The Mystery of the Singing Serpent - M. V. Carey [36]
Shards of green glass lay there undisturbed.
Pete scanned his side of the street. A television repair shop shared the block with another food store. Gleaming chrome letters on the wall of the delicatessen proclaimed that H. Hendricks supplied gourmet foods. Inside the shop, a large man with dark, curly hair scooped potato salad into a carton, while a plump lady consulted her shopping list. The white formica counter was spotless and uncluttered. There was no other food store in sight.
Satisfied that he had located Noxworth’s competition, Pete waited until the plump lady left the store. Then he went in.
“Mr. Hendricks?” said Pete.
“Yes?” said the man behind the counter.
“You are Mr. Hendricks?” asked Pete. “I mean, you own this store, don’t you?”
The man looked Pete over. Pete saw that he had more than his fair share of muscles.
There was no trace of gray in his dark hair, and the brown eyes were steady and clear. In short, Mr. Hendricks looked well able to take care of himself.
“You need a job, son?” he asked. “I hired a boy to deliver for me last week, but if —”
“I don’t need a job,” said Pete. “I only need to be sure you own this shop.”
“You fussy about who sells you your pickles? Okay, I’m Hendricks and I own this place.
Now what’s on your mind?”
“I came to warn you, Mr. Hendricks. I know this is going to sound crazy, but something bad will happen to you. I don’t know exactly what, but it’ll be bad.”
Pete put one of the cards of The Three Investigators on the counter and wrote the private number of Headquarters on it. After a moment’s thought, he added the number of The Jones Salvage Yard.
“If you should see a snake —” began Pete.
“I’ll call the zoo,” said Hendricks.
“I don’t mean that kind of snake,” protested Pete. “It won’t be a live snake. It might be a statue of a snake, or a pin or something like that. It will be a cobra. If someone delivers a cobra to you, call either of these numbers. If one doesn’t answer, the other will.”
Hendricks did not touch the card. He looked as if he were waiting for the punch line to a joke.
“We think we can help you,” Pete said quickly. “It’s very serious. Someone’s out to get you. When you see the snake, you’ll know that something bad is going to happen. Now if you’ll cooperate with us, we can —”
“Beat it,” said Hendricks.
“Mr. Hendricks, we want to help.”
“I said beat it!” The brown eyes had gone hard.
“Maybe when you see the snake, you’ll change your mind,” said Pete.
Hendricks started around the counter and Pete fled to the door. “Call any time,” he said.
“Scram!” shouted Hendricks.
Pete scrammed. On the bus ride back to Rocky Beach he decided, unhappily, that he had not been at all successful in delivering the warning. He felt that Jupiter Jones might have done a better job. Jupe could be very convincing.
It was afternoon when Pete reached The Jones Salvage Yard. Bob and Jupe were there.
Bob was looking on as Jupe hosed down a sundial which Uncle Titus Jones had recently acquired.
“Noxworth’s competition is a man named Hendricks,” said Pete. “He is one heck of a tough guy.”
“Did you warn him?” asked Bob.
“I warned him, and I left our card and the telephone number of the yard and the telephone number of Headquarters. He chased me out of his store.”
“He didn’t believe you.” Jupiter turned off the hose. “We expected that. But if he does receive a snake object, he may call.”
“I don’t think we should wait for that call,” said Bob. “We should go to the police now.
How can we protect a man who won’t listen to us?”
Jupiter turned toward the gate of the salvage yard. A patrol car was pulling in, and Chief Reynolds was at the wheel. “It looks,” said Jupe, “as if the police have come to us.”
The head of the Rocky Beach Police Department stopped his car and got out. He approached