reading his newspaper and smoking his pipe. He greeted Bob with a smile.
“Hi, son,” he said. “I understand you came home with enough mud on you to test our washing machine to the limit of the manufacturer’s most exaggerated claims.”
“Right, Dad,” Bob said. “I fell into a hole. At first I thought it was quicksand, but it turned out to be mostly mud and water.”
“Quicksand? Nothing like that round here, to my knowledge.”
“Not Rocky Beach,” Bob said. “It was at Seaside. We’re on a case that took us down there. We were investigating one of the caves.”
His father nodded, and put his paper down. “In the old days it would have been worth your life to stick your nose into one of them. A lot of the caves around Haggity’s Point there were used by rum-runners, and before that by pirates.”
“So I heard,” Bob said. “And I just came across a book in the library that told all about how Seaside was a city that died before it grew up. Did you know that?”
His father was a newspaperman who always seemed to have a secret store of knowledge. He nodded again.
“A lot of people lost their shirts and went broke when they guessed wrong about that town. After the big fire at the amusement park, its luck turned bad.”
“It didn’t look that bad to me,” Bob said. “It’s as big as Rocky Beach here.”
Mr. Andrews smiled. “Since then, they’ve had fifty-odd years to rebuild and it’s a bustling, thriving city now. But not what it was intended to be, a big resort. Now it’s just another place to live and make money.”
“Tough,” Bob said. “I read they even started their own underground railway but never got round to finishing it.”
Mr. Andrews leaned forward. “That particular decision cost one of the early Seaside planners his life. He committed suicide after losing his personal fortune pledged to the building of the underground system.” He frowned, and puffed on his pipe. “His name escapes me now, but he was the big man with the big dream. If enough people had shared his conviction and enthusiasm, Seaside might have become what he wanted — the biggest Fun City of them all.”
Mrs. Andrews’ voice interrupted, clear and firm. “Dinner’s ready.”
Bob wanted to hear more but his father got up and went to the table. Bob followed and sat down. There was a lot Jupiter should know.
“I say we forget all about finding Mr. Allen’s lost dog,” Pete was saying firmly. “It may be only a missing pet to him, but to me it’s also a dragon, and two nasty-looking skin divers with loaded spear-guns who don’t like kids. Not to mention that mud hole that sucks in people, and the staircase that falls apart when you run down it. Plus whatever it was that called on the telephone warning us to keep away from its cave. That sounds like good advice to me, especially coming from a dead man!”
Bob’s eyes widened. “What’s that all about?”
It was an hour after dinner, and the boys had met again in Headquarters to discuss their plans.
“After you went home to change, Bob,” Jupiter explained, “we received a mysterious telephone call.” He told Bob about it, repeating the message word for word.
“Sounds like a gag to me,” Bob said, at last. He licked his lips. “If it’s not, somebody is telling us we’re not wanted near that cave.”
Jupe’s face had a familiar stubborn look. “We haven’t seen anything of the mysterious dragon yet,” he said. “I suggest we go back tonight for another look.”
“Let’s vote on it,” Pete suggested hastily. “My vote is we abandon the case now. All in favour say aye!”
“Aye! Aye! Aye!” The word was repeated shrilly by Blackbeard, the trained mynah bird whose cage hung near the desk in Headquarters.
“Quiet, you!” Pete snapped. “You’re not a paid-up member of this club. We only allow you to live here!”
“Dead men tell no tales!” Blackbeard called out and laughed shrilly.
Bob turned to Jupiter. “Maybe that’s who you heard — Blackbeard.”
Jupiter shook his head. “No, Bob. It came from somebody who seemed to have trouble breathing and speaking. If it was done deliberately to create the effect of a dying man — or even a ghost — it succeeded. It was actually scary, wasn’t it, Pete?”
Pete shrugged. “No more than anything else that’s happened so far.” He pushed back his hair. “If I’m not grey yet, maybe I will be by tomorrow.”
Jupiter grinned. “You’re no more scared than any of us, Pete. You’re just putting on an act.”
“Want to bet?” Pete said.
Jupiter’s answer was to pick up the phone.
“I’m betting that when Worthington shows up for us in the Rolls-Royce, you’ll want to come along,” he said.
Less than an hour later, Pete looked out of the window of the smoothriding, gold-plated, luxuriously appointed old car. It purred almost silently along the Pacific Coast Highway heading for the outskirts of Seaside. Worthington, the tall and polite English chauffeur, was at the wheel, driving with his usual skill.
“Sometimes I wish you’d never won the use of this car in that contest, Jupe,” Pete complained. “When I think of all the trouble it’s got us into.”
“Out of, too, Pete,” Bob reminded him. “And when our first thirty days’ use of it was up, you weren’t too happy about it, either, as I recall.”
An English boy they had helped at that critical time had made the necessary financial arrangements for the continued use of the car. The Three Investigators had almost unlimited access to the Rolls-Royce, as well as the services of its driver, Worthington.
Pete leaned back against the leather upholstery and smiled. “I’ve got to admit this beats riding in the truck, not to mention walking.”
Jupiter had given the directions needed to get them off the highway and on to the narrow ridge road overlooking the beach at Seaside. Now he leaned forward and tapped the chauffeur’s shoulder,
“This will do fine, Worthington,” he said. “Wait for us here.”
“Very good, Master Jones,” the chauffeur replied.
The big Rolls-Royce with the huge old headlights shining into the night eased up to the side of the road.
The boys tumbled out. Jupiter reached back into the car for their equipment.
“Torches, a camera and tape recorder,” he said. “Now we’ll be prepared for any emergency, and be able to document it, as well.”
He handed Bob the recorder. “For recording any sounds of dragon, Bob, or ghosts who have trouble breathing and talking.”
Pete took one of the three powerful torches. Jupe put a coil of rope on his other arm.
“What’s the rope for?” Pete asked.
“It always pays to be prepared,” Jupiter told him. “It’s a hundred feet of light nylon. It should hold us if the other staircases have been tampered with and we have to get down from the cliff by our own means.”
They walked a little way along the quiet, dark street. Jupiter led the way to the staircase he had chosen for their descent. It was several hundred yards from the one that had collapsed under their weight that morning.
His companions joined him on the ridge and looked down. The beach appeared deserted. The rising moon cast a dim glow through light clouds. The soft hiss of the waves lapping the sand below was periodically drowned out by the roar of the breakers that loomed up dark and menacing beyond.
Pete licked his lips nervously, grasped the handrail of the old staircase, and stood still for a moment listening. Bob and Jupe listened, too.
All they could hear was the dull roar of the surf and the beating of their hearts.
“Well, good luck one and all,” Pete said tightly.
As the boys took the first step down, they felt certain they heard the ocean roar a little louder, as if in anticipation!
