The Mystery of the Flaming Footprints Read online

  The Mystery of the Flaming Footprints

  A word from Alfred Hitchcock

  Since it is awkward to be introduced to someone you already know, those of you who are acquainted with The Three Investigators may skip this introduction and proceed directly to Chapter One, where the fun begins.

  If you have not yet met Jupiter Jones, Pete Crenshaw, and Bob Andrews, however, a smattering of background information on this remarkable trio may be in order.

  Any discussion of The Three Investigators begins with Jupiter Jones, the plump and brainy lad who has no hesitation in admitting that he is the leader of the group—First Investigator and, according to some individuals, chief troublemaker. Jupiter is assisted in his endeavours by Pete Crenshaw, an athletic boy with a prudent desire to avoid danger. This desire is frequently thwarted when Jupiter Jones has a case to solve. The third member of the team is Bob Andrews, a quiet, studious type whose part-time job in the library gives The Three Investigators quick and expert access to information on almost any subject.

  All of these lads reside in Rocky Beach, a small town on the shore of the Pacific Ocean, not too far from Hollywood. Bob Andrews and Pete Crenshaw live with their parents, but Jupiter Jones, who was orphaned when he was very young, makes his home with his aunt and uncle. He assists them in the care and management of The Jones Salvage Yard, the most well-organized junk operation on the entire Pacific Coast.

  One must admit that Jupiter occasionally neglects his duties at the salvage yard when there are more exciting things to claim his attention—such as the lonely Potter whom you will encounter shortly, and the bewildered visitors who come to Rocky Beach anticipating a pleasant summer, only to find themselves living in a house which is haunted by a barefooted ghost.

  Or is it haunted by something even more sinister?

  Of one thing you can be certain, Jupiter Jones and his chums will find out.

  So much for the introductions. On with the adventure!

  ALFRED HITCHCOCK

  1

  The Potter Appears—and Disappears

  JUPITER JONES heard the truck turn off the Coast Highway. There was no mistaking it. It was The Potter.

  Jupe had been raking the white gravel drive of The Jones Salvage Yard. Now he stopped and listened. “He’s coming this way,” announced Jupiter.

  Aunt Mathilda was nearby, watering the geraniums she had planted along the edge of the drive. She turned the nozzle of the hose, cutting off the flow of water, and looked down the short street towards the highway. “Now why on earth?” she wondered.

  The Potter’s ancient truck wheezed up the very slight grade between the Coast Highway and The Jones Salvage Yard. “He’ll never make it,” said Aunt Mathilda.

  Jupiter grinned. The man who was known in Rocky Beach simply as The Potter was a source of some anxiety to his Aunt Mathilda. Every Saturday morning, The Potter drove his battered old truck into town to pick up his supplies and groceries for the week. Often Aunt Mathilda had been present when the truck coughed and spluttered its way into the parking lot outside the Rocky Beach Supermarket. Always Aunt Mathilda predicted that the ancient vehicle would never be able to groan and puff back up the highway. Always Aunt Mathilda was wrong.

  This Saturday was no exception. The truck topped the little slope with steam spouting from the radiator. The Potter waved and swung round the corner and into the salvage yard. Jupe jumped to get his stocky self out of the way, and the truck veered past him and stopped with a tired gasp just inside the gate of the yard.

  “Jupiter, my boy!” shouted The Potter. “How are you? And Mrs Jones! My, you’re looking radiant this June morning!”

  The Potter fairly bounced out of the cab of his truck, his spotless white robe swirling around him.

  Aunt Mathilda could never decide whether or not she approved of The Potter. It was true that he was one of the most skilled craftsmen on the West Coast. People came from as far south as San Diego and as far north as Santa Barbara to buy the pots and jars and vases that he fashioned so beautifully. Aunt Mathilda admired fine craftsmanship. Still, she believed firmly that all male human beings should wear trousers once they had graduated from the romper stage.

