The Mystery of the Invisible Dog - M. V. Carey [12]
Footsteps sounded on the flagstone stairs and the front gate opened. A grey cat scampered into the court, followed by a tawny-haired man in a white sweater and a camel-coloured jacket. He looked at the boys without interest as he crossed the court to a door at the rear. The cat ran after him but was left outside when the man went into his apartment. In a few seconds he was back with a plate of food, which he put down on the flagstones. He stayed, crouching, while the cat devoured the food.
“Hassell,” whispered Bob. “He was leaving when we arrived last night.”
“He must have found a new stray,” decided Pete. “One who doesn’t know that five o’clock is dinner-time.”
The cat finished eating and padded away. Hassell took the empty dish into his apartment.
There were more footsteps on the front stairs and again the gate opened. The robust, middle-aged man named Murphy came in. He was smoking a cigarette. He nodded to the boys, smiled, and made for his apartment, which was next to Hassell’s. Before he reached it, the door opened. A youth who appeared to be in his late teens stood in the doorway scowling.
“Uncle John, can’t you go ten seconds without a cigarette?” the boy demanded.
“Harley, don’t nag. I’ve had a rough day. Where’s my ashtray?”
“I washed it and put it out by the pool. The whole place stank with smoke.”
Murphy turned and strode back to a table near the boys. He threw himself down in a chair, flicked some ashes into a big, bowl-shaped ashtray on the table, and continued to smoke his cigarette.
“I hope you kids don’t give your folks a hard time like that,” he said to the boys.
“My parents don’t smoke,” said Pete.
Murphy grunted. “I probably shouldn’t either,” he confessed. “Well, at least I’m careful. Don’t burn holes in things. I’ve got another ashtray like this at my office. Even if I forget a cigarette and let it burn down, it can’t fall out.”
He carefully stubbed out his butt, got up, and carried the ashtray to his apartment.
When Murphy had gone, Pete looked across the pool to the apartment occupied by Sonny Elmquist. “I wonder if Elmquist is home,” he said. “The curtains are drawn.
Suppose we rang the doorbell and—”
“Wait!” Jupiter Jones sat up straight.
Mrs. Bortz had come into the courtyard. She was rubbing at her hands with a bit of tissue. “Children are not allowed in the pool area without an adult in attendance,” she scolded.
Jupiter did not bother to answer. He merely stood up and went to her.
“Mrs. Bortz, may I see your hands?” he asked.
“What?”
“Your hands, Mrs. Bortz!” Jupe’s voice was louder now.
A door opened above and Mr. Prentice came out on to the balcony.
“There are black marks on your hands!” said Jupiter.
Fenton Prentice started down the stairs.
“Why … why, yes,” said Mrs. Bortz. “I must have gotten into something in the kitchen.”
“You have been in Mr. Prentice’s apartment,” said Jupiter sternly. “You have opened his desk and looked at his mail and even opened his medicine cabinet.
“You are the spy!”
Chapter 6
The Mystery of the Mandala
For once in her life Mrs. Bortz was at a loss for words. She stood gaping at Jupiter, her face growing redder and redder.
“It’s no use rubbing your hands,” said Jupe. “The stains won’t come off.”
Mr. Prentice appeared behind the boys and said, “I’d like a word with you, Mrs.
Bortz.”
The sound of his voice seemed to bring the manager back to her senses. She turned to Prentice and screeched, “Do you know what these horrid boys called me?”
“Yes, and they’re quite right!” answered Prentice. “However, this need not become the concern of everyone in the building.” He took a step towards the manager’s apartment. “We’ll discuss this in private.”
“I … I’m busy,” said the woman. “I … I have a great deal to do, as you know.”
“Of course you do, Mrs. Bortz,” said Mr. Prentice.