The Mystery of the Magic Circle Page 2

  The boys ran to pull the table away from the wall. Pete prised open the trapdoor, and they looked down into a brick-walled cellar. Its dirt floor was more than eight feet beneath them, and they smelled air that was heavy with damp and decay. The boys didn’t hesitate. Pete swung down through the trapdoor opening, holding on to the edge of the floor, then let himself drop the few remaining feet. The others followed. When they were safely in the cellar, Bob stood on Pete’s shoulders and pulled the trapdoor shut.

  The boys stood in the darkness and strained to listen. They could still hear the fire. They were safe, but for how long? In his mind’s eye Jupe pictured flames mushrooming through the first floor and eating away at the roof. What if the roof caved in? Would the floor above them hold if flaming timbers came crashing down on it? Even if it did hold, would anyone fight through the fire to find them hiding in the cellar?

  “Hey!” Pete grasped Jupe’s arm. “Hear that?”

  There were sirens in the distance.

  “It’s about time!” said Bob.

  “Hurry up, firemen!” pleaded Pete. “We haven’t got all night!”

  The sirens came closer and closer. Then there were more sirens and still more. Then, one by one, the piercing mechanical wails stopped.

  “Help!” cried Pete. “Help! Hey, you guys!”

  The three waited. After what seemed an age, they heard a wrenching sound and a crash above them.

  “I’ll bet that’s the window!” said Bob. “They’re yanking the grille out of the window!”

  Water thundered and gushed on the planks above them. Jupe felt wetness on his face, and on his shoulders and arms. Rivulets of dirty water spattered down all around him.

  “We’ll drown!” Pete yelled. “Stop! We’re down here!”

  The sound of rushing water ceased.

  “Open the trapdoor!” Bob cried.

  There was the protest of wood scraping on wood. The panel above them opened and a fireman looked down.

  “They’re here!” he shouted. “I found the kids!”

  The fireman leaped into the cellar. An instant later Bob was being boosted up through the trapdoor to a second fireman, who seized him and sent him staggering towards the window. The iron grating was gone and two hose lines ran into the mail room. Bob scrambled over the sill and out on to the narrow walkway.

  Bob had gone only a few steps when he heard Jupiter behind him. Pete followed, and the firemen who had pulled the boys from the cellar came after them. “Keep going!” ordered one of the men. “Move! Fast! The roof’s going to cave in any second!”

  The boys ran until they reached the open street. It was blocked with fire engines. Hose lines lay in tangles from kerb to kerb.

  “Thank heaven! You’re safe!” Mr Grear ran forward, clutching a paper sack of fried chicken.

  “Hey you, get back!” shouted a fireman.

  Mr Grear retreated towards the crowd that had gathered across the street. The boys went with him. “They wouldn’t let me go in after you,” said Grear. “I told them you were in there, but they wouldn’t let me go.” He seemed to be in a daze.

  “It’s okay, Mr Grear,” said Jupiter. “We’re safe.” He took the sack of chicken from the old man and helped him sit down on a low wall in front of a little shopping centre.

  “Mr Grear! Mr Grear!” The boys looked round to see Mr Thomas hurrying towards them. He was dodging this way and that to get through the crowd of onlookers. “Mr Grear, what happened? I saw the smoke. I was having dinner at a place near here and I saw the smoke. Mr Grear, how did it start?”

  Before Mr Grear could comprehend that Thomas was questioning him, Beefy Tremayne came dashing around the corner on to Pacifica Avenue. His uncle trailed him, with Mrs Paulson bringing up the rear.

  “Mr Grear!” cried Beefy. “You okay? Hey, are you boys all right?”

  “We’re okay,” Pete assured him.

  Beefy crouched beside Mr Grear.

  “I would have called you,” said Grear, “but I was too concerned about the boys.”

  “We saw the smoke from our apartment and came running,” said Beefy.

  A shout went up across the street. Firemen scrambled to get clear of the adobe. Then the roof of the building fell in with a roar.

  Flames leaped up against the sky. The thick walls of the old building still stood, but the firemen ignored them now. Hoses played steadily on the roofs and walls of buildings up and down the street.

