The Mystery of the Cranky Collector Read online

  Contents

  A Word from Hector Sebastian ………………………… 4

  1. The Meanest Man in Town …………………………. 5

  2. Locked In! ………………………………………… 9

  3. The Missing Millionaire ……………………………. 14

  4. The Party’s Over ………………………………….. 19

  5. Attack! …………………………………………… 25

  6. Footsteps In The Night …………………………….. 30

  7. The Secret Files …………………………………… 35

  8. The Mysterious Message …………………………… 41

  9. The Prowler Returns ………………………………. 47

  10. Jupe On Display …………………………………. 52

  11. The Bishops Book ………………………………… 57

  12. Tears Of The Gods ……………………………….. 63

  13. Setting A Trap …………………………………… 69

  14. Jupe Thinks Again ……………………………….. 74

  15. The Earth Roars! ………………………………… 78

  16. Complaints! ……………………………………… 82

  2

  17. An Ancient Mystery ……………………………… 85

  A Word from Hector Sebastian

  Greetings, mystery fans!

  Once again I’ve been asked to introduce an adventure of those busy young detectives, the Three Investigators. This time the boys rescue the meanest guy in town from a fate he probably deserves. Along the way they unravel a four-hundred-year-old mystery from South America that involves a historical villain and a lost treasure. That should be enough excitement for anyone, but there’s more. A disastrous party, a telltale computer, and a haunted house keep the sleuths on their toes.

  That’s all I’ll say about the mystery for now. No sense in giving the story away. But those of you who haven’t met the Three Investigators before will want to know something about them.

  Jupiter Jones is leader of the team. He’s a plump boy. Some would even say he’s fat. No matter. He’s brainy and determined and way ahead of everyone else when it comes to deducing the truth from a slender clue.

  Pete Crenshaw is the Second Investigator. His strong suit is physical coordination. He’s the most athletic of the three boys — and the one most nervous of ghosts.

  Bob Andrews, an all-round type, is in charge of records and research. Quite often his sleuthing takes place in the library, where he comes up with some amazing information.

  The Investigators all live in the seaside town of Rocky Beach, California, not far from my own home in Malibu, and not far from Hollywood. They work out of a secret headquarters in The Jones Salvage Yard, an enterprise run by Jupe’s Aunt Mathilda and Uncle Titus.

  Now that you’ve met the boys, turn to page 5 and read on.

  HECTOR SEBASTIAN

  1

  The Meanest Man in Town

  “Watch out in there!” said Harry Burnside to the three boys. “That old grouch will come down on you like a ton of bricks if anything goes wrong.”

  Burnside was usually a jovial, joking sort of person, but now he was scowling. “That skinflint!” he said. “He wouldn’t cough up enough dough so I could get decent uniforms for you guys. Jupe, did you try that jacket on before you took it from the rental place? It doesn’t fit you anywhere!”

  Jupiter Jones shifted the tray of cheese puffs and rumaki that he was holding and looked down at himself. He was a stocky boy, and the white waiter’s jacket he wore barely buttoned across his ample midsection.

  “It was the best I could do,” he told Burnside. “They had a bigger jacket, but it covered my hands. I thought I’d probably be using my hands today.”

  Pete Crenshaw stood behind Jupe with a tray of carrot sticks and dips. His white jacket was so short that it barely reached his waist, and his wrists stuck out of the sleeves. The thing made him look like an amiable scarecrow.

  Bob Andrews, the smallest and normally the neatest of the three boys, wore a jacket that was too big everywhere. He had rolled the sleeves back so that his hands were free to carry his tray. For the first time in his life he looked sloppy.

  Harry Burnside sighed. “Okay, it can’t be helped now. Just go out there and pass the cheese stuff and the dips to the guests and keep out of old Pilcher’s way. If you drop anything he’s liable to take your heads clean off!”

  Burnside held the kitchen door open, and Jupiter, Pete, and Bob carried their trays out. They started to circulate among the guests in the living room. The room was crowded with people as well as with old, uncomfortable-looking furniture and shelves full of curios. French doors opened onto the garden, letting in the June warmth but no breeze. All three boys felt hot and stiff and nervous. Each clutched his tray with great concentration, careful not to spill anything or bump anyone and so attract the wrath of the terrible-tempered Mr. Pilcher.

