The Mystery of the Magic Circle

  The Mystery of the Magic Circle

  A Word from Alfred Hitchcock

  Greetings, mystery lovers.

  Again it is my privilege to introduce to you The Three Investigators, those young detectives whose specialty is mystery—and the more unusual, the better. In this adventure, the intrepid sleuths encounter a witch who hides from the world, performing secret rites and brooding on an accident that happened long ago. Or was it an accident? It may have been murder done in a magical fashion!

  If you have not already met The Three Investigators, you will wish to know that Jupiter Jones, the leader of the group, is a stocky boy with an astonishing talent for deduction. Pete Crenshaw, the second investigator, is quick and athletic, while Bob Andrews, a studious fellow, uses his talent for research to help solve the problems the youths encounter. The boys live in Rocky Beach, California, not far from Hollywood.

  So much for the formalities. You may now turn to Chapter One and proceed with the adventure.

  ALFRED HITCHCOCK

  Fire!

  “EXACTLY WHAT are you boys up to?” demanded Horace Tremayne. He stood in the doorway of the mail room of Amigos Press and scowled at Jupiter Jones, Bob Andrews, and Pete Crenshaw.

  “Up to?” said Pete. “We’re … we’re just sorting the mail.”

  “Don’t give me that!” snapped Tremayne. His face, which was usually quite pleasant, looked threatening. “You’ve got some nerve, pretending to be mail clerks when you’re really private detectives!”

  With that, Tremayne—the young man who was publisher at Amigos Press, and who was called Beefy by everyone on the staff—relaxed and began to chuckle. “You are private detectives, aren’t you?” he said.

  “Hey,” said Pete, “you really scared me!”

  Bob Andrews smiled. “The private detective business is slow this summer,” he said. “We thought we’d get some experience with office work.”

  “How did you find out about us?” asked Jupiter Jones, his round faced filled with curiosity.

  “Last night my uncle Will hired a limousine to take us to a premiere in Hollywood,” said Beefy Tremayne. “It was a gold-plated Rolls-Royce, driven by a British chauffeur named Worthington.”

  “I see.” Jupe laughed, for Worthington was an old friend. Some time before, Jupe had entered a contest sponsored by the Rent-‘n-Ride Auto Rental Company and had won the use of the gold-plated Rolls for thirty days. Worthington had chauffeured the car for the boys, and had become fascinated with their detective work.

  “Your names came up when Worthington started telling me about his regular clients,” Beefy explained. “When he heard that you three had summer jobs here, he said I was in for a lively time. He said that trouble just seems to happen when you’re around.”

  “It doesn’t just seem to happen,” said Pete. “Jupe stirs it up!”

  “Then we all help settle it,” put in Bob.

  Jupiter took a card from his wallet and handed it to Beefy. It read:

  THE THREE INVESTIGATORS

  “We Investigate Anything”

  ? ? ?

  First Investigator -

  Second Investigator -

  Records and Research -

  JUPITER JONES

  PETER CRENSHAW

  BOB ANDREWS

  “Very professional,” said Beefy. “What are the question marks for?”

  The stocky First Investigator looked smug. People always asked about the question marks. “They’re the universal symbol of the unknown,” said Jupe. “The unknown is always intriguing.”

  “Yes, it is,” agreed Beefy. “If I ever need a private detective firm, I might call you. Worthington says you’re very clever.”

  “We’ve been able to solve a number of interesting cases,” said Jupe. “We think our success is due to the fact that we believe almost anything can happen.”

  “You’re young enough not to be prejudiced, eh?” Beefy commented. “That could be a great help in an investigation. Too bad there’s nothing around here that needs investigating—besides why the coffee machine makes such lousy coffee!”

  The boys heard footsteps outside the mail room. Beefy stepped back into the hall and looked towards the front of the building. “Uncle Will, what took you so long?” he called.

  A second later, a tall, thin man with sandy hair and a small moustache appeared beside Beefy. He was Mr William Tremayne and, as usual, he looked very elegant. He wore beige slacks and a linen jacket the colour of cocoa. He glanced into the mail room but didn’t bother to speak to the boys.