  The Potter’s flowing robes disturbed her sense of things as they should be. So did The Potter’s long, gleaming white hair and his neatly combed beard, to say nothing of the ceramic medallion that dangled from a leather thong about his neck. The design on the medallion was a scarlet eagle with two heads. In Aunt Mathilda’s opinion, one head per eagle was the right number. The two-headed bird was only another of The Potter’s strange whims.

  Now Aunt Mathilda looked down at the man’s feet with open disapproval. As always, The Potter was barefooted. “You’ll step on a nail!” warned Aunt Mathilda.

  The Potter only laughed. “I never step on nails, Mrs Jones,” he told her. “You know that. But I could do with some help from you folks today. I am expecting—”

  The Potter stopped suddenly and stared at the cabin which served as office for the salvage yard. “What,” demanded The Potter, “is that?”

  “Mr Potter,” said Aunt Mathilda, “do you mean you haven’t seen it? It’s months old.” She lifted a picture frame down from the office wall and offered it to The Potter for his examination. Under the glass was a series of brightly coloured photographs with captions. They had obviously been taken from a magazine. There was one of the front of The Jones Salvage Yard. In the picture, Uncle Titus posed proudly before the wooden fence which surrounded his yard. Artists of Rocky Beach had decorated the fence with a painting of a sailing ship struggling through a stormy, green ocean. In the photograph, one could clearly see a curious painted fish which thrust its head above the waves to watch the ship.

  Beneath the photograph of the salvage yard was a picture of Mr Dingier, who made silver jewellery in a small shop in Rocky Beach, and one of Hans Jorgenson painting a seascape. And there was one of The Potter himself. The photographer had snapped an excellent close-up of the old man as he emerged from the market, his beard gleaming in the sunlight, his two-headed eagle showing clearly against the white of his robe—and a very ordinary, everyday bag of groceries clutched in one arm. The caption beneath The Potter’s photograph pointed out that the residents of Rocky Beach were not disturbed if some of the more artistic citizens took to wearing eccentric garb.

  “Surely you knew about it,” said Aunt Mathilda. “It’s from Westways magazine. You remember, they did a story on the artists in the beach towns?”

  The Potter frowned. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I remember one day there was a young man with a camera. I didn’t pay much attention. We get so many tourists and they all seem to have cameras. If only …”

  “If only what, Mr Potter?” asked Aunt Mathilda.

  “Nothing,” said The Potter. “It can’t be helped now.” He turned away from Aunt Mathilda and her treasured photograph and put a hand on Jupe’s shoulder. “Jupiter,” he said, “I’d like to look through your merchandise. I’m expecting company, and I’m afraid my guests may find my house a little … well, a little bare.”

  “Expecting company?” echoed Aunt Mathilda. “My gracious to heavens!”

  In spite of his cheerful, outgoing ways, The Potter had never been known to have a close friend. Jupiter knew that his aunt was wondering mightily who might be coming to visit the old man. However, she refrained from questioning him and simply ordered Jupiter to show him around. “Your Uncle Titus won’t be back from Los Angeles for more than an hour,” she said, and hurried away to turn off the hose at the tap.

  Jupe was only too happy to show The Potter around. Aunt Mathilda might have her doubts about the old man, but Jupe liked hi
m. “Live and let live” seemed to be his motto, and Jupe thought it was no one’s business but The Potter’s if he enjoyed bare feet and white robes.

  “Now first,” said The Potter, “I’ll need a couple of bedsteads.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jupe.

  The Jones Salvage Yard was an extremely well-organized operation. It would be hard to imagine any other kind with Aunt Mathilda Jones on the scene. Jupe led The Potter to the shed where used furniture was sheltered from any dampness which might creep in from the ocean. There were desks, tables, chairs and bedsteads. Some of them were broken or marred by years of use and misuse. There were also pieces which had been refinished or painted by Jupe, his Uncle Titus, and Hans and Konrad, the two Bavarian brothers who helped in the yard.

  The Potter examined the bedsteads stacked against one wall of the shack. He had purchased new mattresses and springs, he told Jupe, but to his mind springs and a mattress had a very temporary look unless a good solid bedstead was holding them up.

  Jupe’s curiosity began to get the upper hand. “Are you expecting your company to stay for a long time, Mr Potter?” he asked.

