“Yes, indeed,” Jupiter said hastily. He put Socrates back in the trunk and locked it and then they all trotted to the front section of the salvage yard. Mrs. Jones was waiting, her hands on her hips.
“There you are!” she said. “It’s about time. Your Uncle Titus and Hans and Konrad have unloaded all that stuff he brought, and I’d like you boys to sort it out and stack it.”
The three boys looked at the pile of second-hand goods in front of the office and signed. It would take a long time to put it all away neatly, but one thing Mrs. Jones insisted on was neatness. The Jones Salvage Yard was a junkyard, but a very high class and unusual one, and she would tolerate no unnecessary untidiness.
The boys set to work, pausing only for the lunch that Mrs. Jones brought out to them. Just when they seemed almost finished, Titus Jones arrived with another truckload of furniture and odds and ends he had bought from an apartment house going out of business.
So they were busy all afternoon, and though Jupiter itched to get back to the trunk and its strange contents, he had no chance. Finally Bob and Pete had to start for home. Pete agreed to meet Jupe back at the yard the next morning. Bob would come by later, as he had to work at his part-time job in the local library in the morning.
Jupiter ate a hearty dinner and then was too drowsy to think much about the mystery of the trunk of the missing magician and the supposedly talking skull. However, it did occur to him that if thieves had tried to steal the trunk once, they might try again.
He went out and let himself into the salvage yard, and got Socrates and his ivory stand from the trunk. Putting everything else back in, he locked the trunk and hid it behind the printing press with some old canvas over it. It should be safe there, he decided, but he was determined to take no chance with Socrates. He took the skull back to the house with him.
As he entered the living room with Socrates, his aunt glanced up and gave a slight scream.
“Stars and comets, Jupiter!” she exclaimed. “What is that awful thing you’re carrying?”
“It’s just Socrates,” Jupiter told her. “He’s supposed to be able to talk.”
“Be able to talk, eh?” Titus Jones looked up from his newspaper and chuckled. “What does he say, my boy? He has a rather intelligent appearance.”
“He hasn’t said anything yet,” Jupiter admitted. “I’m hoping he will, though. But I don’t really expect him to.”
“Well, he’d better not talk to me or I’ll give him a piece of my mind!” Mathilda Jones said. “The idea! Get him out of my sight, Jupiter. I don’t want to look at him.”
Jupiter took Socrates up to his bedroom and set him on his ivory base on the bureau. Then he went back downstairs to watch television.
By the time he went to bed he had decided that Socrates couldn’t possibly talk. The answer must be that The Great Gulliver, his owner, had been a very gifted ventriloquist.
He had almost fallen asleep when a soft whistle roused him. It came again, and it sounded as if it were right in the room with him.
Suddenly wide awake, Jupiter sat upright in bed.
“Who’s that? Is that you, Uncle Titus?” he asked, thinking for a moment that his uncle might be playing another joke.
“It is I,” came a soft, rather high-pitched voice from the darkness in the direction of his bureau. “Socrates.”
“Socrates?” Jupiter gulped.
“The time has come… to speak. Do not turn on… the light. Just listen and… do not be frightened. Do you… understand?”
The words came as if with difficulty. Jupiter stared through the darkness to where Socrates was but could see nothing.
“Well — all right.” He spoke the words with a slight gulp.
“Good,” said the voice. “You must go… tomorrow… to 311 King Street. The password… is Socrates. Do you… understand?”
“Yes,” said Jupiter, more boldly. “But what is this all about? Who is talking to me?”
“I… Socrates.” The whispering voice trailed away. Jupiter reached out and switched on the bedside lamp. He stared across at Socrates. The skull seemed to grin back, quite silent now.
Socrates couldn’t have been speaking to him! But — the voice had been in his room. It hadn’t come from the window.
At the thought of the window, Jupiter turned to it. He peered out. The yard outside was quite open, and there was no one in sight anywhere.
Extremely baffled, Jupiter got back into bed.
The message had been for him to go to 311 King Street the next day. Maybe he shouldn’t — but he knew he would. The mystery was getting more perplexing.
And if there was anything Jupiter couldn’t resist, it was a good mystery.
“You’re sure you don’t want me to come in with you, Jupe?” Pete asked.
Sitting in the front seat of the light truck, which Hans had driven into Los Angeles for them, Pete and Jupiter were staring at the dingy building which stood at 311 King Street. A faded sign on the porch said
The neighbourhood was run-down. There were other rooming houses and some stores, and everything needed paint and repair. The few people on the street were quite old. It seemed to be a street where elderly people with small incomes lived.
“I don’t think so, Second,” Jupiter answered. “You wait here for me in the truck with Hans. I don’t think there’s any danger.”
Pete swallowed hard. “You say the skull
“Either that or I had a very remarkable dream,” Jupiter told him. “But I wasn’t asleep so I don’t think I was dreaming. I’ll go in and see what it’s all about. If I’m not out in twenty minutes, you and Hans come in after me.”
“Well, if you say so,” Pete agreed. “But there’s a lot about this business I don’t like.”
“If there’s any danger,” Jupiter said, “I’ll yell as loudly as I can for help.”
“Be careful, Jupe,” said Hans, his big, round face showing concern. “And if you need help, we come quick!”
He flexed his powerful arm to show that, if necessary, he’d break down doors to rescue Jupiter. The First Investigator nodded.
“I’ll count on both of you,” he said as he got out of the truck.
Jupe went up the path to a small front porch, climbed some steps, and pushed the doorbell. He waited for what seemed a long time before he heard a step inside.
The door opened. A heavy-set man with swarthy features and a moustache looked at him.
“Yes?” he asked. “What do you want, boy? No rooms for rent. All full.”
His accent was slightly foreign and Jupiter could not place it. He put on his stupid look, which he sometimes adopted when he wanted adults to think he was just a dumb, pudgy boy. “I’m looking for Mr. Socrates,” he said, using the password.
“Hah!” For a long moment the man stared at him. Then he stepped back. “You come in. Maybe he here, maybe he not. All depends. Lonzo will ask.”
Jupiter stepped inside and blinked his eyes in the dim light. The hall was dusty and small. Opening off it was a large room where several other men sat reading newspapers or playing draughts. All had swarthy features, very black hair, and muscular builds. All looked up and stared at Jupiter with expressionless faces.
