The Mystery of the Cranky Collector Page 3

  Marilyn Pilcher stared at him, her face very white. “You mean he might have been kidnapped?”

  Jupe nodded.

  Marilyn thought a minute, then finally spoke. “We’d better call the police!”

  18

  4

  The Party’s Over

  “Your dad disappeared? Really?” The redheaded girl opened her eyes very wide. She had watched Pete climb down the tree, and she had been delighted. Now she was equally amused by Marilyn Pilcher’s predicament.

  Marilyn was in the lower hall, her hand still on the telephone. She had just called the Rocky Beach Police Department, and the dispatcher had promised to send a car right away.

  “It’s a game, isn’t it?” said the redhead. “Like that party game where somebody pretends to be a murder victim and we’re supposed to figure out who did it.”

  “Oh, shut up, Betsy,” said Marilyn. “This is no game.”

  But the redhead wasn’t listening. “We’re supposed to figure out where your dad is, aren’t we? Or who made him disappear. That’s it. Who had a motive?”

  “Betsy, you’re an airhead,” said Marilyn.

  The smooth-faced young man who had been talking with Marilyn earlier came from the living room. He looked flustered and annoyed. By keeping his ears open during the afternoon, Jupe had learned that this was Marilyn’s fianc´e. His name was Jim Westerbrook; he was one of Marilyn’s college classmates. The woman in the gray silk dress was his mother. She had flown in with him from Boston just so that she could attend this party.

  Earlier in the afternoon Jupe had come upon her running an exploring fingertip across a window sill, testing for dust. He wondered if the lady was happy to have made the trip to California, and how she liked the idea of her son marrying into the Pilcher family.

  “Where have you been?” Westerbrook asked Marilyn now. “Everyone’s been asking for you.”

  “I was looking for my father,” she said.

  “Oh?” he said. “Why? Is he still in a temper? Forget him.”

  Jupe was hovering nearby, and he winced at Westerbrook’s remark.

  The Party’s Over

  Marilyn pulled back and glared. “Whether you like him or not, he’s the only father I’ve got,” she snapped. She charged into the living room and shouted to the musicians to be quiet.

  The band was blasting away with such enthusiasm that Marilyn had to yell three times to make her point. She made it, however. The musicians stopped playing.

  Marilyn turned to face her guests. “My father … my father wasn’t feeling well earlier this afternoon,” she said. “Now he’s … well, I don’t know where he is. We can’t find him. Has anybody here seen him? If he came down the stairs, somebody might have noticed.”

  There was murmuring and rustling. People glanced at one another. Several of the men shrugged. Jupe saw a few smiles and more than one knowing look. No one spoke up, however. No one had seen Jeremy Pilcher.

  A squad car pulled into the driveway. Two police officers got out and came to the front door, where Pete admitted them. Marilyn and Sanchez led the policemen to the den across the hall.

  The moment the door closed on them there was excited whispering among the guests. Then a stout elderly man with a red face said loudly, “Well!”

  “Harold, whatever you plan to say, don’t say it,” cautioned the woman next to him.

  “Don’t say what?” Harold demanded. He took out a cigar. “Don’t say maybe someone got to the old pirate at last?”

  “Shush!” said the woman. “And if you’re going to smoke, do it outside. Whew!” She made violent fanning motions with her handbag.

  A sandy-haired man smiled at the woman. “Do you doubt that Jeremy Pilcher is a pirate?” he asked. His voice was mocking. “Or is it just that you don’t like to admit it while you’re enjoying his hospitality?”

  “Watch it, Durham,” said a man whose eyes glinted behind rimless glasses. “You’re his lawyer, remember?”

  “How could I forget?” said the lawyer. “My star client. What’s with you, Ariago? You been hit with a sudden attack of loyalty? Or are you just covering something up?”

  There was a hint of slurring in the lawyer’s speech. Jupe wondered if he had had too much to drink.

  “Meaning what exactly?” demanded Ariago.

  “Oh, just that you wouldn’t really bleed if something happened to Pilcher, would you? And isn’t it likely that something has? Just consider his track record.”