  “I am not sure, Jupiter,” said The Potter. “We will have to see. Now what do you think about that brass bed with the scrollwork on the top?”

  Jupe was doubtful. “It’s very old-fashioned,” he told The Potter.

  “So am I,” announced The Potter. “Who knows? My company may like me that way.” He picked up the end of the bed and gave it a good shake. “Nice and heavy,” he remarked. “They don’t make them that way these days. How much?”

  Jupe was puzzled. The bed was from an old house in the Hollywood hills. Uncle Titus had bought it just the week before. Jupe had no idea what his uncle planned to ask for it.

  “Never mind,” said The Potter. “I don’t have to know this minute. Put it aside and I’ll speak to your uncle when he gets back.”

  The Potter looked around. “I’ll need a second bedstead,” he told Jupe. “One for a boy about your age. What would you choose, Jupiter, if you were buying a new bed?”

  Jupe didn’t hesitate. He hauled out a white wooden bedstead with a bookcase built into it. “If the boy likes to read in bed, this would be perfect,” he told The Potter. “The wood is not the best, but Hans sanded it down and painted it. I imagine it looks better now than when it was new.”

  The Potter was delighted. “Fine! Just fine! And if the boy doesn’t read in bed, he can keep his collection on the bookshelf.”

  “Collection?” questioned Jupe.

  “He must have a collection,” The Potter countered. “Don’t all boys collect things? Seashells or stamps or rocks or bottle caps or something?”

  Jupe was about to announce that he did not. Then he thought of Headquarters, the old mobile home trailer concealed behind a cunningly arranged pile of junk at the back of the yard. In truth, Jupiter Jones did have a collection. He had a collection of cases solved by The Three Investigators. The records were all in the trailer, neatly preserved in file folders.

  “Yes, Mr Potter, I guess all boys have collections,” he said. “Will there be anything else this morning?”

  With the question of bedsteads settled, The Potter could not decide what came next. “I have so little in my house,” he confessed. “I suppose two more chairs would be in order.”

  “How many chairs do you have now, Mr Potter?” asked Jupe gently.

  “One,” said The Potter. “I have never needed more than one before, and I try not to clutter up my life with things I don’t need.”

  Jupe silently selected two straight chairs from the pile on the right side of the shack and put them down in front of The Potter.

  “A table?” asked Jupiter Jones.

  The Potter shook his head. “I have a table. Now, Jupiter, there is that thing called television. I understand that it’s extremely popular. My guests might like to have a television, and perhaps you could—”

  “No, Mr Potter,” interrupted Jupe. “By the time a set reaches us, we can usually salvage only a few spare parts. If you wish to have a television set, why not buy a new one?”

  The Potter looked doubtful.

  “New sets are guaranteed,” Jupe pointed out. “If they are defective, you can return them to the dealer and have them repaired.”

  “I see. Well, no doubt you are right, Jupiter. We can make do at first with the beds and the extra chairs. After that—”

  The Potter stopped. Outside, in the salvage yard, a car horn was blowing violently and repeatedly.

  Jupe stepped to the door of the furniture shack. The Potter followed. Parked in the drive, close to The Potter’s battered truck, was a gleaming black Cadillac. The horn blared again, and the driver of the car got out, stared around impatiently, then started for the door of the office.

  Jupe hurried forward. “Can I help you?” he called.

  The man stopped and waited for Jupe and The Potter to come to him. He had, thought Jupiter, a shuttered expression, like one who is used to keeping his thoughts to himself. He was tall and lean and not very old, though a frosting of silver showed here and there in his dark, curling hair.

  “Yes, sir?” said Jupe. “You wanted something?”

  “I am looking for Hilltop House,” said the man. “I seem to have taken the wrong turn off the highway.” The man spoke the very precise English of the well-educated European.

  “It’s a mile north,” Jupe told him. “Go back to the highway and turn right. Drive until you see The Potter’s place. The lane to Hilltop House is just beyond that. You can’t miss it. There’s a wooden gate with a padlock.”

