The Mystery of the Flaming Footprints - M. V. Carey [21]
“Jupiter!” Aunt Mathilda’s voice carried clearly through the air vent in the top of the trailer. “Jupiter Jones! Where are you?”
“Just in time!” said Jupe. The boys hurried out as fast as they could through Tunnel Two, brushed off their knees, and emerged from Jupiter’s outdoor workshop.
“I declare to Betsy!” exclaimed Aunt Mathilda, who stood near the office of the salvage yard. “I don’t know what you boys do, pottering in that workshop all the time.
Jupiter, supper’s ready.”
“Aunt Mathilda,” said Jupe, “can Pete and Bob stay and …”
“Yes, they can stay and eat with us,” said Aunt Mathilda. “We’re only having pancakes and sausages, but there’s plenty for everyone.”
Pete and Bob thanked her and accepted the invitation.
“Call your folks,” ordered Aunt Mathilda. “You can use the phone in the office.
And lock up after yourselves. Five minutes, and I want you boys ready to eat.”
She crossed the street to the house.
“Do you suppose she’s a mind reader?” said Pete.
“I hope not,” declared Jupiter fervently.
Five minutes later the boys were at the table in the Jones’s dining room, devouring pancakes and sizzling sausages, and listening to Uncle Titus tell of the old days, when Rocky Beach was only a wide spot in the road.
After supper, the boys leaped to help Aunt Mathilda clear away and do the dishes.
When they had finished, and the sink was scoured to perfection, they made for the door.
“Where to now?” demanded Aunt Mathilda.
“We aren’t quite finished with our job,” Jupe explained.
“Well, don’t be too late,” warned Aunt Mathilda. “And don’t leave the light on in the workshop. And remember to lock the gate again.”
Jupiter promised that they would obey all instructions, and they escaped across the street, where Pete collected his bicycle.
“How will Tom Dobson know it’s me?” Pete asked.
“Just tell him,” Jupiter advised. “He has one of our cards.”
“Okay.” Pete wheeled out of the yard and started for the highway.
“Now to check on that Mr. Demetrieff who rented Hilltop House,” Jupiter decided. “I think Worthington could help us there.”
Some time before, Jupiter Jones had won a prize in a contest sponsored by the Rent-’n-Ride Auto Rental Company. The prize had been the use of a gold-plated Rolls-Royce and a chauffeur for thirty days. Worthington, the very proper English chauffeur who had driven Jupiter and his friends in the course of many of their investigations, had become a rather enthusiastic amateur sleuth himself, and always took an interest in the boys’ cases.
Bob looked at his wristwatch. It was well past seven. “We can’t ask Worthington to come out here this late,” he said. “Not on a Sunday night.”
“It won’t be necessary to ask him to come here,” said Jupiter. “Worthington lives in the Wilshire district. Unless he’s terribly occupied with something, he could go and look at that address in Wilshire. Perhaps that would give us some clue to Mr.
Demetrieff.”
Bob agreed that this was worth a try, and the two boys crawled through Tunnel Two and back into Headquarters, where Jupiter consulted his little telephone list and called Worthington’s number.
“Master Jupiter?” Worthington sounded very pleased to hear Jupe’s voice on the telephone. “How are you, sir?”
Jupiter assured Worthington that he was very well.
“I am afraid that the Rolls-Royce isn’t available tonight,” said Worthington ruefully. “There is a big party in Beverly Hills. Perkins took the car over.”
“We didn’t want the car tonight, Worthington,” said Jupe. “I was only wondering if you would have time to do a small favour for The Three Investigators.”
“I was busily engaged,” said Worthington. “I was playing solitaire — and losing.
The interruption is most welcome. What can I do for you?”
“We are attempting to get information on a Mr. Ilyan Demetrieff,” Jupiter told him. He spelled the name for Worthington. “Possibly, it is Demetrioff, with an ‘o,’ ”
he told the chauffeur. “We are not positive. However, he has given his address as 2901
Wilshire Boulevard. We would like to know if Mr. Demetrieff has, in