  The Meanest Man in Town

  The boys had never met Mr. Pilcher, but they had heard a great deal about him, and nothing they had heard was good. Various business publications rated Pilcher as one of the wealthiest men on the West Coast, worth uncounted millions. His neighbors in Rocky Beach, and the shopkeepers who dealt with him, rated him as the meanest man in town. People said he was so stingy that he still had ninety cents of the first dollar he ever made.

  When Harry Burnside hired the boys to help serve at the Pilcher party, they had seen that Burnside was desperate. He was the newest and youngest caterer in town, and the party at Pilcher’s home was the first big job to come his way. He had had to scramble to get together a staff for the affair, and Pilcher had made the task doubly difficult. According to Burnside, Pilcher had acted as if he were in a contest to see how cheaply he could entertain his guests. When Burnside protested, he had simply remarked that doing it for less was just the name of the game. He had haggled and bargained about costs and had insisted that there was no need to pay waiters and waitresses a penny more than minimum wage. As a result, the girls who were setting the tables in the garden were recent graduates of Rocky Beach High; the bartender was a trainee at the Cup of Cheer Bartending School in Los Angeles; and the dishes were being washed by a drifter named Ramon whom Burnside had found at the New Hope Mission.

  The waiters who passed the hors d’oeuvres were Jupiter, Pete, and Bob.

  The boys had agreed to help out not because they needed the money. Money was always welcome, of course, but the boys were more curious than broke. As members of The Three Investigators, the only junior detective agency in town, they were always looking for mysteries to explore, and Jeremy Pilcher counted as a mystery. He was almost a legend in Rocky Beach. He was also almost a recluse. The boys couldn’t pass up the chance to meet him and to see the inside of his house. It was a decrepit old pile on Mockingbird Lane, surrounded by a dank tangle of garden. The place was so dreary that the townspeople said it was haunted.

  The party that Burnside was catering for Pilcher was in honor of Pilcher’s daughter, Marilyn. She was the old man’s only child, a sheltered heiress who had been sent to boarding schools. As a result, Rocky Beach kids had never had a chance to get to know her. Now she was a student at an eastern college, and Burnside had told the boys that she would announce her engagement at this party. Burnside had also confided that Jeremy Pilcher disapproved of his daughter’s fianc´e, and that he hated the whole idea of a party.

  “He said it was just throwing good money away,” Burnside had told the boys. “He’s going along with the act because the daughter nagged him into it. He figured if he gave her the party, and even let her hi
re some musicians, she’d be satisfied for a while. He said he’s going to work on her to see if she

  6

  The Meanest Man in Town

  won’t get tired of the fianc´e and give him the heave-ho before the wedding day arrives. Then Pilcher will find a nice Wall Street wheeler-dealer type for her. Or maybe he’ll bring her into his business. I have a feeling that’s really what he’d like.”

  As Jupiter passed the cheese puffs to the chattering guests, he wondered which of the men could be Pilcher. Most of them were middle-aged. Jupe knew that Pilcher was older — seventy at least. And most of the men were well-tailored and looked as if they patronized expensive barbers and posh health clubs. That did not jibe with Jupe’s mental picture of Pilcher.

  But any of the girls who laughed and shouted to be heard above the thumping and twanging of the trio of musicians might be Marilyn Pilcher. She might be the redhead in the white dress. She might be the brunette in pink. She might be the blonde in the blue dress who was chatting with the faded-looking woman in gray silk. The woman seemed distressed. When the blonde turned away for a moment to say something to the smooth-faced young man at her elbow, the woman glanced toward the ceiling. Her hand went to her throat.

  Jupe looked up. A cobweb hung in one corner of the room. Also someone had recently squashed a bug on the wall nearby. The woman in gray frowned with distaste, then looked quickly away. Jupiter tried not to smile. Being a waiter was in some ways harder work than being First Investigator of the detective team, but the job sure had its amusing moments.

