The Mystery of the Flaming Footprints - M. V. Carey [39]
“What about his clothes?”
“They are all brand new, so far as I can judge,” said Jupiter. “It is almost as if he were costumed for a part in a film. The clothes, incidentally, do not match the car he drives. That is old and somewhat battered. It is a tan Ford. Perhaps you might wish to wire to Sacramento to see how the car is registered. The man calls himself Farrier.”
“He may just do that because it’s his name,” said the chief. “Look, Jones, I know you think you’re the greatest thing since Sherlock Holmes, but I wish you’d knock off this business of snooping around where you’re not wanted. And I’ve got real problems. That Mrs Dobson seems to expect me to produce her missing father – if he is her father – by nightfall, if not sooner. With my overwhelming staff of eight men, I am to go out and scour the Pacific Coast Range and find a man who doesn’t want to be found. I am also expected to figure out how somebody got into a locked house and set the stairs on fire.”
“Have you had any report from the lab on the charred linoleum?” asked Jupiter.
“When I do, you may be the last to know,” said Chief Reynolds. “Now go away and let me have my headache in peace.”
“You don’t plan to wire Sacramento?” Jupiter persisted.
“No, I don’t. And if you go bothering that Farrier guy, I will personally have you declared a public nuisance.”
“Very well,” said Jupiter. He left the chief’s office and proceeded with all due speed to the Seabreeze Inn. He noted with satisfaction that the tan Ford was not in the parking area. Miss Hopper, he knew, was addicted to afternoon naps and might well be dozing peacefully in her own apartment. With the exception of a stray guest or two, that left only Marie the maid to be reckoned with.
The lobby of the Seabreeze Inn was deserted, and the door behind the desk was closed. Jupiter tiptoed around the desk. Miss Hopper was an extremely meticulous innkeeper, and Jupiter knew her very well. He found the spare key to room 113 where he knew it would be — in its properly numbered slot in the bottom drawer of Miss Hopper’s desk. Jupiter extracted the key without making a sound, put the key in his pocket, and strolled out on to the verandah. Marie was nowhere to be seen, and there were no guests lounging on the terrace which overlooked the beach.
Jupiter put his hands in his pockets and sauntered along the verandah. When he reached the door of room 113, he stopped and waited, listening. No one stirred anywhere in the inn.
“Mr. Farrier?” he called, knocking softly. Mr. Farrier did not answer.
With great care, Jupiter slid the key into the lock, opened the door, and stepped into the room.
“Mr. Farrier?” he said again softly.
But the room was empty — empty and tidy. Marie had had time to make up the bed and vacuum the carpet.
Jupiter eased the door shut and set to work. The dressing-table drawers were empty, and so were the desk drawers. Mr. Farrier had not troubled to unpack his handsome suitcases – except for several crisp and sporty jackets which hung in the wardrobe along with half a dozen spotless turtleneck shirts and several pairs of cleanly creased blue duck slacks. Jupiter felt the pockets of these garments, but they were empty.
Next, Jupe turned his attention to the suitcases. There were two. One stood open on a little bench at the foot of the bed. It contained about what one would expect a suitcase to contain – pyjamas, socks, a pair of sneakers which looked as if they had never been worn, underwear, and, wadded at the bottom of the bag, a few pieces of clothing in need of laundering.
The second suitcase stood on the floor next to the bench. It was closed, but when Jupe tried it he discovered that it was not locked. There were more clothes — all new, and bearing the labels of various Los Angeles men’s shops. One shirt still had