The Mystery of the Rogues' Reunion - Marc Brandel [3]
Yours sincerely. First Investigator, Jupiter Jones, Jupe wrote proudly on a blank page of the autograph book.
“No. Your real name,” his dim-witted classmate told him, tearing the page out of the book. “The name you’re famous for. Baby Fatso.”
It had gone on like that for the last three weeks of the school year. Every student at school seemed to have nothing to talk about except the last installment of The Wee Rogues. Boys and girls Jupe didn’t even know by sight would come up to him in the schoolyard and tell him how funny he was. They would beg him to lisp and chuckle like Baby Fatso. “Say ‘Pleath thtop,’ pleath,” they would plead with him. Jupe’s life had become a nightmare.
Things were a little better now that the summer vacation had begun. Jupe could hide from his fans in the Investigators’ secret Headquarters in the salvage yard. It was a mobile home that had been buried from view under piles of junk. The trailer now boasted a tiny television set. And that set had become the bane of Jupe’s existence. Pete and Bob insisted on watching the repeats of The Wee Rogues whenever they could. His pals really liked the old series.
Bob and Pete were still smiling and laughing as they watched the television screen now. Bonehead, the skinny kid with the short blond hair, had finished decorating Baby Fatso’s face with red spots and was trying to take off his shirt to paint spots on his chest, too. The kitchen door on the screen burst open. A dark-haired little girl of about nine stormed in. This was Pretty Peggy, the heroine of the series and Baby Fatso’s faithful champion and rescuer.
“Let him go,” Pretty Peggy told Bonehead.
“Yeth, pleath thtop,” Baby Fatso chimed in.
Bonehead had no intention of stopping. He tried to lock Pretty Peggy in the closet. Flapjack, the small, sturdy black boy with the porcupine-quill hair, took Peggy’s side. In a moment all the Wee Rogues were fighting among themselves. One of them discovered a layer cake on a shelf and threw it at Peggy. It missed her and hit Baby Fatso in the face.
“Oh, yeth,” Baby Fatso gurgled, scooping the whipped cream off his nose and stuffing it into his mouth. “That’th much nither than meathles.’’
“JUPITER. Where are you?”
It was Aunt Mathilda’s voice over the loudspeaker. Jupe had rigged up a microphone in the yard so he could hear her calling him when he was in Headquarters. Usually when she called him it meant one thing — work. She had a job for him to do. Jupe didn’t really mind working around the salvage yard. It helped pay for the boys’ private phone in Headquarters. But Jupe didn’t exactly enjoy it either. Even now he was more inclined to use his mind than his body.
But today Aunt Mathilda’s call was like a reprieve. He jumped up from behind his desk and turned off the television set with a groan of relief. Baby Fatso’s gooey face vanished from the screen.
A minute later the Three Investigators had left their carefully-concealed Headquarters
by the exit known as Secret Four. Walking around a pile of lumber, they approached Aunt Mathilda from behind.
“So there you are,” she said.
Jupe started to take off his jacket. “What’s the job?” he asked.
But for once Aunt Mathilda had not called the boys to put them to work. There was a man at the gate who wanted to talk to Jupe.
Jupe groaned again, but not with relief. A lot of people had come to the salvage yard these last few weeks wanting to talk to him. They were newspaper reporters from Los Angeles and even as far away as San Francisco who had tracked him down through the studio and wanted to write feature stories about him. Stories that were going to be head-lined: WHERE IS HE NOW? or WHATEVER HAPPENED TO BABY FATSO?
“Tell him to go away,” Jupe begged Aunt Mathilda. “Tell him I don’t want to talk to him.”
“I did tell him that, Jupe. But he won’t go away. He says it’s important.” Aunt Mathilda smiled sympathetically. She knew how Jupe felt. She had been busy for weeks now trying to protect him from reporters as well as from dozens of people who