  Suddenly, just as the musicians finished a set, one of the young waitresses dropped a glass outside. It shattered on the flagstone path in the garden.

  Immediately Jupe knew which of the men was Pilcher. He was the tall, very thin one with the shaggy gray hair and the black suit worn shiny with age. The man came charging out of a corner. With an angry cry he started toward the garden. For a second Jupe thought he was going to seize the waitress and shake her. At the last minute he caught himself. “Watch what you’re doing, you little — ”

  He stopped, leaving the sentence unfinished, and glowered at the girl outside. Then he wheeled about and marched past his guests, heading through the dining room toward the kitchen.

  “Dad, take it easy, huh?” The blonde in the blue dress darted after Pilcher.

  “Marilyn?” The gray-gowned lady put out a hand as if to restrain the girl. But then she stopped and let her hand drop. She looked at the smooth-faced youth next to her. “Jim, really! That man!” she said.

  The young man trotted after the girl. “Marilyn, wait. Mr. Pilcher, the girl didn’t mean to drop it. Mr. Pilcher? If you’ll just — ”

  Pilcher paid him no attention whatever. He pushed the kitchen door open

  7

  The Meanest Man in Town

  and stood framed in the doorway. Jupe had the impression the old man was drawing in his breath so that he could really deliver a blast about the clumsy waitress.

  Jupe stood still and watched. He saw Harry Burnside flying back and forth from the stove to the table, furiously arranging food on platters. At the sink the dark-haired drifter was swirling dishes through the suds.

  “Burnside, get that incompetent girl out of my house!” Pilcher shouted. He obviously did not care who heard him. “And if you think I’m paying for that glass she just broke, you’re wrong. I’m not!”

  “Dad, will you cool it, huh?” pleaded Marilyn Pilcher. “You’ll get your angina all stirred up. And you’re going to ruin my party. Dad, come on! Please!”

  Marilyn Pilcher put her hand on his arm and tried to coax him out of the kitchen doorway. Jeremy Pilcher had not finished shouting, however, and he wouldn’t be coaxed.

  The dishwasher looked around at Pilcher. He scowled as if protesting the uproar. For an instant he and Pilcher stared at each other. Then the dish he was holding slipped from his hand and crashed to the floor.

  The party guests had given up all attempts at conversation. They stood awkwardly, pretending not to notice Pilcher’s tantrum. In the silence the smashing plate sounded like an explosion or a car crash.

  Pilcher gasped.

  “Dad, if you just wouldn’t get so mad!” cried Marilyn Pilcher. “It can’t matter if … if … ?”

  Pilcher suddenly bent double and clutched at his chest.

  “Oh, I told you so!” wailed his daughter. “I warned you! Ray! Ray, come quick! He’s going to faint!”

  She grabbed the old man around the waist, but he was too heavy for her. His knees buckled and he sagged to the floor.

  8

  2

  Locked In!

  A dark-haired young man dashed in from the living room. He and Harry Burnside hoisted Jeremy Pilcher off the floor. Marilyn Pilcher got a chair from the dining room and put it under the old man.

  “Oh, Dad, I told you this would happen!” The girl was almost crying with anger and anxiety.

  “Who’s his doctor?” A stout woman who had a take-charge air swept into the group near Pilcher and put a finger on his wrist, feeling for a pulse. “Where’s the telephone?” she demanded. “I’ll call his doctor.”

  “No!” gasped Jeremy Pilcher. “No doctor! Don’t need a doctor.”

  The dark-haired young man bent toward Pilcher. “Mr. Pilcher, we’re just trying to —”

  “I said I don’t need a doctor, you idiot wetback!” croaked Pilcher.

  The younger man did not react to this abuse. He did not even seem to hear it. Watching, Jupiter wondered whether Pilcher was in the habit of insulting his friends this way.

  But then Jupe heard one of the guests murmur an explanation to a companion. “The young guy is Ray Sanchez,” he said. “He’s Old Man Pilcher’s personal secretary.”

  “Jobs must be scarce these days” was the second man’s dry comment.

