The Secret of the Haunted Mirror

  THE SECRET OF

  THE HAUNTED MIRROR

  M. V. Carey

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  A word from Alfred Hitchcock

  For those of you who already know The Three Investigators, this introduction is quite unnecessary. You may turn immediately to Chapter One and proceed with the adventure.

  If you have not yet encountered Jupiter Jones, Pete Crenshaw, and Bob Andrews, however, I shall be pleased to provide some information about them and their detective firm.

  These three remarkable young chaps reside in Rocky Beach, California, a small community near Hollywood. Jupiter Jones, the stout and brainy lad who is First Investigator and leader of the trio, has a mind that is maddeningly efficient and a manner that is, alas, rather pompous. Pete Crenshaw, the Second Investigator, is an athletic but cautious fellow who is often distressed by Jupiter’s daring. Bob Andrews, a quiet, bookish boy, is very thorough in his quest for information which may help The Three Investigators solve their cases.

  The young detectives make their headquarters in an old mobile home trailer, which sits in a salvage yard owned by Jupiter’s uncle. Their activities are not always confined to Rocky Beach. In the case which you will shortly peruse, the boys encounter a ghostly presence in an old mansion in Hollywood — a mansion reputed to be haunted — and they try to find the secret of the man who disappeared into a looking-glass and never returned. Or did he?

  Read on and decide for yourself.

  ALFRED HITCHCOCK

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  Chapter 1

  “Stop, Thief!

  “UNCLE TITUS IS having a wonderful time,” said Jupiter Jones. The stocky boy leaned against the bumper of a pickup truck belonging to The Jones Salvage Yard. “In one short afternoon he has acquired four stained glass windows, one marble mantelpiece, an antique bathtub, and seven mahogany doors.”

  Pete Crenshaw groaned and sat down on the kerb. “I don’t think it was such a wonderful afternoon,” he complained. “Not when we had to load all that stuff on the truck. That bathtub weighed a ton!”

  Bob Andrews grinned. “It was a lot of work,” he said, “but it’s fun to watch Jupe’s uncle when he’s on a buying spree.”

  Jupe rubbed his forearm across his brow. Right after lunch he, Bob, and Pete had left Rocky Beach with Uncle Titus. An old house in the hills above Hollywood was to be torn down, and Uncle Titus was determined to salvage what he could from it. Now it was almost four o’clock, and the August sun beat fiercely on the hills. Below, the city seemed to shimmer in waves of heat.

  “Jupe,” said Pete, “what’s your uncle doing in there so long?”

  “Doubtless he is making sure that he has not overlooked any treasures,” said Jupiter Jones.

  The other boys nodded. The Jones Salvage Yard, which was owned by Jupiter’s uncle and aunt, was famous up and down the Pacific Coast for the variety of items it offered for sale. Uncle Titus regularly scouted Los Angeles in search of antique doors, unusual lighting fixtures, gates, fences, hardware, and used furniture. Sometimes he bought things that were extremely difficult to resell. This caused Aunt Mathilda to scold a bit, but she always directed Hans and Konrad, the two Bavarian brothers who helped out at the salvage yard, to make room for the latest curiosity. In the long run, even the strangest pieces of furniture or panelling could be sold, and then Uncle Titus felt triumphant indeed.

  Jupiter smiled as Uncle Titus finally emerged from the huge, mock-Victorian mansion which perched at the top of Crestview Drive. Mr. Jones stood for a moment talking to the boss of the demolition crew which would shortly tear the house down to make way for a new apartment complex. The two men shook hands, and Uncle Titus came down the drive to the truck.

  “Okay, boys,” he said. “Nothing worthwhile left there. It’s a pity, too. They don’t build houses like that any more. It must have been magnificent when it was new. Now there are termites everywhere — and dry rot.” Uncle Titus sighed, brushed at his big black moustache, and climbed into the cab of the truck. “Let’s go!” he cried.

