right outside these windows,” said Mr. Sebastian. “I don’t understand why the people who owned Charlie’s Place didn’t think of it years ago. I’ll have a couple of the windows taken out and sliding glass doors put in, and I’ll have a concrete terrace running across the front of the building. I can sit out there in the afternoons with a cool drink, and maybe Don can learn to make cocktail snacks.”
Mr. Sebastian raised his voice then. “Oh, Don!” he cried. “They’re here!”
Almost immediately a smiling Oriental man appeared in the lobby. Hoang Van Don was Mr. Sebastian’s Vietnamese houseman, a refugee who was enthusiastically learning American ways. He had plainly gone to great trouble to prepare for the visit of the Three Investigators. He held a tray loaded with food.
“Here is best for good friends,” Don said. He set the tray down on the glass-topped table. “Grandma’s Graham Cookies,” he announced. “Brownies made with Friendly Farms Fudge Mix. Happy Daze Ice Cream and Uncle Hiram Root Beer with nature’s sparkle.”
“Amazing!” said Mr. Sebastian. “You’ve outdone yourself!”
Don’s grin became even wider, and he bowed himself out of the room. The others seated themselves around the table.
“I am trying to interest Don in a social club that