The Mystery of the Fiery Eye - Артур Роберт - Страница 8

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“Lands,” his aunt said, “what’s an extra boy when I have three around all the time?” It was true that Bob and Pete ate at Jupiter’s house about as often as they ate at home.

“I have a box of sandwiches and some cold drinks for all of you. You can eat them in the office. I have to go downtown for a few hours, and Titus is away, so you’ll have to mind the office this afternoon, Jupiter, and take care of any sales.”

“Yes, Aunt Mathilda. We’ll be right there.”

They made their way through Tunnel Two to the workshop section, then through the yard to the office. Inside the small cabin they found piles of sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper, and several bottles of orange pop and root beer.

“There you are, boys,” Mathilda Jones said. “I’m going downtown in the small truck. Hans is driving me. Don’t leave until I get back and don’t miss any sales, Jupiter.”

“I won’t, Aunt Mathilda.”

With that, Mrs. Jones sailed out.

Without further words, the boys began to devour the sandwiches. When they had finished two apiece, and a bottle of pop, they felt able to talk again.

“Jupe,” Pete said, munching on a roast beef sandwich, “what do you think is in this bust we’re looking for? I mean if anything is?”

“Gus heard his father mention a ‘Fiery Eye’,” Jupiter said. “I think The Fiery Eye is hidden inside the bust of Augustus of Poland.”

“But what is The Fiery Eye?” Bob asked.

“It is something small,” Jupiter said, “or it couldn’t be hidden inside a plaster bust. Considering the care with which Gus’s great-uncle hid it, and the fact that only fabulous jewels are given names, such as the Grand Mogul, Star of India, and Pasha of Egypt, it is my deduction that The Fiery Eye is a jewel which Mr. August brought from the Far East with him many years ago, and which is the reason he spent his life in hiding thereafter.”

“Wow!” Pete breathed. “If you’re right —”

“Sssh!” Bob hissed. “Here comes a customer.”

A sleek sedan had pulled into the salvage yard and stopped just outside the office door. It was driven by a man in a chauffeur’s uniform. The passenger, a tall, thin man, got out and stood for a moment looking at the five busts that remained on the bench beside the door.

Over his left arm hung a cane of polished black wood. With this he poked one of the busts lightly, then ran his fingers casually over the top of the plaster heads. Seeming unsatisfied, he wiped dust from his fingers and turned to the door of the office.

Jupiter was standing there waiting. The others, seated inside, could see past him. An unspoken excitement ran through them all.

The tall, thin customer was immaculately dressed, had a dark complexion, and jet black hair streaked with grey. Most important, on his forehead were three small dots.

“I beg your pardon,” Three-Dots said, in excellent English. “These interesting statuettes — ”

He pointed with his cane at the five busts. Jupiter blinked. He had seen the three dots before the others and reacted automatically. He let his body slump, his face droop, his eyes half close. Jupiter, stocky enough to be called fat by his enemies, could indeed look fat when he wanted to.

“Yes, sir?” Jupiter said. He spoke through his nose, and to anyone who did not know him, looked and sounded like a fat moron.

“Have you any others?” Three-Dots’ voice was cold and distant.

“Any others?” Jupe sounded as if he couldn’t understand plain English.

“Yes, any others,” Three-Dots repeated. “If you have, I would like to inspect them. I want something a little more unusual than George Washington or Benjamin Franklin.”

“That’s all there are,” Jupiter said. “Others have been sold.”

“Then there were others?” A flicker of interest lighted the deep-set, black eyes. “Their names, my boy?”

“I don’t know.” Jupiter closed his eyes as if trying to think. “Funny names. Like Homer Somebody. And Augustus of somewhere.”

“Why is he telling that?” Pete risked a low whisper to Bob.

“Jupe always has a reason,” Bob whispered back. “Listen.”

“Augustus!” Three-Dots’ impassive face seemed alive for a moment. “Yes, I believe I would like a bust of Augustus. For my garden. You say it has been sold?”

“Yesterday,” Jupe said.

“The name and address of the purchaser?” Three-Dots’ voice sounded as if he were giving Jupiter an order now. “I will buy it from him.”

“We don’t keep any records,” Jupiter said. “It could have been anybody.”

“Could...have...been...anybody.” Three-Dots’ voice was cold again. “I see. Most unfortunate. If you had the name and address I would be glad to reward you for giving it to me. One hundred dollars.”

“We don’t keep any records,” Jupe said again, stupidly. “Sometimes people bring things back. If they bring it back you could have it. You want to leave your name and address?”

“A smart idea.” Three-Dots looked hard at Jupiter. “I will do that.”

Slinging his cane over his left wrist, he drew a card from his pocket and pencilled an address on it. He handed it to Jupiter.

“There,” he said. “Be sure to phone me. If Augustus comes back, I will pay one hundred dollars for him. You will not fail to call me?”

“I’ll try not to,” Jupiter promised in a dull voice.

“Be sure you do not!” Three-Dots suddenly jabbed his cane down on the ground.

“A bit of paper,” he said. “I believe in cleanliness.”

He thrust the cane at Jupiter. Gus, Bob and Pete all swallowed gasps of alarm. The cane was a sword cane. On the point of its glittering 12-inch blade was a scrap of paper that had been littering the ground.

The needle-sharp point of the sword stopped only inches from Jupiter’s chest. Slowly Jupiter reached out and took the paper off it. With another abrupt movement Three-Dots withdrew the sword blade, and once more it was just a cane.

“You will hear from me again,” he said sharply. “In the meantime, if Augustus returns, phone me.”

He turned, got into his car, and was gone.

JUPE WAITED until the car was out of the gate, then he turned. He was pale.

“There’s somebody not to fool around with!” Pete exclaimed. “I thought he was going to stick you, Jupe.”

“He was warning me,” Jupiter said with a slight gulp. “He was letting me know it’ll be too bad for anybody who tries any tricks on him.”

“I think that’s the same man who called on my father ten years ago,” Gus spoke up. “I can’t be sure, but he looks like the same one.”

“He has the same three dots on his forehead,” Bob said. “And he looks as if he came from the Far East, maybe somewhere in India. The three dots could be title mark of some special religious group.”

“Why’d you let him know there had been an Augustus of Poland bust in the bunch?” Pete asked. “That really stirred him up.”

“He seemed to know about the busts,” Jupiter said, taking a swallow of root beer. “I wanted to see if Augustus meant anything to him. It did, all right. Possibly he stole the copy of the message from Mr. Dwiggins.”

“He doesn’t wear glasses and a black moustache,” Gus objected.

“He could have hired someone to do it for him,” Bob suggested. “Anyway, he certainly had some idea Augustus was important.”

“He was fishing for information,” Jupiter said. “So was I. I persuaded him to give me his name and address.”

He put the card Three-Dots had given him on the desk. It said, in engraved script:

Under it he had written in pencil the name and address of a motor hotel in Hollywood.

“India!” Pete exclaimed. “Bob was right! But if Three-Dots is from some fanatical group in India who wants to get The Fiery Eye, I vote we forget the whole thing. I read a book about Indian tribesmen who were out to get back some kind of holy relic. They’d just as soon cut you up as look at you. Why, the look in that fellow’s eyes — ”

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