  The man nodded a curt thanks and got back into the car. Then, for the first time, Jupe was aware that there was a second person in the Cadillac. A rather thickset man had been sitting motionless in the back seat. Now he leaned forward to touch the driver’s shoulder and say something in a language which Jupe could not understand. The second man seemed neither young nor old nor anywhere in between. He looked ageless. It took Jupe a moment to realize that this was because he was completely bald. Even his eyebrows were gone—if he had ever had eyebrows. And his skin was tanned to the point where it looked like fine leather.

  The ageless one glanced at Jupe, then turned his dark, slightly-angled eyes to The Potter, who had been standing quietly beside Jupe. The Potter made an odd little hissing sound. Jupe looked at him. He was standing with his head to one side, as if he were listening intently. His right hand had come up to grip the medallion which hung around his neck.

  The ageless man in the car leaned back in his seat. The driver shifted the gear stick smoothly into reverse and backed out of the drive. Across the street from the salvage yard, Aunt Mathilda emerged from the house in time to see the Cadillac sweep by and speed back down to the highway.

  The Potter touched Jupiter’s arm. “My boy,” he said, “would you go and ask your aunt if I may have a glass of water? I feel a little dizzy all of a sudden.”

  The Potter sat down on a pile of lumber. He did look ill.

  “I’ll get it right away, Mr Potter,” promised Jupe. He hurried across the street.

  “Who were those men?” asked Aunt Mathilda.

  “They were looking for Hilltop House,” said Jupiter. He went into the kitchen, took out the bottle of water that Aunt Mathilda always kept in the refrigerator, and poured a glass for The Potter.

  “How peculiar,” said Aunt Mathilda. “No one’s lived at Hilltop House for years.”

  “I know,” said Jupe. He hurried out with the water. But by the time he got back to the salvage yard, The Potter had disappeared.

  2

  The Searcher

  THE Potter’s decrepit truck was still in the drive when Uncle Titus and Hans returned from Los Angeles. They had a load of rusted garden furniture in the back of the salvage-yard truck. Uncle Titus struggled to manoeuvre his load past The Potter’s vehicle, then exploded from the cab of his truck. “What is that thing doing in the middle of the drive?” Uncle
Titus demanded.

  “The Potter left it when he disappeared,” said Jupe.

  “When he what?”

  “He disappeared,” repeated Jupiter.

  Uncle Titus sat down on the running board of the truck. “Jupiter, people do not simply disappear.”

  “The Potter did,” said Jupe. “He stopped to buy some furniture to accommodate his expected guests. When he said he was feeling dizzy, I went across to the house and got him a glass of water. While I was gone, he disappeared.”

  Uncle Titus pulled at his moustache. “Guests?” he said. “The Potter? Disappeared? Disappeared where?”

  “It is not difficult to trace the movements of a barefooted man,” Jupe told his uncle. “He went out through the gate and down the street. Aunt Mathilda had been watering, and he got his feet wet. At the corner, he turned up towards Coldwell Hill. There are several clear footprints in the dust on the path that leads up the hill. Unfortunately, he left the path about fifty yards up and struck off to the north. I found no sign of him after that. The terrain is too rocky to show footprints.”

  Uncle Titus heaved himself up off the running board. “Well!” he said. He tugged at his moustache and eyed The Potter’s truck. “Let’s move this wreck out of the drive. We won’t do any business with it blocking the way. Let us also pray that The Potter returns soon to claim it.”

  Uncle Titus made four vain attempts to start The Potter’s truck, but the temperamental old engine refused to turn over for him.

  “Don’t tell me machines can’t think,” declared Uncle Titus. “I wager that The Potter is the only one in creation who can coax any life into this thing.”

  He climbed down from the truck and motioned Jupe into the driver’s seat. Then, with Jupe steering, he and Hans pushed until the truck was safely parked in an empty space next to the office.

  Aunt Mathilda had hurried across the road from the house to watch. “I’m going to put The Potter’s groceries in our deep freeze,” she decided. “If his things stand out in the sun, they’ll spoil. I can’t imagine what possesses that man. Jupiter, did he say when his guests were coming?”