  In seconds the boys had stowed themselves in the back of the truck amid the mahogany doors and the stained glass windows. The truck began to roll slowly down the steep grade towards Hollywood. Jupe looked out and saw that most places in the neighbourhood were well kept. The street was lined with very large old houses. Some were built like English country houses, some like French castles, and many were Spanish colonial mansions with stucco walls and heavy, red tile roofs.

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  “Look!” Bob tapped Jupe’s shoulder and pointed to a really enormous Spanish house on the right-hand side of the road. In front of the place there was a car — a very special car. A black Rolls-Royce with gold-plated trim.

  “Our special Rolls!” exclaimed Jupiter. “No doubt Worthington is somewhere in the vicinity.”

  Some time before, Jupiter had won a contest sponsored by the Rent-’n-Ride Auto Company. The prize had been the use of the vintage Rolls for thirty days. With the car had come Worthington, the perfect English chauffeur. He had driven, the three boys on many occasions when, as The Three Investigators, they had been involved in solving mysteries, discovering hidden treasures, and thwarting some very evil plans. After the thirty-day prize period had expired, a grateful client had arranged for rental of the Rolls whenever the boys needed transportation.

  Uncle Titus slowed the truck and began to edge round the gleaming Rolls. Just then the front door of the big house was thrown open. A small, thin man dressed in a dark suit sped out, running as fast as his skinny legs could carry him.

  “Halt! Stop, you scoundrel!”

  Worthington raced after the man.

  Uncle Titus slammed on the brakes as Pete leaped out of the truck and dashed forward, trying to intercept the fleeing figure.

  “Stop, thief!” shouted Worthington.

  Pete launched himself at the man, trying to get a grip on his waist. Worthington’s quarry was small, but he was agile. His fist shot out and Pete felt a sharp, stunning explosion of pain under his right eye. Then his legs crumpled beneath him, and he fell sideways. Footsteps pounded away and he heard a car door slam.

  “Oh, dash it all!” cried Worthington.

  Pete opened his eyes and shook his head to clear it. Worthington was bending over him.

  “Are you all right, Master Pete?” asked the chauffeur.

  “I think so. Just let me catch my breath.”

  Bob and Jupe came running up to Pete.

  “The guy got away,” Bob told him. “He had a car parked down the road.”

  Worthington drew himself up to his full six feet. His long, usually cheerful face was red with anger and exertion. “How could I have let that wretch outrace me?” he exclaimed. Then he began to look slightly cheered. “At least we gave him a good fright!” he announced.

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  Chapter 2

  The House of Mirrors

  “WORTHINGTON, DID HE GET AWAY? I’ve called the police.”

  Jupiter blinked. Pete rubbed his face in a dazed manner, and Bob gaped at the woman who had appeared in the doorway of the Spanish-style mansion.

  “I am afraid he did, madam,” said Worthington.

  The woman came down the drive. Jupe suddenly realized that his mouth was open, and he shut it. It was not easy to startle Jupiter Jones, but almost anyone would have been startled at the sight of a lady dressed in a heavy, wide-skirted brocade gown, complete with hoops. When she was closer Jupe saw that the white hair piled high on her head was really a powdered wig.

  “Mrs. Darnley,” said Worthington, “I should like to present my friends, The Three Investigators.”

  “Oh?” The woman looked puzzled for a moment. Then she smiled. “Oh, yes. The three young detectives. Worthington’s told me about
you. Now let me see.” She nodded towards Jupe. “I think you must be Jupiter Jones.”

  “Yes,” said Jupe.

  Worthington then introduced Bob and Pete. “Master Pete attempted to intercept the intruder,” he explained.

  “You’re not hurt, are you?” she asked.

  “No, I’m not,” said Pete as he stood up slowly.

  “Thank goodness. People who break into houses can be quite dangerous, I understand.”

  Uncle Titus got out of the truck then.

  “Mrs. Darnley, this is Mr. Titus Jones,” said Worthington.

  She smiled broadly. “My, this is a pleasure! I’ve heard of you and your famous salvage yard. I’ve been intending to visit you to see if you have any interesting mirrors.”

  “Mirrors?” said Uncle Titus.

  “Yes. I collect them. Do come in and see.”

