Марк Брендел - The Mystery of the Kidnapped Whale

The Three Investigators heard Mr. Sebastian answer it. For what seemed an agonizingly long time they could hear him speak into the receiver occasionally. It was agonizing because they couldn’t hear what he said.

Pete was so busy straining his ears that he was surprised to find he had finished his whole heaped plate of brown rice without noticing he was eating it.

“More?” Don smiled encouragingly as he lifted Pete’s plate.

“No!” Pete snatched it back before the Vietnamese could fill it up again. “No, thank you,” he added politely. “It’s deli —”

He caught himself just in time. He had been about to say it was delicious before he remembered it wasn’t supposed to be delicious. Delicious food was bad for you. It made you think the wrong thoughts.

“It’s so healthy and nourishing,” he corrected himself, “that I just couldn’t eat another mouthful.”

He turned quickly, looking toward the far end of the room. Hector Sebastian was limping back toward the table. He was holding a sheet of paper in his hand.

“Well,” he said, glancing at the paper as he addressed the Three Investigators. “I’ve got something all right. But I don’t know how it’ll fit in with your case.”

“What?” Jupe asked eagerly. “What did you get?”

“That was the Mexican immigration authorities in La Paz, in Baja California. Captain Diego Carmel and Oscar Slater put into La Paz on Captain Carmel’s charter boat, the Lucky Constance , on February tenth. They were in port for two days and left again on February twelfth.”

Jupe nodded, frowning.

“Thank you, Mr. Sebastian,” he said. “Captain Carmel’s boat sank on February seventeenth. That means they were definitely on their way back from Baja, heading for San Pedro, when they ran into that storm.”

He looked at Bob and then at Pete.

“And that means,” he went on, “at least I think it means, that if they had a cargo of pocket calculators they were going to smuggle into Mexico somewhere along the coast —”

He turned back to Hector Sebastian.

“Well, either something went wrong and they couldn’t get them ashore. Or Oscar Slater was lying when he told Constance all that stuff was still on board when the boat sank. What do you think, Mr. Sebastian?”

“I think you’re thinking the right thoughts, Jupe.”

Hector Sebastian smiled.

“In fact, as one of my favorite characters, Alice in Wonderland, would say, your new case seems to be getting curiouser and curiouser.”

“Think you can fix it, Jupe?” Aunt Mathilda asked.

Jupiter looked at the old washing machine standing in his workshop in the salvage yard.

Uncle Titus had brought it home the night before. Its yellowing enamel surface was so cracked and crumpled it reminded Jupe of a sheet of paper that had been all scrunched up and then only half straightened out again. He hated to think what kind of shape the motor must be in.

“I’ll give it a try, Aunt Mathilda,” he promised. “I’ll work on it all day.”

Aunt Mathilda smiled. Here was a boy, her nephew Jupiter Jones, and there was the broken washing machine, a job of work to do. Put the two together and you had the perfect combination, the way Aunt Mathilda saw it. Work and a boy. A boy at work.

“You do that, Jupe,” she said contentedly. “And I’ll fix you a nice lunch.”

Jupiter didn’t really mind putting in the whole day at the salvage yard. He would be earning some money and, more important, he would be earning time off.

The other two Investigators were earning time off too. Bob was at the library and Pete was home mowing the lawn. Tomorrow they would all be entitled to a whole free day.

Early tomorrow morning they would meet Constance at the rocky cove she had picked out. Her Mexican friends would bring Fluke there in their tow truck. Then Constance and the boys would begin to search for the sunken boat.

Within an hour Jupiter had taken all the old, rusted screws out and had disconnected the washing machine’s motor. He hoisted it onto his workbench. It wasn’t in as bad a shape as he had feared. It must be one of the early postwar models, he thought, at least thirty years old. They had certainly built things to last in those days.

The first thing it needed was a new driving belt. He would have to make one. He started to rummage around the workshop for a length of tough rubber.

Jupe suddenly stopped dead. His mind was so busy figuring out how to fix the washing machine that for a second he didn’t realize what it was that had halted him. A red light was blinking over his workbench. That meant the phone was ringing in Headquarters.

Jupiter was not normally fast on his feet. But in less than half a minute he had pulled the old grating aside, squeezed his tubby body through the pipe of Tunnel Two, pushed open the trap door, bobbed up through it like a cork, and snatched up the phone.

“Hullo,” he said breathlessly. “Jupiter Jones speaking.”

“Hullo, Mr. Jones,” a familiar voice replied. “I’m calling to find out what progress you’ve been making with that whale.”

Only he didn’t say “whale.” He pronounced it “way-ull.”

“I’m glad you called, sir,” Jupiter told him. “We’ve been making a lot of progress. I’m happy to be able to tell you that by seven o’clock tomorrow morning, Fluke, I mean the way-ull, will be back in the ocean and our assignment completed.”

There was a long silence.

“Hullo?” Jupe said. “Hullo?”

“Well, that is good news, Mr. Jones,” the caller told him. “You are certainly to be congratulated.”

“Thank you.”

“And rewarded too. I believe I mentioned a fee of one hundred dollars.”

“Yes, sir. You did. If you’ll give me your name and address, I’ll be glad to send you a bill, and I will enclose a photograph of the whale in the ocean to prove we’ve done our job.”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll take your word for it. In fact, I’ll be out of town for the next few weeks, so if you would care to meet me this evening, Mr. Jones, I’ll pay you the hundred dollars at once.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Jupe agreed, although his mind was racing with suspicions and questions. Why wouldn’t the man tell him his name? Why was he so willing to take Jupe’s word for it that the Three Investigators had earned their hundred-dollar reward?

“Where shall I meet you and what time, sir?” he asked.

“You know Burbank Park?”

Jupiter did. Years ago it had been a popular recreation area. There was an old bandstand in the center of it where people had once gathered on Sunday evenings to listen to Sousa marches and medleys from Gilbert and Sullivan.

But the city of Rocky Beach had grown and developed away from the park. The Burbank neighborhood had been left behind. The park was still there but it had become derelict, a place of overgrown paths and tangled bushes. It had been years since any band had played there.

It had been years since anyone, anyone Jupe knew, had dared to venture into Burbank Park after dark.

“Eight o’clock this evening,” the caller instructed him. “Don’t bother to bring your friends with you. Just come yourself, Mr. Jones. I’ll be waiting for you by the bay-and stay-and.”

“Sir —” Jupiter was going to ask his client if he couldn’t pick a better place to meet. But he was too late. The caller had hung up.

Jupe stood for a while staring down at the desk, thinking. The caller had asked him to come alone. That was another odd thing that had aroused his suspicions.

He picked up the phone again and called Bob and Pete. He told them about the mysterious call and the odd meeting place their client had chosen. Then he went back to work on the washing machine.