  Jupe looked at Mrs Paulson. She was crying.

  “Please don’t,” said Beefy. “Please, Mrs Paulson, it’s only a building.”

  “Your father’s publishing house!” sobbed Mrs Paulson. “He was so proud of it!”

  “I know,” said Beefy, “but it is just a building. As long as no one was hurt …”

  The young publisher stopped talking and looked at the boys in a questioning way.

  “We were the last ones out,” said Bob. “Nobody was hurt.”

  Beefy managed to smile. “That’s what’s important,” he said to Mrs Paulson. “And Amigos Press isn’t wiped out—not by a long shot. Our inventory of books is safe in the warehouse and our plates are in storage. Why, we’ve even got the Bainbridge manuscript!”

  “We have?” said Mrs Paulson.

  “Yes. I put it in my briefcase and took it home. So things aren’t that bad, and …”

  Beefy broke off. A man with a hand-held camera had stepped on to the street and was walking towards the fire.

  “Uh-oh,” said Beefy. “The television stations are covering this. I’d better find a phone.”

  “Why?” asked William Tremayne.

  “I want to call Marvin Gray,” Beefy explained, “to tell him the Bainbridge manuscript is safe. If he watches the news and finds out that Amigos Press burned down, he’ll think the manuscript went with it unless I tell him differently.”

  Beefy headed for the filling station on the corner, where there was a pay telephone. At that moment, Jupiter became aware that there was a man approaching from across the street—a man whose face was ghastly white. He was bleeding badly from a wound on his scalp.

  “Oh, gosh!” exclaimed Pete.

  The blood coursed down the man’s cheek and soaked the front of his shirt.

  “What on earth?” said William Tremayne.

  Jupiter started forward as the man collapsed in the street. A fireman ran to bend over the fallen man, and two policemen hurried to help him. Gingerly they turned him over on his back, and one of them looked quickly at the wound on his head.

  “Say, I know him!” A stout woman pushed her way out of the crowd and went to the policemen. “He works in that film place there.” She pointed towards Film Craft Laboratory, a solidly built brick building which was next to the ruins of Amigos Press. “I’ve seen him come and go lots of times,” said the woman.

  One of the policemen stood up. “I’ll call an ambulance,” he told his partner. “Then we’d better check out that film lab. Doesn’t look as if this guy’s going to be able to tell us anything. He might not wake up for quite a while!”

  3

  The Double Disaster

  THERE WAS a brief account of the fire on the late news that night. Jupiter watched it with his aunt Mathilda and uncle Titus, with whom he lived. The next morning, he was up in time to see the Los Angeles Now show.

  “Haven’t you had enough of that fire?” said Aunt Mathilda as Jupe put the portable TV on the kitchen counter. “It could have killed you!”

  Jupe sat down and began to sip his orange juice. “Maybe there’ll be news about that man,” he said.

  “The one who collapsed in the street?” Aunt Mathilda sat down to watch, and Uncle Titus poured himself a second cup of coffee.

  On the television screen, newscaster Fred Stone looked grave. “There was a double disaster in Santa Monica yesterday,” he said. “Fire broke out in the historic Amigos Adobe on Pacifica Avenue at approximately six o’clock. The building, which housed the offices of Amigos Press, was empty
except for three young mail clerks. They were trapped by the flames, but were rescued unharmed by firemen.”

  The image of Stone faded from the television screen. It was replaced by scenes of the smoking ruins of Amigos Press. Stone’s voice went on narrating. “The adobe building was completely destroyed. Damage is estimated at half a million dollars.

  “As the fire burned, police discovered that a robbery had taken place at Film Craft Laboratory, immediately adjacent to the adobe. At some time between five and six, thieves entered the laboratory, which specializes in the restoration of old motion pictures. They made off with almost one hundred reels of film, the negatives of motion pictures made by actress Madeline Bainbridge more than thirty years ago. Miss Bainbridge, who was once a leading star, had just sold the motion pictures to Video Enterprises, which owns this station—Station KLMC—and its affiliates.”