  “They didn’t have a spare car to lend me when I left the car at the garage,” he told his nephew. “I had to call a cab. It’s so tiresome. Nothing is really properly organized these days.”

  “I suppose not,” said Beefy in his cheerful way. “Say, listen, Uncle Will, today’s the day Marvin Gray’s coming in with that manuscript. Do you want to see him about anything when he gets here?”

  “Marvin Gray?” William Tremayne looked both bored and puzzled.

  “Oh, come on, Uncle Will, you remember him,” said Beefy. “He’s Madeline Bainbridge’s business manager. He negotiated the contract for her book.”

  “Ah, yes,” said William Tremayne. “The chauffeur.”

  “He used to be her chauffeur.” Beefy sounded irritated, but he took a deep breath and kept his voice level. “He’s Bainbridge’s business manager now, and that manuscript he’s bringing could be terrific. Madeline Bainbridge knew everybody who was anybody in Hollywood when she was a star. Just wait till the news gets out that we’re going to publish her memoirs!”

  “I’m sure it will cause a sensation,” said Will Tremayne disdainfully. “I do not understand this fascination with has-been actresses, but there is no reason why we shouldn’t make money on it.”

  “Bainbridge isn’t a has-been,” said Beefy.

  “Then what is she?” demanded his Uncle. “She hasn’t made a picture for thirty years.”

  “She’s a legend,” Beefy declared.

  “Is there a difference?” asked William Tremayne. He turned away without waiting for an answer. A moment later the boys heard him on the stairs that led up to the first floor, where he had his office. Beefy stood looking unhappy, as he often did after an exchange with his uncle.

  “Have you actually met Madeline Bainbridge?” Jupe asked.

  Beefy blinked. “You know about her?”

  “I’m a student of films and the theatre,” Jupe explained. “I’ve read about her. She was beautiful, and supposedly also a fine actress. Of course, it’s hard to judge today, when her films are never on release or on television.”

  “I haven’t actually met her,” said Beefy. “She’s a recluse. She doesn’t see anyone. She does everything through Marvin Gray. He seems a very competent business manager, even if he did start out as a chauffeur. Bainbridge bought the negatives of her films from the producers when she retired, and they’re in storage in a special vault on her estate near Malibu. Marvin Gray hinted that she may sell them to television soon. If she does, her book could be the bestseller of the year.”

  Beefy grinned at the thought, and left the mail room. The boys heard him start up the stairs and stumble. He recovered and climbed to the first floor, whistling cheerfully.

  “He’s a nice guy,” said Pete, “but he’s got no co-ordination.”

  No one argued with this. The boys had been working in the offices of Amigos Press for three weeks, and they knew that Beefy Tremayne tripped on the stairs every morning. He was as broad shouldered and muscular as any athlete, but he gave the impression of being made of slightly mismatched parts. His legs were just a bit too short to go with his barrel chest. His feet were slightly
too small, and so was his nose, which he had fallen on and broken at some time in his life, so that now it was flattened and slightly crooked. His fair hair was cropped close, yet it managed to seem untidy. And although his clothes were always fresh and starched, they were also always somewhat rumpled. He was homely, and yet very pleasant looking. The boys liked him.

  Pete and Bob began sorting the mail into neat stacks on the long table that ran along one side of the room. Jupe was just opening a big canvas sack stuffed with letters when a withered-looking grey-haired man came bustling in.

  “Good morning, Mr Grear,” said Jupiter. “Morning, Jupe,” he replied. “Morning, Bob. Pete.”

  Mr Grear, who was the office manager, went into the small room that adjoined the mail room and sat down at his desk. “Have you seen Mr William Tremayne this morning?” he asked.

  “He went upstairs a few minutes ago,” said Jupe.

  “I have to see him,” said Mr Grear. He sighed. Mr Grear was not fond of William Tremayne.

  Indeed, no one on the staff seemed to care for him. William Tremayne was regarded as a usurper. Amigos Press had been founded by Beefy’s father, and Beefy was heir to it. A tragic boating accident had made Beefy an orphan when he was nineteen, but according to the terms of the will left by Beefy’s father, William Tremayne was president of Amigos Press and would control the business until Beefy was thirty.