  “Upstairs!” Pilcher ordered now. “Want to go upstairs and rest. I’ll be okay in a few minutes.”

  Ray Sanchez looked around at the guests. His eye fell on Pete, who stood near the buffet table in his too-small waiter’s outfit. “You,” said Sanchez. “Give us a hand, huh?”

  Pete put down his tray and went to the old man’s side. He and Sanchez lifted Pilcher from his chair and began a slow, staggering progress toward the front hall where a staircase went up to the second floor. Marilyn Pilcher went ahead of them, and the guests stepped back to let them through.

  Jeremy Pilcher felt like a dead weight as Sanchez and Pete lugged him up

  Locked In!

  the stairs. They were both breathing hard by the time they reached Pilcher’s bedroom. It was at the front of the house where the windows looked out toward the mountains.

  Sanchez and Pete eased Pilcher down onto the bed, and Marilyn bustled into the adjoining bathroom to get a glass of water for her father. When she offered the water, Pilcher just pushed the glass aside. Water splattered across the bedclothes. “Nitro!” cried Pilcher. “Where’s my nitro?”

  “Right here.” Marilyn Pilcher yanked open a drawer in the bedside table and took out a prescription bottle.

  “Well, open it, open it!” scolded the old man. “Don’t just stand there like a cow!”

  “Dad, one of these days I’m going to get my hands on some strychnine — and then won’t you be in for a surprise!” She shook a pill into her father’s outstretched hand.

  “I blocked you on that move,” said the old man. “You know good and well what’s in my will — if anything funny happens to me you’re out on your tail!”

  He put the pill under his tongue and lay back.

  Pete was embarrassed by this barbed exchange between father and daughter. He began to back out of the room, but Marilyn Pilcher saw and caught him by the sleeve. “You stay here with my father,” she ordered. “I have to go back to the guests. Come with me, Ray. I need you to help.”

  Pete felt a prick of panic. He did not want to be left with this sick, nasty old man. “Miss Pilcher,” he protested. “I can’t. I’m supposed to be —”

  “You’re supposed to be doing as you’re told.” At that moment Marilyn Pilcher sound
ed much like her father. “But what if he … if he stops breathing? If his heart —”

  “He won’t stop breathing. It’s not a heart attack,” Marilyn said impatiently. “It’s only angina. His blood vessels have gone into spasm, that’s all. His heart isn’t getting quite enough oxygen, so he’s in pain right now, but the nitro will take care of that. It isn’t serious.”

  “I wish it was you who had it!” snapped Pilcher. “You wouldn’t be so quick to say it isn’t serious.”

  “Sure, Dad,” said the girl, and she turned and went out of the room.

  Ray Sanchez smiled at Pete, shrugged, then went after Marilyn.

  Jeremy Pilcher lay still. His eyes were closed. Pete sat down in an armchair near the bed and watched the old man. Pilcher’s face was gray except for the places where small veins made purple patterns on his skin. The nose was high and thin, the cheeks were sunken. Pete’s gaze shifted to the hands.

  10

  Locked In!

  They were skeleton hands with the bones clearly visible through the flesh. They were crossed on Pilcher’s chest, almost as if the old man were laid out for burial.

  The thought scared Pete. He looked away quickly and began to examine the room where he sat. He saw a fireplace that hadn’t been cleaned since winter; gray ash was heaped up behind the tarnished brass fender. A brass basket on the hearth held a few sticks of wood and a pile of yellowing newspapers that could serve as kindling. A model ship and a pair of dusty candles in china candlesticks decorated the mantel above the fireplace.

  Pete took a deep breath. He was sure he smelled dust. He imagined it drifting from the walls and the drapes, rising like fog from the faded, stained carpeting. Did anyone ever clean in here, he wondered.

  A mirror hanging over a big dresser was spotted and yellow. In places the silver had peeled away from the back of the glass. A pair of small armchairs had been set on either side of the dresser; the upholstery on the chairs was faded. So were the watercolor pictures on the walls — pictures of sailing ships and of stormy seas breaking on rocky coasts.