Марк Брендел - The Mystery of the Kidnapped Whale

By five o’clock he had the repaired motor bolted back in place with new screws. He called Aunt Mathilda into the yard and plugged the machine into the socket over the workbench.

There was a purring sound which rose quickly to a roar as the rotating drum began to turn, slowly at first, then faster and faster. The whole machine rattled and shook like a tin shack in an earthquake. But it worked. Aunt Mathilda had to admit that.

“You’re a good boy, Jupe,” she told him. “A good, hardworking boy when you put your mind to it instead of fussing with those puzzles of yours. I’ll fix you some pecan ice cream for dessert tonight.”

After dinner, as soon as he had finished the ice cream, his favorite kind, Jupiter wheeled his bicycle out of the yard and rode off to the other side of town.

Burbank Park looked as forbidding as an unexplored jungle when Jupe got off his bike at the edge of it. He took a piece of white chalk from his pocket and quickly scribbled a? on the sidewalk.

It was a trick the Three Investigators had often used. Each of them carried a different-colored piece of chalk. Jupe’s was white. Bob’s, green. Pete’s, blue. They had chosen the? sign to mark their trails, not only because it was the symbol on their cards, but because it looked so innocent. Anyone else seeing a? on a building would hardly notice it, or think some child had scrawled it there.

Jupe found a path leading into the park. He guessed it was a path because there were streetlights and bushes on both sides of it but only weeds down the center. Wheeling his bicycle, he advanced along it, stopping every few yards to draw another? on a tree or on one of the broken wooden benches he found along the way.

Jupiter Jones was not an imaginative boy. His brain was naturally logical and deductive. To him a bush was a bush. It might be something else as well, of course, like a hiding place. But it was still just a bush.

But as he walked on into the deserted park, it began to seem to Jupe that everything around him was alive, grasping, menacing. The branches of the trees were like twisted limbs, the twigs at the end of them reaching fingers. They were reaching out to grab him and drag him off into the night.

He could see the bandstand ahead of him now. Its roof had collapsed and weeds grew up through the floor. He leaned his bicycle against it and drew another? on the rotting wooden boards.

“Mr. Jones.”

Jupe started so violently that he almost knocked his bicycle over. He searched the gloom around him. There was nobody there. Nobody he could see anyway.

“Yes?” he managed to gasp out at last.

There was a rustling sound. Footsteps approaching through the grass, Jupe guessed. The rustling came closer and closer. It seemed to be coming from less than a yard away before Jupe could make out the figure of the man in front of him.

He was a very tall man, and he was wearing a soft, dark hat with the brim tilted down over his ears. If he had any eyes, Jupe couldn’t see them. He couldn’t make out any of the details of the man’s face. His features looked blurred, out of focus, the way a photograph looks if you jog the camera while you’re snapping the picture.

The one thing Jupe could make out about the man was his size. He was enormous. He was wearing a Windbreaker and his shoulders were so broad, his arms so thick, they reminded Jupe of a gorilla’s.

“If you’ll just step forward, Mr. Jones,” the man said. “I’ll give you what you came for.”

Jupe stepped forward. Instantly the man’s hands seized him by the shoulders. Jupe felt himself being spun around. An arm was pressing against his neck, forcing his head back. Jupe tried to grab it. His fingers closed for a second around the man’s forearm. It felt curiously yielding. It was like sinking your fingers into hamburger.

Then Jupe’s other hand was wrenched behind his back and forced up between his shoulder blades. The man’s bony wrist tightened across Jupe’s throat.

The First Investigator was helpless. He couldn’t struggle anymore. The man had him in a hammerlock.

“Now you do exactly what you’re told, Mr. Jones.”

Jupe could feel the man’s breath against his ear as he spoke.

“Understand, Mr. Jones?”

Jupe tried to nod. He couldn’t move his head.

“Because if you don’t, Mr. Jones,” the voice close to his ear warned him, “if you don’t do what you’re told, I’m going to break your nay-uck.”

Jupe did what he was told.

He walked down the path away from the bandstand. It wasn’t the path he had come along, and he wished he could draw another? on a tree as he passed. But he couldn’t even get the chalk out of his pocket. The man was still gripping Jupe’s right arm, forcing it up between his shoulder blades as he marched Jupe ahead of him.

They reached a street at the edge of the park. Still holding Jupe by the wrist, the man opened the trunk of the battered limousine standing there.

“Get in,” he said.

Jupe glanced quickly up and down the street. There was no one in sight. No one he could call to for help.

With a quick wriggle he managed to get his arm free. But it was still impossible to break away altogether. The man’s huge, soft chest was pressed tight against his back, forcing him forward. Another second and Jupe would lose his balance. He would be tipped headfirst into the open trunk of the car.

“Ahhh,” Jupe moaned softly. He let his legs go limp. He slipped weakly to the ground as though he had suddenly fainted. He lay there, face down on the street. As he had sagged to his knees he had slipped the chalk out of his pocket. He had it in his right hand now.

For as long as it took Jupe to reach under the car and draw a? on the road surface there, the big man seemed to be deciding what to do next. He evidently hadn’t expected the First Investigator to faint on him.

Then Jupe felt a hand grabbing at his hair, taking a firm hold of it. He was pulled to his feet. He was forced forward over the open trunk of the car again. This time he did lose his balance. He toppled into the trunk.

The door of the trunk was slammed shut on him.

He heard the engine turn over and catch. He felt the car move slowly forward.

It was pitch-dark in the narrow space, dark and smelly with the stench of gasoline and motor oil. Jupe groped around. It was obvious from the smell that the old limousine was an oil guzzler. It probably used up a quart of oil every ten miles. People with cars like that usually carried a spare quart.

His reaching fingers soon found what he was looking for. Working by touch, he pulled out his prized Swiss Army knife and punched a hole in the can.

The metal floor of the trunk was so old that it was rusted almost through in places. Working with the saw blade of the knife, Jupe soon cut a thin slit through the metal.

Drop by drop he poured the oil out of the can through the slit he had made. It wasn’t as good as being able to draw more?’s. But at least he was leaving a trail behind him.

The car was traveling very slowly. Luckily for Jupe it didn’t travel far. He had only half emptied the oil can when he felt the old limousine lurch to a stop.

The trunk was opened. The big man reached in and grabbed Jupe by his hair again.

“Get out,” he said.

Jupe had to obey him. He scrambled out as fast as he could. He hated having his hair pulled.

As he staggered to his feet, he saw that the car was parked in the driveway of a dilapidated wooden house. The man still had him by the hair. He was half pushing, half pulling him toward the house. The porch creaked and groaned as Jupe crossed it. The man took a key from his pocket and opened the front door.