  “I guess Beefy’s father only meant to protect Beefy and his inheritance,” Mr Grear had said one day. “He was such a clumsy boy. No one suspected that he’d show a flair for publishing, but he did. He’s got a real nose for a saleable manuscript. Now in spite of that, we’re all stuck with William Tremayne—at least until next April, when Beefy turns thirty. It’s a great trial. He’s the only one who can make any decisions about money, so every time I need new supplies—even a box of pencils—I have to get his permission to order them!”

  Mr Grear always looked outraged when he told the boys about William Tremayne. He looked outraged now, but he did not speak again. He was still in his office, staring unhappily at the papers on his desk, when Pete set out to deliver the mail to the other offices in the building.

  Amigos Press was located in the Amigos Adobe, a historic two-storey structure that was sandwiched between more modern commercial buildings on busy Pacifica Avenue in Santa Monica. The adobe dated back to the days when California was ruled by governors from Mexico. The walls were thick, as adobe walls always are, and even though the summer sun blazed outside, the rooms were cool. Decorative iron grilles on all the ground-floor windows added to the charm of the building.

  Pete stopped first in the accounting department, a big room across the hall from the mail room. A dour, middle-aged man headed this department, supervising the work of two sullen women who laboured there with adding machines and heaps of invoices.

  “Good morning, Mr Thomas,” said Pete. He put a packet of envelopes down on the man’s desk.

  Thomas scowled. “Put the mail in the box on that table over there,” he ordered. “What’s the matter with you? Can’t you remember a simple thing like that?”

  “All right, Thomas,” said a voice behind Pete. It was Mr Grear. He had come out into the hall and was watching Mr Thomas. “I’m sure Pete understands. Just remember, I supervise the mail room. If the boys get out of line, you tell me and I’ll talk to them.”

  Pete scooted out of the accounting department. As he passed Mr Grear in the hall, he heard the office manager muttering to himself. “Troublemaker! He won’t last a year here. I don’t know how they put up with him at that pharmaceutical company for five years!”

  Pete didn’t comment. He had several letters for the receptionist, whose desk was in the big front room of the adobe. He delivered these, and then went up the stairs to the first floor. The editors, book designers, and production people had offices there.

  Mr Grear and Mr Thomas did not speak to each other again until mid-afternoon. Then the copying machine that stood in a corner of the mail room jammed. This caused a fierce argument between Mr Thomas, who insisted that the machine be fixed immediately, and Mr Grear, who declared that the repair man couldn’t come until morning.

  The two men were still exchanging angry words when Jupiter went upstairs shortly before four to collect outgoing mail from the staff there. Mrs Paulson, Beefy’s assistant, looked up and smiled when Jupe stopped at her desk. She was a smooth-faced, plump woman many years Beefy’s senior, who had previously been assistant to Beefy’s father. She handed a couple of envelopes to Jupe. Then she glanced past him at someone just coming up the stairs.

  “He’s waiting for you,” she said, pointing to the open door of Beefy’s office.

  Jupe looked around. A thin, dark-haired man in a light gaberdine suit went past him and into Beefy’s office.

  “That’s Marvin Gray,” said Mrs Paulson softly. “He’s delivering Madeline Bainbridge’s manuscript.” Mrs Paulson sighed. “He’s given his whole life to looking after Madeline Bainbridge. Isn’t that romantic?”

  Before Jupe could comment, Beefy came out of his office with a sheaf of papers in his hands. “Oh, Jupe, I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “Take this manuscript down to the copying machine and make a duplicate of it right away. It’s handwritten, and there’s no copy. Mr Gray is concerned about its safety.”

  “The machine is out of order,” said Jupe. “Shall I take the manuscript out and have it copied elsewhere?”

  Gray appeared in the doorway beside Beefy. “No, don’t do that,” he said. “It would be safer just to keep it here.”

  “We’ll take good care of it,” promised Beefy.