  Several people gasped. Several tried to keep talking and yet go on listening to the conversation between the two men. Jim Westerbrook’s mother

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  The Party’s Over

  dabbed at her temples with a lace hanky and said, “Oh dear, Jim, it is warm in here. Perhaps we should just step out into the garden for a few minutes.”

  Westerbrook seemed not to hear her, and Harry Burnside smiled rather maliciously. By this time the guests had consumed most of Burnside’s buffet, and the young caterer was free to hover in the doorway and watch the excitement.

  “When you were head of operations for South’s Specialty Stores, you handled negotiations with the contractor who built the new branch in Pomona,” said Durham. “What a nice spot to be in if you need extra cash. I understand that contractors are very generous with people who don’t look too closely at the figures.”

  “That’s a filthy lie!” shouted Ariago. “Why would you even think that — unless it’s the sort of thing you would do? Is it, Durham?”

  Durham was still. Ariago smiled nastily. “Pilcher has your number, Durham. You’ve been doing some quick deals on the stock market, haven’t you? Pilcher says you’re probably using money that’s supposed to be held in trust for your clients.”

  “Shut up!” ordered Durham.

  “Did Pilcher accuse you?” Ariago demanded. “Are you mad enough at him to … to —”

  Ariago stopped abruptly. He looked around, suddenly aware that he and Durham were making a horrible scene and that everyone there could hear the accusations they hurled at each other.

  The man with the cigar looked at his watch. “I had no idea it was so late,” he said loudly. It was plain to see that even he had had enough. “Do you suppose the police will be with Marilyn much longer? We really have to go.”

  It was like a signal. The older guests started shaking hands and saying good-bye. Jupe overheard two men making a lunch date. Marilyn’s young friends were not so formal. They simply drifted out through the long windows to the garden and walked away.

  The party was over. When most of the guests had gone, Harry Burnside and his crew began to clear the buffet table. The husky dishwasher stripped the rose-colored tablecloths from the tables in the garden and carried them to a large hamper on wheels in the back hall. The bartender stowed his bottles in cartons.

  Jupiter, Pete, and Bob helped fold up chairs and tables and carry them out to Burnside’s truck, where the dishwasher loaded them in beside the hamper of linens.

  They were still packing up when Marilyn and the policemen came out of the den. Marilyn pointed to the stairs. The officers went up, accompanied

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  The Party’s Over

  by Sanchez. Marilyn came across the hall to the living room.

  Jim Westerbrook lingered, looking as if he wanted to be someplace else. “Are you all right?” he asked Marilyn.

  “I — I suppose so,” she said. “I — I just don’t know what to think. I don’t know whether to be afraid or what. My father could have set this up. I mean, he’s so devious, and he didn’t really want to give me this party. He just did it to keep me quiet. He might walk in here any minute and make a big joke about how he scared the wits out of me. Only suppose he doesn’t. Suppose he’s really in trouble.”

  “What do the cops say?” asked Westerbrook.

  “They say they’ll investigate. They say he hasn’t been gone long. They asked if he’s eccentric. Ha! Is he ever! They asked if he has any enemies. My father! Boy, does he have enemies! They asked me for names. I could have given them the Los Angeles phone directory.”

  “Aw, come on,” sai
d Westerbrook. “It can’t be that bad.”

  Westerbrook’s mother approached the pair. She wore the smile of a woman determined to do the correct thing. “My dear!” she said to Marilyn. “If there’s anything we can do, please call us at the motel.”

  “Thank you,” said Marilyn. Mrs. Westerbrook pulled on her gloves. “It was a lovely party,” she said. Then, realizing that this was not quite accurate, she added, “Lovely, until your … well, my dear, try not to worry. Come along, Jim. We must let this girl get some rest.”

  “I’ll call you,” promised Westerbrook, and he and his mother left.

  “Yep,” said Marilyn under her breath. “I just bet you’ll call.”

  She looked around at Jupe. “Well?” she said. “Something you want?”

  “Ah … Miss Pilcher — Marilyn — I’m sorry,” said Jupiter.

  “Sure,” she said. “Everybody’s sorry. What good does sorry do?”