  She turned and swept up the walk and into the house, her wide skirt rustling as she walked.

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  “Does she always dress like that?” asked Pete.

  “She is a most interesting lady,” said Worthington. “I drive for her rather frequently, as she does not care to keep her own automobile. You’ll find her house fascinating.”

  The house was fascinating. The boys and Uncle Titus followed Worthington through an entrance hall that was dim and strangely chilly. To the left, a large staircase climbed majestically to the second floor; beyond it a long, narrow hallway went off to the side, stretching almost the length of the house. To the right, ornate double doors gave on to a room that was too dark to see into. The visitors were led straight ahead into a vast living-room – a room where the walls seemed alive with shadows that shifted and pulsed. Heavy curtains shut out the sunlight, and it took the boys a moment to realize that the moving shadows were their own images. They saw themselves reflected in mirrors – dozens of mirrors, perhaps hundreds. They saw reflections of their reflections. The room seemed to be occupied not by three investigators, but by thirty or three hundred.

  “Lovely, aren’t they?” Mrs. Darnley’s image shifted through the mirrors as she appeared at Jupe’s elbow.

  “I feel kind of dizzy,” said Pete.

  “Then sit down,” advised Mrs. Darnley. She herself perched on a small chair near the fireplace. “My mirrors are almost all old,” she told them, “and they all have a story. It’s taken me a lifetime to collect them. I started when I was a little girl. Do you remember the story about Alice going through the looking-glass and finding that wonderful world where everything was turned around? When I was very young I thought that I could do that if I could only find the right looking-glass.”

  A boy about Pete’s age and size came into the room. He had carrot-coloured hair and his nose was spattered with freckles. Behind him was a girl who was almost as tall as he, but whose hair was darker. She smiled at Worthington, who stood stiffly near one of the windows. Her eyes went to Uncle Titus and then to the boys.

  “These are my grandchildren,” said Mrs. Darnley. “Jean and Jeff Parkinson. Children, this is Mr. Titus Jones, who owns the famous salvage yard, his nephew Jupiter, and their friends, Bob and Pete.”

  “The Three Investigators!” exclaimed Jeff.

  “What timing!” said the girl. “Just when we’ve had a burglar – not that he took anything.”

  “Nothing is missing?” asked Mrs. Darnley.

  “Not so far as we can tell,” Jean answered.

  They heard a siren then, coming up the hill.

  “That’ll be the police,” said Mrs. Darnley. “Jean, you let them in. And Worthington, please sit down. You look so uncomfortable standing there like a post.”

  “Yes, madam,” said Worthington, and he found a chair.

  Jean ushered two young patrolmen, into the room. One of them dropped his cap when he saw Mrs. Darnley in her brocade finery. She ignored his surprise and briefly told the policemen what had happened.

  “I was upstairs having a cup of tea,” she said. “My houseman, John Chan, was with me. He was serving. Neither of us heard anything unusual. Doubtless the burglar thought there was no one in the house. However, when Worthington and my

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  grandchildren came back from Farmers’ Market, they surprised the housebreaker. He was in the library, and so far as we know he took nothing. Perhaps he didn’t have time.”

  Worthington and the boys then described the person who had fled from the house – short, very thin, dark-haired and wiry, middle-aged but strong and quick. Jupiter described the car in which the man had made his escape.

  “Thousands of cars like that,” said one of the policemen. “Did you get the licence number?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t” said Jupiter. “There was mud on the car and on the plate.”

  The policeman wrote something in his notebook and sighed.

  “We know how he got in,” said Jean Parkinson. “He broke the lock on the kitchen door.”

  The policeman nodded. “Old story,” he said. “Back doors never have good locks.”

  “My back door has … that is, it did have a very good lock,” said Mrs. Darnley. “I am careful about these things. You may have noticed that all the windows in this house are covered with iron grillwork. There are only two doors, the front one and the one from the kitchen out to the garage. They both have double dead-bolt locks. The man forced the door with a crowbar. Jeff, take the officers to the kitchen and show them!”

