The Mystery of the Singing Serpent - M. V. Carey [5]
The Investigators made their headquarters in a thirty-foot mobile home trailer which was hidden away behind piles of junk, not far from the workshop. Uncle Titus had given the trailer to the boys when he found it was too damaged to sell. They had since fixed it up to suit themselves.
Inside headquarters was a compact laboratory for analyzing physical evidence, and a photographic darkroom. There was an office for meetings, and a telephone which the boys paid for themselves out of money they earned helping in the salvage yard. And there were files in the trailer — files meticulously prepared by Bob — complete reports on the many cases the Investigators had undertaken.
“It hasn’t been dull,” said Pete at last.
“It has not,” agreed Jupiter Jones. He looked at the business card in his hand, with its three question marks. “The universal symbol of the unknown,” he said. “The question mark is always intriguing. Mystery is always intriguing. I wonder, for example, about Marie.”
“The Jamison maid?” questioned Pete.
“Yes. What did she hear in that house that frightened her? Was it something really strange, or did she let her imagination get the best of her? She said that Miss Osborne is peculiar, but she never explained why she thought so.”
“Miss Osborne puts cobwebs on cuts,” said Pete.
Jupiter suddenly held up a warning hand. There was a rustle beyond the heap of junk that separated the workshop area from the rest of the yard.
Pete strode quickly out of the workshop. An instant later, Jupe heard him exclaim mildly, “I thought I smelled a horse.”
Allie Jamison stamped into the workshop area with Pete trailing her. “Very funny!” she said.
“How long have you been standing out there eavesdropping?” asked Jupe.
“Long enough,” said the girl. Without waiting for an invitation, she sat down in an old chair near the press.
“Long enough for what?” said Jupe evenly.
The girl took a card from the stack on the printing press and looked at it. “My allowance will not stretch to cover a Pinkerton detective,” she said. “What are your rates?”
“You want to retain The Three Investigators?” asked Jupe.
“Beginning right now.”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to know more about what’s involved before we decide whether or not we’re interested,” said Jupiter Jones.
“You’re interested, all right,” Allie shot back. “I’ve been listening to you two, and I know you’re interested. You’re dying to know what happened at our place the night Marie ran away. Besides, you don’t have any choice.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Pete.
“You guys are getting careless,” said Allie. “On the back fence of this place there’s a painting of the San Francisco fire of 1905.”
“It occurred in 1906,” Jupiter informed her.
“Who cares? The important thing is that there’s a little dog in that picture. I’ve been watching that fence. When you poke your finger through the knothole in the dog’s eye, you can open a gate in the fence. You’ve got a secret entrance to this place. Does your aunt know?”
“Blackmail!” cried Pete.
“It is not blackmail,” declared the girl. “I don’t want money. I’ll pay you. What I want is help, and I hear you’re the best talent in town — not that that’s saying heaps.”
“Thanks a lot!” said Pete.
“You’re welcome. Now, do you help me, or do I go and see your aunt?”
Jupiter sat down on an empty crate. “Exactly what do you have in mind?”
“I want to get that creep Hugo Ariel out of the house,” said Allie quickly.
“Ariel? Isn’t he the man who arrived the day you fell off the horse? A pale man dressed in black?”
“That’s the one. The reason he’s pale is that he never goes out in the daytime. His father must have been a mole.”
“He arrived at your house the morning you fell. That night, Marie ran away.” Jupiter pulled at his lower lip. “She did hear something strange,” he suggested. “It wasn’t her imagination.”
“It sure wasn’t.” Allie Jamison suddenly seemed less confident. She was folding the business card in her hand,