  Gray nodded. “Fine. And now that you have the manuscript, if you’ll give me the cheque, I’ll be on my way.”

  “The cheque?” Beefy echoed. “You mean the advance?”

  “Why, yes,” said Gray. “According to the terms of the contract, you are to pay Miss Bainbridge twenty-five thousand dollars upon delivery of the manuscript.”

  Beefy looked flustered. “Mr Gray, we usually read the manuscript first. The cheque hasn’t even been made out yet?”

  “Oh,” said Marvin Gray. “I see. All right. I’ll look forward to receiving the cheque in the mail.”

  He went off then, down the stairs.

  “He’s certainly in a hurry for the money,” said Mrs Paulson.

  “I guess he doesn’t understand publishing contracts,” said Beefy. “He missed the phrase about how the manuscript has to be acceptable.”

  Beefy went back into his office and Jupe returned to the mail room.

  “Want to work overtime tonight?” Mr Grear said when Jupe came in. “The printer just sent over the brochures for the mailing on the songbird book. We can stuff the envelopes in a couple of hours, and I can take them to the post office first thing in the morning.”

  The boys were glad to put in the extra time, and they called their homes in Rocky Beach to report that they would be home late. They were busy folding circulars and putting them into envelopes when the rest of the staff left, singly and in groups. At a quarter to six, Mr Grear set out to take the last of the mail to the main post office. “On my way back I’ll pick up some fried chicken at the shop down the street,” he promised.

  The boys toiled on after he left. A breeze came up and blew through the open window of the mail room. It caught the door and slammed it shut. The boys jumped at the sound, then resumed work.

  It was six-fifteen when Bob stopped working and sniffed. “Do I smell smoke?” he said.

  Pete looked around at the closed door. In the silence, the boys heard the hum of traffic on Pacifica Avenue. They heard another sound, too—a low, crackling roar that came to them muffled by the thick adobe walls.

  Jupe frowned. He went to the door and put his hand against it. The wood felt warm. He put his hand on the knob, which felt even warmer, and very cautiously pulled the door open.

  Instantly the roar became almost deafening. A great billow of smoke gushed into the room a
nd overwhelmed the boys.

  “Good grief!” shouted Pete.

  Jupe threw his weight against the door and slammed it shut. He turned to face the others. “The hall!” he said. “There’s fire all over the hall!”

  The smoke was seeping in around the door now, thickening the air as it wafted towards the open window, which looked out on a narrow walkway between the adobe and the building next door. He leaned on the iron grille covering the window and pushed. “Help!” he shouted. “Help! Fire!”

  No one answered and the bars didn’t budge.

  Bob snatched up a metal chair and shoved it through the bars. He and Pete tried to prise the metal grille away from the building. The chair only bent in their hands, and one leg snapped off.

  “It’s no use,” called Jupe from Mr Grear’s office. “The telephone is dead. And there’s no one around to hear us yell.”

  He hurried back to the door that led to the hall. “We’ve got to get ourselves out, and this is the only way.”

  He went down on his knees, and again he edged the door open. Again the smoke gushed in through the opening. Bob coughed, and Pete’s eyes began streaming. The two boys knelt behind Jupe and peered out into the hall. They saw smoke that looked almost solid. It seethed and glowed red with the light of flames that danced up the walls and licked away at the old staircase.

  Jupe turned his face from the fire for an instant. He took a breath that was almost a sob. Then he started forward, holding his breath. But before he could get through the doorway, a gust of hot air pushed at him like a giant hand. He flinched, drew back, and slammed the door.

  “We can’t,” he whispered. “Nobody can go through that fire! There’s no way out! We’re trapped!”

  2

  The Bleeding Man

  FOR A MOMENT no one spoke. Then Pete made a choking sound. “Someone’s got to see the smoke and call the fire department,” he gasped. “Someone’s just got to!”

  Jupe looked around wildly. For the first time he saw something that might give them a chance. There was a trapdoor under the long table that the boys used for wrapping and sorting.

  Jupe pointed. “Look! There must be a cellar. The air’s bound to be better down there.”