  Stone appeared again on the screen. “There is a possible witness to the unusual robbery,” he said. “Film technician John Hughes was working overtime at the laboratory. He was apparently beaten by the thieves in the course of the crime. He managed to make his way to the street, where he collapsed. Hughes regained consciousness briefly at Santa Monica Hospital this morning, and he is believed to have given a statement to detectives.”

  There were footsteps on the front porch and the doorbell chimed urgently. Jupe went to the door and admitted Pete and Bob.

  “You watching the news?” said Pete. “I saw the early show. Whoever bopped that guy on the head yesterday also swiped a whole bunch of movies from that lab in Santa Monica!”

  “And they were Madeline Bainbridge’s movies,” said Bob. “How’s that for a coincidence?”

  “Much too coincidental,” declared Jupiter.

  The boys followed Jupe to the kitchen. On the television, Fred Stone was reporting a late development in the Bainbridge case. “This morning, a telephone call was made to Charles Davie, president of Video Enterprises,” he said. “Mr Davie was told that the Bainbridge films would be returned to Video Enterprises upon payment of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to the persons who are holding these films. Mr Davie made no statement as to whether or not Video Enterprises would ransom the pictures, which are considered irreplaceable.”

  “What a gimmick!” exclaimed Pete. “Swiping old movies and holding them for ransom!”

  Fred Stone went on with his newscast. “Following the robbery at the Santa Monica film laboratory last evening, Station KLMC was able to arrange an interview between Jefferson Long, veteran crime reporter for the station, and Marvin Gray, who has been Madeline Bainbridge’s business manager for many years. We now bring you a broadcast of that taped interview.”

  Fred Stone turned to look at the television monitor to his left. A second later, Jupiter and his friends saw a sun-bronzed man with wavy white hair on the screen. He sat on a straight wooden chair in front of a fireplace and held a microphone. A clock on the mantel behind him showed the time as half-past nine.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” said the man. “This is Jefferson Long, your KLMC crime reporter, at the Bainbridge estate near Malibu.

  “Tonight Marvin Gray, Madeline Bainbridge’s long-time friend and confidant, has consented to talk with us about the films which were taken earlier this evening in the robbery of the Film Craft Laboratory. Perhaps Mr Gray will also tell us something about Miss Bainbridge and her work, which many still remember.”

  The camera pulled back away from Jefferson Long, and the watchers saw Marvin Gray. He appeared grubby and insignificant next to the impressive Jefferson Long. He was smiling in a superior manner, however, as if Long amused him.

  “I’m sure you remember Miss Bainbridge very well, Mr Long,” he said. “If I recall correctly, you were an actor once yourself. You had the role of Cotton Mather in Miss Bainbridge’s last picture, The Salem Story. It was your first picture, wasn’t it?”

  “Well, yes,” said Long, “but—”

  “Also your last,” said Marvin Gray.

  “How unkind of him to put it that way,” said Aunt Mathilda. “You’d think he didn’t like Mr Long.”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t,” said Jupiter.

  Jefferson Long looked flustered, and he hurried into his interview. “I’m sure that Miss Bainbridge was very upset when she learned that her films had been stolen,” he said. “We had hoped to see her in person.”

  “Miss Bainbridge doesn’t see reporters, ever,” said Marvin Gray, “and she’s resting this evening. Her doctor prescribed a sedative. As you say, she is upset.”

  “Of course,” said Jefferson Long smoothly. “Mr Gray, none of Miss Bainbridge’s films have been seen by the public since she retired. What influenced her to sell them to television at this time?”

  Marvin Gray smiled. “Thirty years ago, studio executives didn’t realize that feature motion pictures would become valuable television attractions,” he said. “Madeline Bainbridge did. She had a lot of faith in the future of television—although she doesn’t care for the medium.”

  “She doesn’t watch television?” asked Long.

  “No, she doesn’t. But thirty years ago, she knew how important it would be, and she purchased all the rights to the pictures she had made. She decided three weeks ago that the time was right. She signed an agreement with Video Enterprises, releasing the films to them. Video Enterprises took possession of the negatives this morning and had them moved to Film Craft Laboratory for inspection and repair.”

  “Then it’s really KLMC’s loss if the films aren’t recovered,” said Long.

