wasn’t sure.
Soon after, while Pete was still alert and straining to see, another man emerged from the main exit. A tall figure, once again vaguely familiar, and once again Pete wasn’t sure. Had it been The Great Ivan in his street clothes?
Pete’s heart sank as he realized the truth: at fifty yards he couldn’t really recognize the carnival performers out of their costumes! He didn’t know them well enough.
He became certain when two more men came out of the side exit. One was old, grey-haired and tall. The other was bald and middle-aged. The second man might have been the fire eater, but the first he couldn’t recognize at all.
Groaning inwardly, the Second Investigator continued to watch. As more people came out of the carnival, he realized that rehearsal times must be over. Even if he could recognize the figures, it wouldn’t mean anything. Everyone in the carnival seemed to be taking a late-afternoon break.
Finally one really familiar face and figure slipped out of the side exit — Mr Carson himself. Andy’s father hurried away towards a small car and drove off. Pete shifted on his perch and wondered if he should stay where he was or give up and try to find his friends.
While he tried to decide, the old amusement park’s wood creaked and groaned in the rising wind.
When Jupiter, Bob, and Andy rode away from the carnival, leaving Pete alone to watch, the First Investigator led them straight to the salvage yard. While Bob and Andy waited alongside their bicycles, Jupiter vanished into the mounds of junk without a word to his companions.
“What’s he doing now, Bob?” Andy asked.
“I don’t know,” Bob admitted. “When Jupiter has some big scheme, he usually forgets to tell us what it is until we’re doing it But he knows what he’s doing — I hope.”
They heard banging and thudding inside the mounds of junk. Jupiter seemed to be hurling heavy objects everywhere. At last they heard a cry of triumph, and the stocky First Investigator soon emerged into the open. He wore a broad grin and carried some strange, ragged object.
“I knew we had one here,” he exulted. “The Jones Salvage Yard has everything!” He held up the most dilapidated stuffed cat Bob and Andy had ever seen. It was spotted black and white; its legs were torn, one eye was missing, and the stuffing was coming out.
“What’s it for Jupiter?” Andy asked.
“Why, to answer the ad, of course,” Jupiter said.
“But, Jupe,” Bob objected, “that’s not anything like Andy’s crooked cats!”
“It will be, Records,” Jupiter stated. “Come on.” He hurried into Tunnel Two and up into Headquarters, with Bob and Andy following him. He went straight to a small workbench in a corner.
“Records, call that telephone number in the ad and find out where we have to go.”
While Bob made the call, Jupiter began to work on the ragged stuffed cat. He used quick drying, brush-on dye, needle and thread, and twisted pieces of wire to reconstruct and repair the cat. He worked quickly and in silence, his eyes bright with purpose. Bob hung up and joined Andy at the workbench.
“You have an address, Records?” Jupiter asked without looking up from his work.
“The number was an answering service,” Bob said. “They told me to go to 47 San Roque Way. That’s only about ten blocks from here, Jupe.”
“Good. We should be in plenty of time since the ad only came out in the evening paper. He probably used the answering service because he didn’t have an address when he placed that ad.”
Half an hour later, Jupiter sat back in satisfaction and buckled a red-dyed collar round the stuffed cat’s neck.
“There! One red-and-black, one-eyed, red-collared crooked cat. The wire twists the legs just right, I believe.”
“It still doesn’t look like Andy’s cats,” Bob decided.
“But good enough for our purposes,” Jupiter declared. “Now let’s go and sell a crooked cat!”
Fifteen minutes later Bob, Andy and Jupiter crouched in a grove of palm trees not far from 47 San Roque Way. It was a small stucco house set far back from the street, with a faded sign on it that showed it had once been the combination home-office of a watchmaker. It seemed deserted in the gloomy late afternoon, with no curtains at the windows and no lights inside.
The street was not deserted. A horde of boys and girls milled around with stuffed cats in their arms. The cats were of every possible description. The prospective sellers were eager, but it was clear that the door of the house was locked.
“Most of those cats are all wrong,” Bob pointed out. “Can’t those kids read right?”
“They all hope the buyer will make an exception for them,” Jupiter said. “They all want twenty-five dollars for cats worth maybe ten dollars.”
“Everyone wants something for nothing,” Andy said. “All carnival people know that.”
At that moment a small blue car stopped in the alley behind the stucco house. Someone got out and hurried round to the front of the house. He was too far away and moved too quickly for the boys to get a real look at him. The man unlocked the front door of the small house, and the horde of eager cat-sellers began to pour inside after him. Andy shifted with excitement where the boys crouched hidden among the palms.
“What do we do, Jupiter?” he asked quickly.
“First, Andy, do you recognize that blue car?” Andy peered hard towards the distant car.
“No, Jupe, I don’t think I ever saw it before. Most carnival people have bigger cars than that to pull their trailers.”
“Very well,” Jupiter nodded. “You and I will stay here and watch. One of us can sneak round in a few minutes and examine that car. We must be careful, though, not to be seen. I don’t think the thief can be aware that anyone is after him yet. Anyway, if I’m right about him being a carnival member, he would recognize you, Andy.”
“What do I do?” Bob asked. “As if I didn’t know.”
“Yes, Records,” Jupiter instructed, “you will go in and try to sell our stuffed cat. He’ll refuse to buy, if my deductions are correct, but you’ll see who he is and perhaps find out just what is so valuable about the crooked cats.”
“Okay, First,” Bob said, and remounted his bike.
Carrying the fake crooked cat, Bob pedalled up to the long front path of the stucco house. He rode on to the door and dismounted. Then he joined the stream of boys and girls still pouring into the house.
Inside, he found himself in a bare living room mobbed with the eager sellers. The only furniture was some straight chairs and a single long table. At a chair behind the table, almost hidden by the crowd of boys and girls, the man was taking the cats one by one and examining them.
“No, I’m sorry, boys, those three won’t do at all,” the man said in a hoarse voice to two older boys. “You see, I must have only a certain kind of cat. No, that one won’t do, either. I’m sorry. My ad made it very clear that I want specific stuffed cats.”
Then the man’s arm reached out quickly to take a crooked cat that looked exactly like the cat that Pete had won and then lost at the carnival. Bob stared. On the man’s left forearm was a large tattoo of a sailing ship, clear and unmistakable!
“Good, that’s just what I need, son,” the tattooed man said as he gave the owner twenty-five dollars.
But Bob wasn’t listening. He was thinking that if the man was a member of the carnival, Andy should know the tattoo! He didn’t see how Andy could have missed such a mark, and if — he was looking straight into the swarthy face of the tattooed man. The man’s eyes flickered, and he pointed at Bob. “You in the red sweater. Can I see your cat?” Bob walked up to the table, trying not to show how scared he was, but the man only reached out and took the cat. He glanced at the fake cat, then smiled up at Bob.