  Jupe felt that this was the moment he had been waiting for. He had the business card of The Three Investigators ready in his pocket. He handed it to Marilyn, then gestured toward Pete and Bob, who hovered in the doorway.

  “We’ve solved some difficult cases,” he said. “We’d like a chance to help you if we can.” She glanced at the card. It said:

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  The Party’s Over

  Marilyn laughed. “The Three Investigators! Private detectives? You’re kidding!”

  She looked from Jupe to Pete and Bob. “Okay, well thanks, I guess,” she said. “Only if I want a private eye, I’ll get one — and he won’t be any kid amateur. He’ll be a pro.”

  Jupe nodded, only a little discouraged. Adults rarely took The Three Investigators seriously — at first. At least Marilyn tucked the card into the drawer of a lamp table instead of dropping it in the trash.

  The boys left. They rode with Harry Burnside as far as his catering shop in Rocky Beach, where they helped him carry his gear inside. Then the dishwasher drove on with the truck to return the chairs and tables to the rental firm and to drop off the linens at the laundry. The boys got on their bikes and pedaled home.

  After dinner Pete had to attend a birthday celebration for his grandfather, but Jupe and Bob were free to meet at The Jones Salvage Yard. The yard was owned and operated by Jupe’s Aunt Mathilda and Uncle Titus Jones. It was known all over southern California because of the many unusual items that could be found there. One of these was an old mobile home trailer that had once been in an accident. It had been displayed in a far corner of the yard until it became obvious that no one would buy it. Then Aunt Mathilda had given it to Jupe to use for a clubhouse.

  A clubhouse was not what Jupe wanted. He and Bob and Pete had formed The Three Investigators detective agency, and they made the trailer into their headquarters. Fearful that Aunt Mathilda might change her mind and sell it out from under them, the boys piled salvage around the trailer so that she would not be reminded of it. They installed a telephone, which they paid for with money they earned from helping in the yard. They also set up a small crime lab in the trailer and a photographic darkroom.

  When Bob arrived at the junkyard that evening, he dropped his bike in Jupe’s outdoor workshop, then went directly to the trailer to review the events of the afternoon with Jupe.

  “So what do you think?” asked Bob. “Is Mr. Pilcher crazy, or what?”

  “He is certainly eccentric. Also, he may be very cruel.” Jupiter spoke in the deliberate way he had when he was trying to puzzle out the answer to something. “What could be more heartless than to disappear like that and upset his daughter?”

  Jupe began to doodle on a pad. “His guests were an odd group,” he observed. “I don’t think anyone there liked him. I have the feeling they were all employees or business associates who felt they had to come. That argument between the lawyer and the other man was … well, it was — ”

  “Awful!” Bob finished the sentence for him. “Marilyn’s school friends

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  The Party’s Over

  seemed fairly normal, which is kind of surprising. She’s got to have the meanest mouth on campus.”

  The telephone rang.

  Jupe picked up the phone and said, “Yes?”

  Bob heard the phone make excited noises.

  “Ah!” said Jupe. “I see.”

  The telephone made some more noises.

  “Very well,” said Jupe.

  He hung up. “That was Marilyn Pilcher,” he said. “She’s received a ransom note. She wants us there right away!”

  24

  5 Attack!

  In fifteen minutes Jupe and Bob were ringing the doorbell at the Pilcher house.

  Marilyn Pilcher opened the door. She still had on the blue dress she had worn at the party, but now it looked mussed. She had kicked off her high-heeled shoes.

  “You got a ransom note?” said Jupe.

  Marilyn handed Jupe a single sheet of paper. He read aloud: “‘Father comes back only in exchange for bishop’s book. Do not call police. Act fast. Delay dangerous.’ ”

  The word bishop’s was penciled in huge, smudgy letters. All the other words had been cut from newspaper headlines.

  “I suppose bishops don’t get into the newspapers that often,” said Marilyn. “The kidnapper couldn’t find that word, so he had to print it himself. There wasn’t an envelope. Just the note. Somebody shoved it under the back door and rang the bell and ran.”

