“Maybe this is it,” Mr. Grant said hopefully. “Make a cut, Jupiter.”
Jupiter again cut into the wallpaper, Mr. Grant turned it back — and there was nothing underneath.
In growing excitement, they moved through the rest of the house, swiftly testing all the walls in different places. They found nothing.
“That leaves just one more house,” said Mr. Grant. His voice was slightly hoarse. “That has to be it!”
He led the way across the street to the third bungalow that fitted Mrs. Miller’s description. As Mr. Grant prepared to force the locked door, Jupiter flashed a light on to the door frame. Metal street numbers screwed into the white woodwork around the door reflected the light.
“Don’t do that!” Mr. Grant said sharply. “We don’t want to attract any attention.”
“But I think I’ve spotted something,” Jupiter said. “I think this used to be Mrs. Miller’s house.”
“How can you tell, Jupe?” Bob said, almost whispering. The dark desertion of the street somehow made whispering seem proper.
“Yes, how can you tell?” Mr. Grant demanded.
“This house is number 671,” Jupiter said. “But when it was moved, naturally the street number would have been changed. I think I saw the marks where the old numbers were taken off.”
“Oh? Then let’s have another look. Make it as fast as you can.”
Jupiter briefly pressed the button of the flashlight. A small circle of light focused on the numbers. And they all saw, just above the new numbers, marks in the paint where the old numbers had been. They were faint but clear.
“Number 532!” Pete exclaimed. “We’ve found it.”
“Good work, Jupiter,” Mr. Grant said. “Now let’s get inside and find that money.”
The door opened with a splintering noise, and they rushed into the living room. Bob found himself breathing fast with excitement. Now, for sure, they were right. Somewhere in this house fifty thousand dollars were pasted beneath the wallpaper.
“Give us some light, Jupiter,” Mr. Grant said. Jupiter flashed the light on each wall in turn. The room was papered in a heavy raised design.
“It could easily be in here,” the man said. “Rough wallpaper — easy to hide bills underneath it. Let’s get to work.”
Jupiter quickly made a cut and Mr. Grant turned the paper back. Underneath was only the plaster wall.
“We’ll start near the corner and work our way right round the room,” Mr. Grant said. “Fifty thousand dollars in large bills wouldn’t take up a whole wall. Let’s make it snappy.”
He and Jupiter had finished the first wall and started on the second, with Pete and Bob pressing close to watch, when a sudden noise made them freeze.
“What —” Mr. Grant began. He never finished the sentence. The front door was flung open and heavy feet came into the room with a rush. The beam of a large flashlight centred on the little group. And from behind the flashlight an ugly voice growled:
“All right, all of you! Put up your hands!”
They all turned, putting up their hands. The strong beam of light made them blink and squint and prevented them from seeing who was behind it.
“If you’re the police,” Mr. Grant started to say, “I’m George Grant, special investigator for —”
A brash laugh cut him short.
“George Grant! That’s a good one. Is that what you told the kids?”
Jupiter blinked. A sudden sick realization came to him.
“Isn’t he Mr. Grant from the Bankers’ Protective Association?” he asked.
“Him?” The deep, grating voice laughed again. “That’s Smooth Simpson, one of the slickest cons in the business.”
“But he has an official card,” Pete protested.
“Sure he has. Printed special for him. He has a million of ’em. Don’t feel bad if he fooled you. He’s fooled the cops themselves, plenty of times.
“Thought you could grab the cash right under our noses, didn’t you, Smooth? But when the fat kid went into that junkyard and didn’t come out again even when they closed, we knew something was up. We knew the house had to be over here someplace — got the info from the super of that apartment house after Fatty did yesterday — so we came here in a hurry. Spotted your light when you came into this house. Now we’re here and we’ll just take charge.”
“You’re Three-Finger Munger, aren’t you?” Mr. Grant — or Smooth Simpson — said. “Listen, Three-Finger, why don’t we all join forces? We haven’t actually found the money yet, and I can help —”
“Shut up!” the man with the flashlight growled. “We’ll find the money ourselves and leave you for the cops. Teach you not to try to pull a fast one on us. Now all of you turn around, face the wall. Put your hands behind your backs. No false moves or you’ll regret it!
“Leo and Baby-Face, you got the ropes. Tie ’em up good.”
With sinking hearts, The Three Investigators obeyed the orders. They realized now that they had been completely fooled by the slick criminal nicknamed Smooth. All his talk about Chief Reynolds had lulled any suspicion they might otherwise have had. He must have learned that the Chief was out of town for the day, and had then called The Three Investigators in a bold effort to trick them into telling anything, they might know. And no wonder he had found excuses all along for not going to the police!
Mentally, Jupiter kicked himself for not suspecting something. But it had all been so plausible! Smooth was just that — smooth. No doubt he had read about the trunk in the newspaper, and knowing the story of the missing bank-robbery loot and Spike Neely’s letter through underworld gossip, had started checking on Jupiter and the others. He could easily have obtained Jupiter’s telephone number from the phone book.
Three-Finger and his men had been following The Three Investigators, and Smooth Simpson had been following all of them!
But it was too late for any regrets. Deft hands were tying the boys’ wrists behind their backs.
Moments later they were ordered to sit on the floor, and then their ankles were lashed together. When they were helpless, Three-Finger Munger chuckled.
“Now you look real pretty,” he taunted them. “We won’t gag you because there’s nobody around to hear you if you yell. Anyway, if you act up, we’ll clip you one on the head. Don’t worry, someone will find you on Monday when work starts again. That is, I hope they’ll find you before the bulldozers start knocking this house down.”
He chuckled again. Now Jupiter and his companions could see that Three- Finger Munger was a burly man; his two associates were smaller. They could not see the faces of any of them clearly.
“Now let’s see where we stand,” Three-Finger said. He shone his light on the wall where Jupiter and Smooth had been working. “Looking for the money under the wallpaper, were you? That’s a smart hiding place — never would have thought of it. Did the kid figure it out for you, Smooth?”
“Yes, he did,” Smooth Simpson admitted, “The clue was on that letter sent to Gulliver. It was in the trunk all along.”
“I figured it had to be,” Three-Finger said. “That’s why we wanted to get our hands on the trunk. My boys got it, too, from that tall thin guy. Only somebody followed ’em and jumped ’em at the hideout and got it away before we could open it. Was that you, Smooth?”
“Not me,” the man on the floor said. “I didn’t know anything about that.”
“Funny,” Three-Finger muttered. “I wonder who it could have been. It certainly wasn’t these kids.”
“It was four or five guys with handkerchiefs over their faces,” one of the other two said, speaking for the first time. “They were fast and tough. Laid us out before we knew what hit us.”
“Wonder who it was?” Three-Finger grunted. “Maybe some other mob after the money. Well, the trunk didn’t