  “Yes, but it’s a loss to the world, too. Miss Bainbridge is a great artist. She played memorable roles—Cleopatra, Joan of Arc, Catherine the Great of Russia, Helen of Troy. The portrayals will be lost forever if the films aren’t recovered.”

  “Certainly that would be a calamity,” said Long, “and all due to a crime that is unique in a city that has seen many bizarre crimes. I am sure we all wish for the prompt apprehension of the two men who broke into the laboratory, and for the speedy recovery of the stolen films.”

  The camera moved in close to Jefferson Long, who looked at his audience with great sincerity. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Jefferson Long, coming to you on videotape from the estate where Madeline Bainbridge has lived for many years as a recluse, the beauty which helped make her a star hidden from all but a few close friends. Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you.”

  The screen went blank. Then Fred Stone was on camera again. “And now for other news …” he began.

  Jupiter turned off the television. “It sounds like a publicity stunt, but it can’t be that,” he said. “That film technician was seriously hurt. And Marvin Gray overlooked a great opportunity to mention the Bainbridge memoirs. He would have mentioned them if he were looking for publicity.”

  Just then there was a crash on the verandah.

  “Oh, blast!” exclaimed an exasperated voice.

  Jupiter went to the door. Beefy Tremayne was standing on the porch.

  “I knocked over a flowerpot,” said Beefy. “Sorry.”

  He stepped into the living-room. “Jupe, I need help,” he said. Jupe saw that there were circles under his eyes. “I need The Three Investigators. Worthington says you’re good, and maybe you’ll help me out. Uncle Will won’t pay to hire a regular detective.”

  Pete and Bob had come in from the kitchen. They looked at Beefy with curiosity.

  “What’s the matter?” Jupiter asked.

  “The Bainbridge memoirs,” said Beefy. “The manuscript has disappeared. Somebody stole it!”

  4

  A Case of Witchcraft?

  “OKAY, I admit that I’m clumsy,” said Beefy Tremayne. “I drop things and knock things over. However, I do pay attention to business, and I’m good at my business. I do not lose manuscripts!”

  “Nonsense!” said William Tremayne.

  Beefy had driven The Three Investigators from Rocky Beach to the high-rise building in West Los Angeles
where he shared an apartment with his uncle. It was a modern security building; the garage doors were opened by a sonic device and the door from the lobby to the inner court was monitored by closed-circuit television. The boys had found William Tremayne lounging on a sofa in the living-room of the apartment. He was smoking a long, slender cigar and staring at the ceiling in a disinterested way.

  “I refuse to waste time and effort fussing about that manuscript,” he announced. “You’ve misplaced it in your usual blithering fashion, and it will show up. We don’t need any aspiring juveniles to snoop around with magnifying glasses and fingerprint powder.”

  “We left our fingerprint powder at home today, Mr Tremayne,” said Jupe stiffly.

  “I’m delighted to hear it,” declared Tremayne. He continued to gaze at the ceiling. “Beefy, while you were out, the insurance adjuster was here. He asked a lot of idiot questions, and I didn’t care for his tone. Just because I look after your financial interests, and just because the money from the insurance company will come to me for disbursement, there’s no need for anyone to take the attitude that I had anything to gain from that fire.”

  “Uncle Will, they have to ask questions,” said Beefy.

  “You mean they have to make it look as if they’re earning their money,” snapped William Tremayne. “I only hope there’s no delay in settling our claim. It’s going to cost a fortune to relocate the offices and start operations again.”

  “I can start operating right now if I can just get my hands on that manuscript!” said Beefy.

  “Then look for it!” said his uncle.

  “I have looked. It isn’t here!”

  “Beefy, do you mind if we look?” asked Jupiter. “If you say it isn’t here, I’m sure it isn’t, but it won’t hurt for us to double-check.”

  “Okay. Go ahead,” said Beefy. He sat down and glared at his uncle while the boys searched the apartment. They looked behind every piece of furniture and into every cupboard and bookcase. There was no sign of a manuscript that could be the memoirs of an ageing movie star.

  “All right, Beefy, it isn’t here,” said Jupiter at last. “Now let’s begin at the beginning. When did you last have the manuscript?”