  “And you’re sure now it was a kidnapping?” said Jupe. “This afternoon you seemed to think your father had staged his disappearance.”

  “He isn’t that spry,” she told him. “He wouldn’t be able to ring the doorbell and run. The best he can manage these days is a fast hobble. So I guess it is really a kidnapping, and now I have to find a bishop’s book. I haven’t the foggiest notion which book it might be. There must be at least eight million books in this house. So that’s where you guys come in. You help me go through them and sort out whatever looks possible.”

  Jupe held up the ransom note. “The police should be told about this,” he said. “Have you called them?”

  “I have not, and you’d better not tell them either. The guy says not to, and I can’t take the risk. Even if Dad isn’t Father of the Year, I don’t want anything to happen to him. Besides, I’ll be flat broke and out of here if anything does happen. He has a clause in his will that if he dies or disappears

  Attack!

  and there’s anything suspicious about it, I don’t inherit a penny. Even if I’m never accused of any crime, I’ve had it!”

  “Oh,” said Jupe.

  “Don’t act so shocked,” said Marilyn. “Dad just likes to stack the odds in his favor. Doesn’t everyone? Now, come on. Let’s get busy.”

  She turned away and started up the stairs. The boys followed, astounded by what she had told them.

  A vacuum cleaner sat in the upper hall. Marilyn had tried to get rid of the feathers from the torn pillow, but bits of white still clung to every surface. The boys ignored this and soon were working their way methodically through the bookcases in Jeremy Pilcher’s bedroom. They found books on birds and books on philosophy, chemistry texts and science fiction. There were dictionaries and books on gemstones and a set of Dickens in flaking leather bindings.

  “Here’s something,” said Jupe. He held up a dusty paperback copy of a book titled The Bishop Murder Case. It was a mystery by S. S. Van Dine.

  Marilyn took it and flipped through the yellowing pages. “Somehow I don’t think anybody would commit a crime to get their hands on this,” she said. “We can try it on the kidnapper, but let’s keep looking.”

  Bob sneezed and went on taking books from the dusty shelves, glancing at them, then putting them back. “Your dad reads a lot, doesn’t he?” he said.

  “Not really,” Marilyn admitted. “He just buys books. He says he’ll read them someday when he has more time. Meanwhile, he buys more and more, and he puts them on the shelves and there they stay. He likes owning them. It makes him feel like he knows what’s in them, and once he buys a book he never gives it away. He never gives anything away.”

  She turne
d to the big bureau. “Now let’s see what’s in here,” she murmured, and she opened one of the drawers. There were socks and a muffler and a jumble of papers. She took the papers out and shuffled through them. “Newspaper clippings,” she said. “A prescription that never got filled. Some travel brochures.”

  She threw the papers down on the bureau. “It would help to know what we’re looking for,” she said. “I can’t believe it’s that old murder mystery.”

  “How about this one?” Bob held up a book titled The Day Lincoln Was Shot. The author was Jim Bishop.

  “Unlikely, but hold it out,” said Jupe.

  “Maybe it’s a rare first edition,” said Marilyn. “Or something not even published — a manuscript. Some notes on scientific experiments? Or the logbook of somebody with terrible secrets in his past, like the commandant of a concentration camp? Something like that.”

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  Attack!

  “We’ll check everything,” said Jupe.

  The boys finished searching the room’s bookcases and started to take cartons and folders down from the old collector’s closet shelves. They found canceled checks tied up into packets. They found old telephone bills and postcards from far-off places like Gibraltar and Cairo. None of the postcards had been written on and mailed. Evidently they were just souvenirs.

  “Dad went to sea when he was younger,” Marilyn explained. “Before he became … well, I guess a captain of industry is what you’d call him. On Wall Street they call him a pirate. Maybe he is. You can’t start from nothing, the way he did, and wind up owning a shipping line and some department stores and a paper mill and two or three banks without being sharper than the next guy.” Or maybe crookeder, thought Jupe. The telephone rang suddenly. Marilyn jumped. When she answered it, she said nothing for a moment, then cried, “I’m trying! Listen, I have something called The Bishop Murder Case, and a book by a guy named Jim Bishop and —”