The Mystery of the Flaming Footprints - M. V. Carey [10]
“I was about to send the police after you,” she announced. “What happened?”
“The Potter wasn’t there,” Jupe told her. “His company came, though.”
“They did? Why didn’t you bring them back with you? Jupiter, I told you to invite them!”
Jupiter parked his bicycle next to the office. “They are not sure whether or not I am Jack the Ripper,” he told his aunt. “They have gone to the Seabreeze Inn. One of them is a lady named Dobson who says she is The Potter’s daughter, and the other is her son Tom.”
“The Potter’s daughter? Jupiter, that’s ridiculous. The Potter never had a daughter!”
“Are you sure?” asked Jupe.
“Well, of course. He never mentioned … he never … Jupiter, why should they think you’re Jack the Ripper?”
Jupiter explained, as briefly as he could, about the intruder in The Potter’s office.
“They think I broke into the house,” he finished.
“The very idea!” Aunt Mathilda bristled with indignation. “And look at your head.
Jupiter, go in the house this minute. I’ll get you an ice pack.”
“Aunt Mathilda, it’s all right, really.”
“It is not all right. In the house. Now! Go!”
Jupiter went.
Aunt Mathilda brought him an ice pack. Also a peanut-butter sandwich and a glass of milk. By dinner time she had decided that his bump on the head was no worse than any one of a hundred other bumps he had survived. She clattered through the dinner dishes, left Jupiter to dry and put away, and went to wash her hair.
Uncle Titus gratefully went to sleep in front of the television set, and when Jupiter tiptoed out of the house, his big moustache was vibrating softly to the rhythm of his snores.
Jupiter crossed the street and circled round to the back of the salvage, yard. The yard’s back fence was as fancifully decorated as the front fence. The painting depicted the great San Francisco fire of 1906, with terrified people fleeing from burning buildings. In the foreground of the scene, a little dog sat watching the excitement.
One of his eyes was a knot in the wooden board. Jupiter deftly picked the knot out of the board, reached through the hole to undo a catch, and three boards swung open.
This was Red Gate Rover. Inside, a sign with a black arrow pointed the way to
“Office.” Jupiter followed the direction of the arrow, crept under a pile of lumber, and came out into a corridor with junk piled high on every side. He made his way along the corridor until he came to several heavy planks which formed the roof of Door Four. He had only to get under these, crawl a few feet, and push on a panel—and he was in Headquarters.
Eight forty-five. He waited, reviewing the events of the day in his mind. At ten to nine Bob Andrews wriggled into the trailer. Pete Crenshaw put in his appearance promptly at nine.
“Do The Three Investigators have another client?” asked Pete brightly. He looked at the bruise on Jupe’s forehead. “Like you, maybe?”
“Possibly,” said Jupiter Jones. “Today The Potter disappeared.”
“I heard about that,” said Bob. “Your Aunt Mathilda sent Hans down to the market to pick up some stuff. He met my mother. Just walked away and left his truck here?”
Jupiter nodded. “That is exactly what he did. The truck is still parked beside the office. The Potter disappeared, and a number of other people appeared.”
“Such as that woman who checked into the Seabreeze Inn after you got bonked on the bean?” questioned Pete.
“Rocky Beach is indeed a small town,” murmured Jupiter.
“I met Officer Haines,” Pete explained. “She claims she’s The Potter’s daughter. If she is, that kid with her must be his grandson. Crazy! That Potter’s a funny old guy.
You’d sure never suspect he had a daughter.”
“He must have been young once,” said Jupiter. “But Mrs Dobson and her son are not the only newcomers in Rocky Beach. There are two men at Hilltop House.”
“Hilltop House?” Pete straightened up. “Has somebody moved into Hilltop House?
That place is a wreck!”
“Someone at least visited there today,” said Jupiter. “It was an interesting coincidence that they stopped at the salvage yard this morning to ask directions. The Potter