"Carey, M.V. - The Three Investigators 15 - The Mystery of the Flaming Footprints" - читать интересную книгу автора (Carey M.V)

Uncle Titus heaved himself up off the running board. "Well!" he said. He tugged at his moustache and eyed The Potter's truck. "Let's move this wreck out of the drive. We won't do any business with it blocking the way. Let us also pray that The Potter returns soon to claim it."

Uncle Titus made four vain attempts to start The Potter's truck, but the temperamental old engine refused to turn over for him.

"Don't tell me machines can't think," declared Uncle Titus. "I wager that The Potter is the only one in creation who can coax any life into this thing."

He climbed down from the truck and motioned Jupe into the driver's seat. Then, with Jupe steering, he and Hans pushed until the truck was safely parked in an empty space next to the office.

Aunt Mathilda had hurried across the road from the house to watch. "I'm going to put The Potter's groceries in our deep freeze," she decided. "If his things stand out in the sun, they'll spoil. I can't imagine what possesses that man. Jupiter, did he say when his guests were coming?"

"No, he didn't."

Aunt Mathilda took a bag of groceries from the back of the truck. "Jupiter, I think you should take your bike and ride up to The Potter's," she said. "Perhaps he'll be there. Or perhaps his company has come. If they're there, Jupiter, bring them back with you. It would be awful to come for a visit and find an empty house."

Jupiter had been about to suggest a trip to The Potter's himself. He grinned and hurried to get his bike.

"And don't dillydally!" Aunt Mathilda called after him. "There's work to be done!"

At that, Jupiter laughed out loud. He pedalled up the highway, keeping well to the right to avoid the cars speeding north, and concluded that The Potter's young guest, if he had arrived, would doubtless be a junior helper in The Jones Salvage Yard before the day was over. Aunt Mathilda knew exactly what to do with boys who were Jupiter's age. Aunt Mathilda put them to work.

The road curved at Evanston Point, and The Potter's house, stark white against the green-black of the California hills, leaped to meet the eye. Jupiter stopped pedalling and coasted. The Potter's place had been an elegant residence once. Now it struck Jupe simply as a brave house, flaunting its Victorian gingerbread on that lonely stretch of coastline.

Jupiter stopped at The Potter's gate. A small sign on the fence proclaimed that The Potter's shop was closed, but that The Potter would return shortly. Jupiter wondered whether he was even now inside the big white house, unwilling to cope with the usual run of Saturday morning customers. He had certainly looked ill when Jupiter had gone to fetch the water.

Jupiter leaned his bike against the fence and went in through the gate. The Potter's front garden was paved with flagstones and crowded with tables on which were displayed huge ceramic pieces--large urns, big plaques decorated with flowers or fruit, gigantic vases on which birds hovered in constant, motionless flight.

"Mr Potter?" called Jupe.

There was no answer. The tall, narrow windows of the old house looked blank. The shed where The Potter kept his supplies was locked and silent. Across the road, parked on the shoulder above the beach, was a dusty tan Ford. There was no one in the car. The owner, no doubt, was on the beach below either surfing or fishing.

The lane which led from the highway up the mountain to Hilltop House was only a few feet beyond The Potter's yard. Jupiter saw that the gate was open. Hilltop House itself was not visible from The Potter's, but Jupe could see the stone wall which supported its terrace. Someone was standing, leaning over that wall. At this distance, Jupe could not tell whether it was the driver of the Cadillac--the man with the dark, curly hair--or his strangely ageless passenger.

Jupe walked quickly past the displays on the wooden tables and up two little steps which were guarded by a pair of urns. The urns were almost as tall as Jupiter himself. A band of double-headed eagles, similar to the eagle on The Potter's medallion, encircled each urn. The eyes glared white in the birds' heads, and the beaks were open as if they screamed defiance at one another.

The wooden porch creaked slightly under Jupe's feet. "Mr Potter?" he called. "Are you here?"

There was no answer. Jupe frowned. The front door stood slightly open. The Potter, Jupe knew, did not worry greatly about the things in the front garden. They were large and couldn't be carried off easily. But Jupe also knew that everything else The Potter owned was kept securely under lock and key. If the front door was open, The Potter had to be at home.

But when Jupe stepped in through the door, the hall was empty--or as empty as a hall can be when it is lined, floor to high ceiling, with shelves, and when the shelves are crowded with platters, cups, plates, sugar-bowls and cream pitchers, little vases, and colourful small dishes. The things gleamed, dustless and in perfect order, each one placed so that it would look its very best.

"Mr Potter?" Jupe was shouting now.

There was no sound, except for the refrigerator which Jupe could hear clicking and humming away in the kitchen. Jupiter looked at the stairs, wondering whether or not he should venture up to the first floor. The Potter might have returned and crept up to bed. He might have fainted.

Then Jupe heard a tiny sound. Something in the house had stirred. To Jupe's left, as he stood in the hall, was a closed door. It was, Jupe knew, The Potter's office. The sound had come from there.

"Mr Potter?" Jupiter rapped at the door.

No one answered. Jupiter put his hand on the doorknob. It turned easily, and the door swung open before Jupe. Except for the roll-top desk in the corner, and the shelves piled high with ledgers and invoice forms, the office was empty. Jupiter went slowly into the room. The Potter did quite a brisk mail-order business. Jupiter saw stacks of price lists, a pile of order forms and a box of envelopes perched on the edge of one shelf.