  The men retreated, led by Jeff, and very shortly they returned. One of them was carrying the crowbar which the burglar had used to get into the house.

  “The fingerprint men may be able to do something with this,” he said.

  “The man was wearing gloves,” said Pete.

  “You sure?”

  “I’m certain. I ought to know. He took a swipe at me.”

  The policemen left then, promising to contact Mrs. Darnley if they had any leads which might enable them to identify the burglar. Worthington left, too, to return the Rolls to the auto rental company.

  “That’s probably the last we’ll hear about that,” said Mrs. Darnley. “Well, no great harm done. Would you like to see the house? It used to belong to Drakestar, the magician. He built it.”

  “Drakestar’s house?” Jupiter, who knew a great deal about theatrical people, suddenly sat straighter. “So this is Drakestar’s house? I’ve read about it.”

  Mrs. Darnley nodded. “Drakestar died here, and the place is supposed to be haunted. I’ve never seen or heard anything odd, myself. But come along, if you like old, interesting things.”

  She crossed the living-room and opened a pair of double doors. Uncle Titus, The Three Investigators, and Jean and Jeff Parkinson followed her into a huge dining-room. Here the curtains were open, and the afternoon sun shone in and touched walls which were covered with a heavy red damask. Over the sideboard was a looking-glass framed with gilt scrolls. It appeared to be very old, and in several places the silver backing had pulled away from the glass.

  “That’s one of my special treasures,” said Mrs. Darnley. “It came from the palace of the czars in St Petersburg. One can’t be sure, of course, but perhaps Catherine the Great saw herself in it. That’s the fascinating thing about mirrors. They’ve held so

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  many images, and it’s easy to imagine that a little bit of each person stays in the mirror.”

  Beyond the dining-room there was a butler’s pantry and beyond that the kitchen, where the boys met John Chan, Mrs. Darnley’s houseman. He was slender, somewhere in his mid-twenties, and although it was plain that his ancestors had come from the Orient, he spoke English with a Boston accent. He reported that a carpenter and a locksmith had been called and that the kitchen door would be fixed before dark.

  “Good,” said Mrs. Darnley. She waved towards a doorway. “John’s room is there,” she said, “and he won’t let me put any mirrors in it.”

  The houseman smiled. “I see myself coming and going too much as it is,” he explained.

  “So we’ll go on to some of my other treasures.” She opened another door and stepped into the long, narrow corridor tha
t the visitors had seen when they first entered the house.

  “In Drakestar’s day,” she said, “this front half of the house was a ballroom. I’ve had interior walls put in and made a series of … well, I suppose you could call the rooms historical displays.”

  They crowded into a corner room which had walls painted the colour of adobe clay. There was a narrow bed, a leather-covered trunk, one wooden chair, and a table made of hand-hewn boards. Over the table was a simple mirror in a maple frame.

  “That mirror was brought to California during the gold rush,” she said. “It was ordered from New England by an American man who wanted to marry the daughter of a Spanish don. It was a courting present for the girl.”

  “Did she marry him?” asked Bob.

  “Yes, she did, and that was a tragedy. He turned out to be a gambler and he lost everything. This is a reproduction of the room she lived in. At the end of her life she had nothing – absolutely nothing.”

  The next room was a prim and proper parlour, and Mrs. Darnley called it her Victoria room.

  “It’s a reproduction of the parlour where Queen Victoria used to sit with her mother when she was a very young girl, before she was queen. The furniture was made to order, but the mirror over the mantel is one she actually owned. Or her mother owned it. I like to think of Victoria looking into that glass, being so young and innocent, and with all those years of greatness ahead of her. I sit here sometimes, and I have a special dress to wear when I do. I don’t pretend I’m young Victoria. I’m much too old. Sometimes I pretend I’m her mother.”

  She then showed them what she called the Lincoln room. It was a dark, shuttered, cluttered-chamber. “This is a replica of the room which was used by Mary Todd Lincoln when she was a tired, lonely old woman, long after President Lincoln died. That mirror belonged to her.”

  Next to Jupiter, Uncle Titus shifted restlessly. “A sad room,” he said.